Chapter 3 - A New Leesie's poem

This is still really rough. I blush to call it a poem. It's still kind of just broken up lines. There are flashes of poetic language and some nice images here and there, but right now it's more verse than poetry. But I need to push on with the story, so you're getting it half-baked. Just like I promised.

Chapter Three

LEESIE’S MOST PRIVATE CHAPBOOK

POEM #75 MR. SUNSHINE

Michael steers a wheelchair

into my room, waking me.

He pours pills down my throat.

“Come on, babe. We’re going

for a walk.”

I’m not talking to him

ever again. He’s wrong.

I’m right. And he’s going be sorry.

He picks me up, plops me

in the chair. Laughs when I scowl.

“How do you like you chariot?”

He ties my headscarf do-rag style,

straps on my ankle support boots.

I raise my eyebrows.

“In case you want to wade.”

He pulls a bottle of OJ out

of a grocery bag swinging from

his wrist and hands it to me,

kisses me when he bends to twist

the top off. “Forgive me?”

He’s so cute excited.

I can’t hate him when

he’s like this. The Ice Queen

relents. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.” He kisses me again.

“You’re stuck.”

My eyes swim. “No, Michael.

You’re stuck. I’m sorry I did this to you.”

He gets down on his knees and

lays his head in my lap.

“I don’t ever, ever, ever

want to hear you say that again.”

I can’t answer or I’ll cry.

I bend down and kiss the top of his head.

It’s damp. “What’ve you been up to?”

“I just got out of the ocean.”

“Saltwater therapy?”

“Yeah. It’s the best.”

“Earth to Michael—I can’t

go in the water.”

“But you can get close.”

His smile—so big and beautiful—

coaxes the corners of my mouth to

ease up for a moment.

His head tilts toward the bathroom.

“Do you need to go?”

I shake my head and sip my juice.

“You got up by yourself?”

“Twice.”

“That must have hurt.”

I shrug.

“Freak, I got to use the john.”

He dumps granola bars

in my lap. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappears into his room.

I drink all the juice, eat both bars,

listen to the sink, then the shower.

He returns scrubbed, shaved,

and glowing, garbed in garish

purple and lime green swimshorts

and an “I love Cayman” T.

My jeans feel cemented

to my body. “No fair.”

“Jealous of my snazzy outfit?”

“You’re clean hair.”

“We’ll take care of yours after

the walk—I promise.”

“You’re going to undress me?”

“Shh. It’s a surprise.

The beach is glorious.

Caribbean blue water,

even brighter than I remember

from the Keys. The wheelchair

gets bogged down in the deep,

dry sand. Michael powers

through it to firm damp beach,

pushes me right up to the surf’s

edge—a tiny wavelet swirls

around the wheels.

He tips back the chair

on its two big wheels,

ignores my squeals

and pushes me into the water.

The turquoise sea rushing in and out

uncovers a childish delight—simple,

pure, a bit tarnished and battered—but

I can feel. He keeps me out there

until his arms can’t hold the chair

up anymore.

Then those arms, moist with sweat

and ocean spray, free me from

confinement. We lie 

on the damp sand, me

on my back gazing up at the flawless

blue sky. Michael on his side

staring at my face.

He leans over and sucks ever

so gently on my unblemished

lower lip. He stops too soon.

“Is my breath gross?”

“Yeah. You’re a mess. Sandy

now, too.”

“What are you going to do

about that? Dunk me in the ocean?”

“If that’s what you want.” He scoops me

up and runs towards the water.

“Stop it, Michael.” I pound on

him with my cast.

He pulls up short.

“How about nurses?”

“What?”

“I found you nurses.”

“You’re sticking me back

in a hospital? No way.”

“No hospital—I promise.”

He takes me to a short cement building

set down in a tropical garden—pink

bougainvillea spill from pots,

palms, high and low, fan out in all

directions, bright orange and yellow

flowers carpet the ground.

Inside—cool, clean elegance,

marble floors, wood-paneled walls,

paintings of ocean sunrises.

My room’s a plush prison—

white bed draped with gauzy netting

looks resort brochure not hospital bill.

“You’re leaving me here?”

“Nurses, babe. They can take

care of you. I can’t.”

“You didn’t even try.”

“You need physio and wound care,

pain management. I can’t do that.”

“How long?”

“At least stay long enough

to get cleaned up.”

He picks me up from my chair.

“You stink.”

“Now that’s romantic.”

He lays me on the bed.

I sink into a world of soft

feather luxury.

He leans over me with

encouragement leaking

from the corners of his grin.

“They’ve got a therapeutic

whirlpool you can soak in

all morning. Wouldn’t that feel nice?”

He’s starting to convince me.

“What are you going to do?”

He blushes under his tan.

“Oh, my gosh—

you’re going

diving?”

He bends low to give

me an enormous kiss.

“Please?”

“As if I could stop you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Get out of here.”

The smile that slips onto my face

as I watch him leave me

knows only him, only here,

only this moment.

Today, it’s enough.

I'm scanning the rough drafts for you, but while I wait I'm going to load some pictures of Grand Cayman. It's MY favorite place to scuba dive. We learned to free dive there, too. I did that solely because I was writing TAKEN BY STORM and Michael survived because of his mad free diving skills.  My husband was great at free diving. I was AWFUL. You can read more about it and the trouble free diving go me into with Kirkus's reviewer in STORM'S STORY: Hyperventilation on my website.

Okay. Here's Grand Cayman:

Yes, the water is really this perfect!

Me at the turtle farm.

This is where we stayed when we did our free diving certification. I was so AWFUL.

Classic Cayman

East End dive resort where we stayed when my kids certified.

Great blow-hole in the coral!

East End Dive resort where I think Michael and Leesie will go.

Imagine Michael and Leesie on this beach.

One of my daughter's great shots.

East End Sunset

My daughter takes great micro photos.

East End evening

Breakfast anyone?

This is actually where we dove for our free diving course. The floor of the inlet is covered with sea urchins.

Dive boats! 

My kids in the pool getting certified.

My daughter with her scuba instructor. She did really well. I wonder why?

And now my rough drafts.