The very last Michael dive log I'll ever write!

Writing that title made me teary-eyed. But it's so true. This is the last time I'll dip into Michael's mind and scoop out a scene. Wow. Michael's first words came to me in a free write at my first residency at Vermont College in 2002. I've spent nine years with him and Leesie. And now it's all coming to an end. I promise I won't take forever revising because I know you all want your own beautiful copy of the book, but it's going to be hard to let go of this one.

Here it is, the last scene. Thank you all, again, for each step you've taken with me and Michael and Leesie.

MICHAEL’S DIVE LOG – VOLUME 14

Dive Buddy: Leesie           

Date:  ??

Dive #:

Location: Grand Cayman

Dive Site:

Weather Condition:

Water Condition:

Depth:  

Visibility: 

Water Temp: 

Bottom Time:  

Comments:

            As we drive away from the reception, man and wife, alone for the first time since we vowed to love each other forever, I try to stay calm, cool, but my heart—that I used to be able to slow at will free diving, beats so hard it pulses in my fingertips. My palms sweat. I grip the steering wheel way too hard. Good thing Leesie’s blindfolded. If she saw what a wreck I am, she might want to trade me back in.

            She’s sniffing the air like a bloodhound, trying to figure out where we’re going. I cut through a subdivision to disorient her.

            “Can I let my hair down?” She wore it up all day. It’s long again. She grew it out the whole time I was serving in Brazil. I felt like I’d stepped through a time warp when she met me at the plane with her hair long and gorgeous, catching the sun like the first time I caught her staring at me in physics.

            I pat her knee. “If you promise not to peak.”

            “That’s big of you. The hairpins kill.” She holds the blindfold to her eyes with one hand, slips the elastic loose with the other—pulls pins out and throws them at me.

            “Ow! Are you peaking?”

            She shakes her freed hair, combs her fingers through it, finding more pins, and shakes her head again. The car fills with the smell of hairspray and a tiny hint of her sweet banana mango shampoo.

            “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

            “Who me?” She slips the blindfold elastic back around her head and folds her hands in her lap.

            We stop at a red light. “Get over here, then.”

            She’s in my lap in a second. We make out until the car behind us blares its horn. I keep her close, drive the rest of the way with one hand and my arm around her, worrying she’ll recognize the highway we’re on, but she chew on my fingers instead of playing bloodhound.

            I turn off the highway onto a gravel road, relieved we’re almost there.  When I slow way down and turn right onto a bumpy dirt road, she sits up straight. “This isn’t the airport.” She elbows my ribs. “Roll down your window.”

            I obey. Pines lining each side of the road invade their car with their sharp sweet scent.

            She sniffs. Sniffs again. “This is our lake road—at Windy Bay.”

            I hold my breath.

            “It’s washed out. Dad said—” She hits my thigh. “You got my dad to lie?”

            I move my hand from her shoulders to the steering wheel. Even in good condition this road is dicey.

            “We’re going to our lake?”

            Yeah, babe. Don’t you remember our first date here?

            “We’re camping”—her voice rises in pitch—“tonight?”

            I wish for a video camera and bite my cheeks to keep from losing it.

            “Did you rent a swank RV?” She fiddles with her blindfold. “Buy a cool sail boat?”

            I keep silent.

            “Not a tent, Michael. Please.”

            As soon as the car stops, she rips off the blindfold and climbs out over me. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees the lights. She spins around. “You did this?”

            My eyes move from her to the cabin and back to her astonished face. “I wanted to do something for your family—to make up for—you know.” A pre-fab log cabin on their empty water front lake lot won’t bring back their son, but it makes me feel less guilty for stealing their daughter.

            Leesie bows her head and wipes her eyes.

            I close the distance between us in a stride and scoop her up like I did when she was hurt. I haven’t picked her up like this since then. I sense she’s awash in the same memories that flood through me.

            “I love you.” She snuggles her face against my neck.

            I inhale her hair and carry her towards the lit cabin.

            “Wait.”

            “What?”

            “I need my shoulder bag from the back seat.”

            “Why?”

            “I have a surprise, too.”

            I carry her back to the car, get the bag, slide the strap on my shoulder—all without putting her down.

            I carry her into the cabin. “Do you want a tour now?”

            “No.” She chews on my neck.

            I head upstairs.

            “Was that Gram’s couch in the living room?”

            “I couldn’t pitch her stuff. Your dad stored it at the farm when we rented Gram’s house.”

            Her lips press against my cheek. “I like that.”

            I open the door to our “honeymoon suite.” The big window and king-size four-poster bed are draped with white gauzy stuff. The bed’s made up with a six-inch thick down comforters and piled with cushy pillows.

            “This is beautiful.” Leesie squirms out of my arms, takes her bag, and disappears into the bathroom. A high-pitched, muffled, “Look at that tub,” comes from inside.

            I sit down on an armchair by the window, take off my tie, slip off my polished black dress shoes, stare at the closed bathroom door, grip the arms of the chair to keep myself from breaking it down. The sound of my heartbeat echoes in my ears. I’m sweating. I close my eyes, inhale deep. Hold it. Exhale. My eyes fly open at the sound of a turning door knob.

            Leesie hesitates in the doorway. She wears the long silk skirt I bought for her in a Thailand market and a bra-top made of turquoise shells and beads that I’ve never seen. The Cayman-colored shell necklace I gave her there hangs around her neck. My diamond on her finger flashes in the bright light coming from the bathroom.

            Her cheeks flush rosy. “I packed for our island.”

            “I love it.” I cross the room—take her hands—kiss her fingertips, her fingers, each palm—turn her left hand over and find those faint scars that fit my fingernails, kiss them one by one.

            We sink to our knees. She bows her head onto my shoulder. I bury my hands in her thick, fragrant hair and offer our first married prayer, whispered thanks that she’s mine forever.

            I gather her into my arms and carry her to the bed. “Are you scared?”

            Her eyes are big, but she whispers, “No.” She reaches for my lips. “Are you?”

            My eyebrows rise. “Terrified.”

            Her lips find mine, and our embrace yields to the passion we’ve held back for years. “Don’t worry”—she’s breathless as I lay her on the bed—“I’ll let you up for good behavior.”

            She pulls me down beside her, and             I’m enveloped in silk, beads, long hair, and Leesie.

THE END