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By the end of the first week when I wake to her presence, she no longer waits for an invitation, but instead makes her way to the other side of my bed and crawls in. She turns her back toward me and I reach over and rub my hand up and down her back, feeling each bony knob of her spine. As I touch her, I am aware that she is unaccustomed to being touched appropriately with love, and I pray my touch will be a healing balm. Then, when she's ready, she sits up and I comb her hair, section by section. This becomes an act of love—a giving and receiving—something we share. By the time we get up, my mother has breakfast going in the kitchen.

At dinner one evening Mother tells us she's leaving in the morning.

"What?! How will I . . ." I stop before Kaylee sees the panic I feel rising within.
How will I do this alone? Who will I ask my questions? Who will listen to my fears? Who will be there waiting with a cup of hot tea at the end of another long day?

"Oh, darling, you'll both be just fine." She turns and winks at Kaylee and then gives me her most reassuring smile. She reaches over and puts her hand on top of mine and mouths the words, "You're doing great" so Kaylee can't hear. My mother sees the panic I'm trying to hide.

After I tuck Kaylee into bed for the night, I return to the kitchen and the cup of tea I know will be waiting on the counter. My mother nods toward the cup, then pours one for herself. I follow her outside where we sit to discuss the day.

"I'm not ready for you to leave. Can't you stay a few more days?"

"Darling, you're more than ready. It's time. You don't need me."

"But—"

"But nothing, Sierra. You are doing great. You don't need me. You never really did." She reaches over and pats me on the back. "You're good for her, you know."

My mother's tone, often brisk, is now tender. I turn to look at her and see her love for me scrawled across her face.

"Thank you . . . for everything. I did need you here. I couldn't have done this without you. I needed . . ." I stare out at the shadowed yard and think of all my mother's done in the last week—cooking, cleaning, listening, and advising. But only when asked, I realize. She's stayed in the background, helped but not intruded. Encouraged. Cheered me on in her own reserved way. "I needed to know you were here. I needed your encouragement."

"Sierra, you're a good mother. I've always known that about you."

Tears come to my eyes and my throat constricts, making it difficult to say anything more. My mother's support through difficult years has sustained me, I know. She's never judged me—only loved me. Even when I was at my worst, when all evidence pointed to complete failure in my life, my mother expected the best of me.

I whisper a choked "Thank you," then take a deep breath. "I had the best example."

My mother reaches for my hand and holds it tight. We sit, holding hands, in companionable silence. We stare out at the shadowed yard, each lost in our own thoughts. Slowly, gratitude replaces my sense of panic. "I'll miss you . . ."

"I'm just a phone call away."

"I know."

"Sierra . . ." She turns to face me and squeezes my hand. "I'll miss being here. But I know you're in good hands."

I shake my head. "I know."

And in the still of that moment, I really do know.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Kaylee

Everything here is different.

Even though things were bad at the cabin, I knew what to do there. Here, I have to learn everything all over again. And I realize I've forgotten some things.

Like manners.

I know all about manners, of course, because I read Emily Post's book. But I've forgotten to actually use what I know. You don't have to worry about manners when you're alone all the time. Even when I wasn't alone, when he was there, I didn't need manners, because he didn't have any anyway.

When we sat down for dinner the first night here, I almost didn't know what to do. I hadn't sat at a table to eat a meal in a long time. And the food all looked so good! My mouth watered and my stomach growled, so I reached for my fork and started to eat before I even put my napkin on my lap. And even before we said grace! If I don't use good manners, Sierra might not let me stay. So I'm working on remembering. When I have time, I'm reading
Etiquette
again so it's fresh in my mind. The dictionary defines
etiquette
as the conventional requirements for social behavior. But basically, it just means good manners.

So far, only Mrs. Bickford has said grace at meals. Now when we sit down at the table, I don't even look at the food until I've put my napkin on my lap and Mrs. Bickford has said, "In Jesus' name, we pray. Amen."

Mrs. Bickford must know Jesus like Grammy did.

I wonder if Sierra knows Jesus too?

I still wonder about the "Jesus Loves Me" song that Grammy taught me. Now that I'm here with Sierra, I wonder if maybe Jesus does still love me a little bit.

The other thing I'm learning is our routine. Mrs. Bickford says we need a routine. I like routines. I like doing the same things every day. That way you know what to expect. Like right now, it's 12:00, which means it's time for lunch.

"Kaylee, it's time for lunch." Sierra calls from the kitchen.

You can count on a routine.

I mark my place in the etiquette book and put it back on the shelf; then I head for the kitchen.

"Hi, little one. How are you?"

Most of the time Sierra asks me yes or no questions, things I can answer by nodding one way or the other. Otherwise, she'll tell me to get my notebook. But sometimes she'll ask me something else and look at me like she hopes I'll answer. I don't want to disappoint her. I would talk to her if I could. Honest.

"Hey . . . Kaylee, it's okay. Are you hungry?"

I nod.

"Did you enjoy reading?"

Nod again.

"Good."

I sit down at the table and notice there are only two places set. Mrs. Bickford went to church with Ruby this morning; but, I thought she'd be back by lunch time. I look from the table back to Sierra.

"Oh, Mother called. She and Ruby decided to go to lunch together after church."

I begin to wonder about Ruby and Sierra's mom. I know Sierra's mom lives in Texas so I wonder how she and Ruby got to know each other. I haven't seen Ruby again since that night in the hospital. I liked her. I hope she'll come over sometime.

"Mother and Ruby are pretty close. They got to know each other while Ruby and I were at art school." Sierra carries a bowl of soup and a plate with half a sandwich to the table and puts it in front of me. "Well, actually it was after art school that they became close." She walks back to the counter and gets her soup then sits down across from me. "Ruby and I have breakfast together at least once a week. Did I tell you that?"

I shake my head.

"We started that when we were roommates. She'll come over one day next week for breakfast."

Can Sierra read my mind?

"Sometime soon we'll go over there too and you can meet her husband, Michael. Ruby's a better cook than I am so we eat there more often than we eat here."

I take a bite of my soup. How can Ruby be a better cook than Sierra? Sierra's a gourmet. That means she cooks fancy food. The best I've ever had!

Every day since I've been here, which is five days now, I take a nap after lunch. Sierra says my body is still healing and that until I gain some weight and stop taking the medicine the doctor gave me, I'll probably need some extra sleep. So we have lunch, then I take a nap. That's part of the routine. After that what we do is a surprise, but that's part of the routine too. Yesterday we took Van on a walk to the beach. The day before that Mrs. Bickford and Sierra taught me how to play spoons. That was fun!

Tomorrow afternoon Sierra says I have to go back to the doctor for a "follow-up appointment." She said the doctor wants to make sure I'm eating well and that the cuts on my feet are healing and that the infection I have is going away.

I don't like doctors very much. When I was in the hospital, the doctor poked at every part of my body—even my private parts. He told me he needed to check down there, but that Charlene, my favorite nurse, would hold my hand. He said he wouldn't hurt me. Sure enough, Charlene did hold my hand and talked to me the whole time he was checking, but I couldn't listen to what she was saying. I had to close my eyes. And I felt my face get hot and tears rolled down my cheeks. I wondered if the doctor could tell—would he know what
he'd
done to me?

Would the doctor know what I was?

After Sierra told me about having to go to the doctor again, I reached for my pad of paper and wrote:
I'd prefer not to go to the doctor.
When I put the period at the end of the sentence, I hit the paper hard with the point of the pen. I really don't want to go.

"You have to go. But it'll be okay. I'll go in with you."

Will I have to take my clothes off?

Sierra looks at me and seems to think for a minute. "Not this time. He'll probably just have you take your flip-flops off and look at your feet to make sure they're healing." Then she reaches down and tickles the top of one of my feet. "And they're healing nicely, so no problem there, little one. But before that, the nurse will weigh you to see if you've gained some weight, and she'll take your temperature. They always do that. Then the doctor will ask you some questions and might listen to your chest with his stethoscope."

What about the infection?

I don't tell Sierra this, but I'm not going if he has to check my private parts again.

"The bladder infection?" Sierra looks at me, and again it seems like she knows what I'm thinking. "It'll be okay, kiddo, you won't have to get undressed and the doctor won't have to check you. They'll just take a urine sample. And after your appointment I'll take you for a special treat."

A special treat? That will be the surprise part of our routine.

I guess it will be okay.

My favorite part of our routine is bedtime. Every night, after I wash my face and brush my teeth, Sierra tucks me in. First, I sit on the side of the bed and let her comb my hair. She takes long, careful strokes. "Your hair is smooth as silk, little one." Then, before I go to sleep, she reads to me. She knows I can read by myself, but she says she likes to read to me—to share the story together. I climb into bed and get under the covers, and then Sierra lies next to me on top of the covers with a pillow behind her to prop her up. I like having her next to me. Last night I fell asleep listening to her voice as she read. I don't like it when I fall asleep when she's reading because then I miss the best part—the part of the routine where when she's done reading, she leans over and kisses my forehead and says. "Good night, little one. Sleep well." Or sometimes she says. "Sweet dreams, kiddo."

I like it when she calls me
little one
or
kiddo.
Those are her special names for me. No one's ever had a special name for me before.

I like it here.

I like learning our routine.

After lunch Mrs. Bickford comes back and finds us in the kitchen doing dishes. She sets her purse, a big book, and a paper on the kitchen table. "Tea anyone?"

Sierra says she doesn't want any, then Mrs. Bickford looks at me and I nod. I love her tea—she makes mine special with lots of milk and honey. She walks to the cabinet and gets two cups and saucers and two dessert plates and sets them on the table. Then she goes to one of the drawers and pulls out two cloth napkins; she folds them and puts them next to the plates. She gets out the milk and pours it into a small pitcher and places it, along with a jar of honey on the table. She sets another plate in the middle of the table with shortbread cookies and nut bread on it.

Emily Post would like Mrs. Bickford.

I help her arrange things on the table, adding two spoons next to the plates and a glass dish with jam in it; then I move her purse and things to the counter. I notice the book says
Holy Bible
on the front—it looks like one Grammy had. The paper is sort of like a brochure and has a picture of a church on the front of it. On the bottom there's today's date and a sentence: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." Then there's a man's name, John, and two numbers 1:1.

I read the sentence again and then reach for the pad of paper and pen that Sierra keeps on the kitchen counter for me. I write down the sentence along with the man's name and the numbers, then I tear the page off the pad and fold it up and put it in my pocket.

"There's our whistle, darling. Ready for your tea?"

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Sierra

Kaylee?" I call down the hallway. She pokes her head out her bedroom door and looks at me. "It's Ruby's turn to come here for breakfast, would you like to help me?"

She nods and follows me back to the kitchen. I open a cabinet and pull out three plates. "How about if you set the table." I hand her the plates. "You know where everything is, right? If you need something just ask." I pat her pad of paper sitting on the kitchen counter.

She nods.

"The fork goes on the left and . . ."

She holds up her hand like a traffic cop. Her message is clear.
Stop. I know.

"Okay, okay!"

I laugh to myself. In the month since she's been here her personality is coming through more and more. She is independent, but then, I suppose she's had no other choice. But sometimes, like now, her independence is spunky. There's verve to her that I'm beginning to see and love. And honestly, with that vocabulary of hers, and other things too, she's quirky. I love that about her too.

As I whisk eggs with half and half, grate cheese, and slice green onions for the quiche, and slice grapefruits in half, I hear drawers and cabinets opening and closing behind me. She pulls one of the kitchen chairs to an upper cabinet, stands on it, and reaches for something up high. Then I hear the clink of glasses and the clank of silverware. She goes out to the backyard for something and comes back in. She asks no questions, just busies herself with her job.