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She looks from the ice cream shop to the guy next to her, reaches over and takes the bag out of his hand. He's too wasted now to notice. She lifts it to her lips and gulps the sour wine. She drinks until the bottle is empty, but it isn't enough. She can still see Kaylee inside the ice cream shop. She can still feel her.

She scoots closer to her new friend and leans over to kiss him. As she does, she runs her hands up and down his arms and then down his waist. She reaches into his front pocket and feels for his last bill—a ten.

She pats his arm and then gets up and walks back into the liquor store.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Sierra

We round the corner and walk into the parking lot of Marianne's, a Santa Cruz icon. I drape my arm around Kaylee's shoulders and walk toward the entrance to the ice cream shop. I come here often to indulge with a scoop of my favorite flavor: Highway 17, otherwise known as Rocky Road.

But today, having Kaylee with me, the hyper-vigilance I've felt since she's become my responsibility returns. I glance at the other business that shares the parking lot with Marianne's and see a couple loitering out front. The man drinks something hidden in a paper bag and the woman, slight and pale, stares at us. I pull Kaylee, who seems mesmerized by the activity of the ice cream shop, a little closer as we walk inside.

"Those are the flavors." I point to the board on the wall and watch as Kaylee's eyes widen. I've delighted in introducing her to a few of life's pleasures in the last couple of weeks. "You may have one or two scoops, either on a cone or in a cup. Whatever you'd like."

Kaylee slips the backpack that almost never leaves her back now off her shoulders and pulls out her notebook and pen.

Which one is your favorite?

"I like Highway 17—it's chocolate ice cream with marshmallows and cashews—and Peanut Butter Cup, which is chocolate ice cream with a peanut butter ribbon. I like having them on a sugar cone. Want to try one of those?"

She nods her head, a smile stretched across her face.

"One flavor or both?"

She nods again and I laugh. "Okay, both."

I place our order, grab napkins, and watch as Kaylee takes her top-heavy cone from the server and takes her first taste. With chocolate ice cream on the tip of her nose, she smiles at me again. Two smiles in two minutes.

It's a good day.

"Can you eat and walk at the same time, kiddo?"

She nods and we head back outside and around the corner and down the street toward home, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

As we reach the bungalow, I tuck my thoughts away. I notice Kaylee's gait has slowed and her shoulders droop. Fatigue seems her constant companion still.

"How about we wash that ice cream off your face, little one, and then you and Van can take your afternoon nap."

She nods her agreement.

This has become our routine as her body heals and she catches up on what seems like a lifetime of sleep. And Van, my traitorous dog, has taken to sleeping with her rather than me. I smile at the delight I see in her eyes each time Van leaps onto her bed.

She will likely sleep away the rest of this lazy Indian summer afternoon. As I tuck her in, I make sure the book she's reading is on her night table in case she wakes and wants to read. Rather
when
she wakes and wants to read. She's making quick work of the Nancy Drew novels. But as far as I can tell, with the exception of the etiquette book, she hasn't touched the books we brought from the cabin. The dictionary, I assume, is the source of her well-developed vocabulary. But the times I've asked if she'd like to read it, she averts her eyes and shakes her head. Maybe they are a reminder of what she left behind.

I also notice she removed the locket from around her neck and placed it back in the jar. Another reminder, maybe?

After I see that she's settled, I head to the kitchen where my easel and drawers of shredded papers now stand in one corner. I reach for the jug of matte media I now store in a kitchen cupboard. Standing back, I peruse the canvas and plan the next layer of my work. I've let my art go since Kaylee arrived, but today I feel compelled to finish the picture of the redwood.

Just as I begin slathering glue on the first bit of paper, I hear a knock at the front door. I'm not expecting anyone and am tempted to ignore it. But then it comes again, more insistent this time. I place the shred of paper on the canvas, then wipe the glue from my hands on an old towel and head for the door.

I open the door to a woman who seems familiar, though I'm not sure why.

"Hi . . ." As I wait for her response, the skin on the back of my neck prickles and the muscles in my jaw and shoulders tense. I'm looking into Kaylee's eyes—though the eyes of the woman in front of me seem glazed, tired. Then I remember where I've seen her. Just an hour ago, in the parking lot of Marianne's.

"You have her, don't you? You have my little girl."

The woman is small, birdlike. She shifts back and forth from one foot to the other and her hands quiver at her sides. Her complexion is sallow against her dull, dark hair. And her eyes, the deep green of Kaylee's, seem lifeless.

"Who are you?" The strength of my voice surprises me. I exude a calm I don't feel.

"Kathryn. Her mother. You have my Kaylee."

"Excuse me . . ." I step out the door causing her to move back. The smell of cigarette smoke assaults my senses. I close the front door behind me—I don't want Kaylee hearing this exchange. As much as I'm sure Kaylee wants her mother back, something isn't right here. I know it. Intuition?

Mine is screaming.

"What makes you think I have her?" I'm stalling. Thinking. Pleading with God.
Help me!
I realize she must have seen Kaylee and followed us from Marianne's. How stupid of me! So caught up in my thoughts that I didn't notice her following us. I'm supposed to protect Kaylee. What happened to that hyper-vigilance I'd felt?

"I saw you. I saw you with her—your arm around her like she's yours."

I notice the frenetic tapping of her left foot, an involuntary movement, it seems. The sense of familiarity grabs me again. Standing in front of my house, looking at the woman who holds the power to wrench Kaylee from my life, I experience an epiphany—a sword that slices my soul in two.

Like me, the woman standing before me, Kaylee's mother, fell to drugs.

It's the drugs I see—the nervousness, the involuntary twitches and movements, the pockmarks and scabs on her face. I see her need, so like my own at one time. But I was not the sum of the drugs. She is not the sum of the drugs. For the first time I see myself, through someone else, separate from what the addiction created.

Acceptance . . . mercy . . . freedom—all are held within this revelation. But there's no time to consider that now.

The epiphany leads to the recognition of truth: She stands to lose her daughter. She is the victim of her choices. And I, more than anyone, know the agony of the road she walks. Compassion stirs and I want to reach out, to spare this stranger the pain I've known. But that's only half of what I feel.

The other part of me wants to use this knowledge against her. To take her daughter as my own.

"Are you just going to stand there staring at me, or do you have something to say?" Agitation marks her words.

"What do you want?"

"I want my baby back."

I speak from what I'm sure is true. "You can't take care of her. You need help."

"I don't need help. I just need my baby. She's
mine!"
Her eyes come to life.

"How will you take care of her? It doesn't look like you're even taking care of yourself." My voice remains calm, caring even. I watch her. She shifts from foot to foot and her eyes dart from me to the ground and back again.

"You don't know anything about me." She spits her words at me.

"I know more than you think." I can see I've disarmed her, frightened her.

"What do you know?"

Lord, help me. What am I thinking? She's right. I don't know.
I look her up and down again—her clothes are rumpled, dirty. Her tennis shoes are worn, a hole in the canvas top of one reveals her sockless feet. And again, I notice the telltale jitters. In the recesses of my mind, I hear my mother's voice:
What's the truth, Shannon?

I speak what I'm sure is truth. "You're an addict. You can't even take care of yourself, let alone Kaylee. You need help." I take a deep breath and go on. "I know—I've been there."

She looks me in the eyes for the first time, but only briefly. "You don't know what you're talking about."

I take a step toward her, trying to close the gap between us both physically and emotionally. "I do know."
What am I doing?
I flinch when I consider the consequences of what I'm about to say. I stand to lose Kaylee. But with a strength I know is not my own, I press on. "I know because I've been there. I was an addict and . . . and I had . . ." I take another breath. "I had a daughter once. Her name was Annie. But . . . I lost her. I was using during my pregnancy, and . . . she . . . she died shortly after she was born."

For just a moment, our eyes, maybe even our hearts, meet—mother to mother. The veil drops and I see understanding in her eyes.

"You don't have to lose your daughter. You can get help. Your story can end differently than mine."

She steps back, her expression veiled again. "I told you, you don't know what you're talking about! I'm . . . I'm fine—except that I did lose my daughter." She falters, fumbles for words. "I . . . I lost her in the grocery store. She was kidnapped. And now you have her. Maybe you're the one who took her!"

Her accusation stuns me. Could Kaylee have been kidnapped? The story is plausible. It happens. A child is wooed away by a pedophile offering candy or some other enticement and then, the child is gone. Is that what happened to Kaylee?

No. She's lying. Covering herself. "I don't believe you." There is no accusation in my tone. It's just a statement of fact.

"I saw the way you held on to her, the way you looked at her. She means something to you and you don't want to give her up."

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I have no response. This time she speaks truth. The division widens—I see it in my mind—a gaping chasm plastered on canvas, jagged edges in dark hues depict the image.

"Are you taking good care of her?" Her voice softens with her question.

"Yes."

"Do you love her?"

I sense she's changing tactics—that she has a plan I haven't yet figured out. I leave the question unanswered.

"I'll tell you what. I've had some hard times lately. You can imagine, right? Losing my daughter made me a little crazy. I . . . um . . . I lost my job. And now I don't have a place to live. I'm getting one soon though. So maybe . . . maybe for a price . . . you can keep her a little longer."

"A price?" Indignation rises like bile in my throat.

"Yeah . . . you know . . ." Her "transaction" is interrupted by the opening of the front door. We both turn to see Kaylee standing in the doorway, her little body trembling like a fall leaf.

I move toward her, reach for her, "Oh, little one . . ." But she pushes me away. Her gaze is locked on her mother. Her face a puzzle of hope, longing, confusion . . .

Pain.

I look at Kathryn and see she wears the same expression. Mother and daughter face to face. But then Kathryn's expression shifts—changes—hardens. She says nothing to Kaylee, instead she looks back at me.

"You think about what I said. I'll be back." With that, she turns and walks away. By the time she reaches the sidewalk, she's running.

And Kaylee is running after her! I reach out and grab her as she passes me. I hold her flailing body in my arms, her back pressed against my chest, her tears soaking my arms. She kicks and pulls away, but I hold on tight, every muscle straining against her.

I can't let her go.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Kathryn

She runs down the sidewalk in the direction she came. She doesn't look back, but she doesn't really look where she's going either. All is a blur. Kaylee's face and the hope she saw in her daughter's eyes is her only focus.

When she can't run anymore, when she's gasping for breath, she stops and looks back the way she came to make sure Kaylee didn't follow her. But no one's there. She grabs her side as a sharp pain causes her to double over. Nauseous, she drops to the ground on her hands and knees, sure she'll be sick. She gulps for air and waits until the feeling passes, then turns over and sits on the sidewalk. She rests her head on her knees and, for the first time since walking away from the cabin that day, she cries. Her body shudders as much from her sobs as from her unrelenting need.

"More. I always need more!" She pounds the cement with her fists.
It will never end . . . never.
Then she sees Kaylee's face again. Memories attack her. Holding Kaylee's tiny hand as she took her first steps. Her smile as she'd look up with a toothless grin and say, "Ma-ma!" Kaylee's first day of school and the tears she'd shed when left with her kindergarten teacher. She remembers the weight of Kaylee on her lap, the fresh scent of her hair, as she read to her, and how quickly Kaylee picked up the words and was soon the one doing the reading. Life was hard then, Lee was already gone, but she'd had her mom and, with her help, was making it. She was making it. Then she remembers when things began to change . . .

Oh baby, I'm so sorry.

The memories are too much.

She closes her eyes and covers her ears. She shakes her head, hoping to rattle the images. Another wave of nausea hits her and this time her stomach convulses and she's sick. There, sitting on the sidewalk, a block from Ocean Street where traffic whizzes by, she vomits. She knows she should feel shame and embarrassment. She is aware enough to know what she should feel. Instead, her body shudders and the crawling feeling on her legs and arms and neck and face begin again. She reaches for her neck and scratches and scratches. The sensation doesn't stop. She scratches until there's blood under her nails—until her neck is raw.