Words (28 page)

I open the slider and follow Van to the backyard. I ease into the Adirondack chair as Van wanders around the yard. The setting sun casts a luminous glow over the deck and yard. As I lean back in the chair, a sigh escapes from the depths of my soul. I close my eyes, hoping to turn off my mind, but thoughts of this afternoon continue to intrude.

I think again of the division I felt in myself—the desire to draw from my own experiences to help Kaylee's mom, and the stronger desire to exploit her struggle for my own gain, to keep Kaylee with me. Are my desires selfish?

Yes. And no. I care deeply what happens to her. I long to ease her pain—to give her the love she deserves—the love I experienced as a child. I want the best for Kaylee.

"So what is best for her?" I speak my question into the dusk. It's a question I asked Pete earlier, but I couldn't accept his response in the moment. Now I ponder his words. "Don't we serve Kalyee's best interests by helping her mom?"

"And how do we do that?" I'd asked.

"We let the system work. When we find her, we let her know our goal is to reunite her with her daughter, to help make her situation workable. Through CWS, she'll attend parenting classes, we offer job placement assistance, there will be supervised visits, and eventually, if all goes well, Kaylee is returned to her mother."

"What? That's it? A mother neglects, abandons, and allows her daughter to be abused and you help her get her daughter back?"

"Of course not, Sierra. If there is evidence of abuse of any kind, charges will be pressed. If drugs are involved, as you suspect, then we also hope for evidence of that—possession ensures court-mandated rehabilitation. In the meantime Kaylee remains a ward of the court, she receives the help she needs and a safe environment in which to heal. Either way, it's a long road ahead."

A long road . . .

Each day Kaylee is here the pain at the prospect of losing her becomes greater. Ruby would tell me I'm being too "all or nothing" again. How many times has Ruby said. "It's both/and Sierra, not either/or." Is that true in this situation? Is it possible Kaylee could love both her mother and me?

I think of what Pete shared about his childhood. He turned his pain around—found purpose in it. For the first time I see new purpose in what I've suffered. Maybe I can use the pain of my past to help shape the future of another—of Kaylee, and perhaps, even her mother.

Van stands there, his chin resting on my leg. I scratch behind his ears, grateful for his companionship. "Are you hungry, boy?" His tail wags in response. "C'mon, I'll feed you."

I get up from the chair, Van at my heels, and return to the kitchen where I fill Van's bowl with food. Then I open the junk drawer and dig until I find a pair of scissors. I walk back outside to the far corner of the yard and clip a small bough from the towering redwood likely planted there by the original owners in the thirties. The bough is deep green, with lighter green at the tips—the new growth of summer.

I take the bough back into the house and set it on the tray of my easel, then head down the hallway to check on Kaylee. She's still asleep. I walk to her bed and sit on the side, next to her. I brush her bangs off her forehead and gently nudge her shoulder until her eyes open. It takes a minute for her to focus on my face.

"Hey, do you want some dinner? Homemade macaroni and cheese?" One of her favorites. She shakes her head and rolls on her side, away from me. As she does, I hear her stomach growl.

What is she feeling? I can only imagine . . .

"Kaylee, you need to eat, to keep up your strength. Is there something you'd rather have? Chicken maybe? Or there's leftover meatloaf from last night." I hear her stomach rumble again.

She sits up, edges her way to the other side of the bed, and gets out. Without looking at me, she makes her way to the door. I follow her down the hallway and into the kitchen where she opens a cupboard, takes out a bag of shell-shaped macaroni, and hands it to me.

"Okay, mac and cheese it is." I reach for a pot, fill it with water, and set it to boil. Kaylee takes a seat at the kitchen table and rests her head on her folded arms. She will ignore me.

Her anger, or anguish—I'm not sure which—fills the small kitchen.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Kaylee

Dr. Beth, my psychiatrist, is pulling out paper, pens, and paints while I wait at the little table in her office. Bethany is her first name. She told me I can call her Dr. Beth because her last name is too hard to pronounce. Like I'm going to pronounce it anyway.

She talks to me like she thinks I'll talk back.

Mute,
remember? 1. dumb; silent. 2. unable to speak; dumb.

She asks me lots of questions, especially about my mom. But I don't want to tell her about my mom. She asks me questions about him too. On days when she asks me about him, I'm glad I can't talk. I don't know what I'd say. When she asks me too many questions, the scream starts and I have to cover my ears.

She doesn't ask as many questions now, instead she lets me draw or paint.

She's nice, but I know what a psychiatrist is. They're doctors for people with "mental disorders," that's what the dictionary says. I don't have a mental disorder. I just don't talk.

At first I liked it when I got to draw and paint. I'd pretend I was an artist like Sierra. But I won't draw or paint today, no matter how much Dr. Bethany wants me too.

I can't think about Sierra.

Instead I'll think about my plan. I'm going to find my mom. Which means . . .

I have to leave Sierra.

"Kaylee, you look sad today. I heard your mom paid a visit to Sierra yesterday."

I just look at her.

She's quiet for a minute then says. "I'd imagine seeing your mom stirred up lots of feelings in here." She points to my chest. "Would you like to draw, maybe work on something to help you work through some of those feelings?" She sets the paper and pens in front of me.

I fold my hands in my lap and stare at the paper. I don't mean to be stubborn, but I just can't draw today.

"Would you rather use the paints?"

I shake my head. No. No paint either.

"Okay. Let's do something different." Dr. Bethany gets up from the little chair she sat in next to me, takes the paper and pens and paints with her, and goes back to her art cupboard. She puts them away and pulls something else out and comes back to the little table. "Let's make something with clay." She sets five bricks of clay in front of me—all different colors. "You can make a sculpture."

A sculpture? Like Ruby?

I pick up the brown brick of clay and look at Dr. Bethany.

"Go ahead, Kaylee. You can unwrap it. Open all the colors if you'd like."

I open the brown clay and begin smashing it in my hands, getting it warm and soft. While I do that, I think about what I'll need to take with me when I leave. I can only take as much as will fit in my backpack—just some clothes, my new sweatshirt and shorts. My toothbrush. My notebook and pen, in case I need to ask someone a question.

I smash the clay a little more, then shape it into a square, like a cube. Then I reach for the black clay and unwrap it. As I work with the clay, it feels like all the jumbled thoughts in my mind are working their way out through my fingers. Like all those feelings are coming out of me and going into the clay. Then I remember one of the definitions I read for the word
therapy:
any act, hobby, task, program, or whatever, that relieves tension. I've got a lot of tension right now, so maybe this therapy is good. I look up at Dr. Beth, who's sitting across from me at the little table, and I smile. Then I get back to my list.

I have to take my mom's three books with me, but I don't think they'll fit in my backpack. They're heavy too. Maybe I can just take the dictionary.

I also have to take my Bible.

The morning Mrs. Bickford left I found a present on my bed. It was a square package wrapped in blue paper with white fluffy clouds on it and there was a white bow on the top. Tucked under the bow was a white envelope with my name on it. I carried the present out to the kitchen where Sierra was working and I showed it to her.

"That's for you, little one. Mother left it for you. Open it."

A real present? For me?

I pulled the card out of the envelope and read Mrs. Bickford's note:

Dearest Kaylee, I noticed you copied a verse from the church bulletin the other day. The verse came from this book—the Bible. I thought you might enjoy reading the stories of Jesus and how much He loves you. I've placed a bookmark in the book of John so you can find the verse you copied.

Jesus loves you, Kaylee, and so do I.

Blessings, darling.

Love,

"Grandma" Bickford

I pulled the bow and paper off the package and then opened the box. Inside was a book with a white leather cover. On the front in gold letters it said:
Holy Bible.
On the bottom, in smaller gold letters, was my name:
Kaylee Wren.

I turned to the kitchen counter and reached for the pad of paper and pen.

Is this really mine? Do I get to keep it?

"It's all yours, kiddo. It has your name on it. Mother thought you might like it. The Bible is . . . well, it's really important to her. It's an important part of her life. She wanted to share it with you. She thought it might help you."

Sierra reached for the Bible and picked it up. She opened it and flipped through a few of the pages. "I have one just like this. Mother and Daddy gave it to me the day I was baptized." She seemed like she was thinking back—like she was talking to me, but also to herself. "Maybe we could read this at bedtime, sometimes. Would you like that? It might be good for both of us."

I nodded. She handed the Bible back to me and I opened it to where Mrs. Bickford had placed the bookmark. I pulled the marker out—it was almost the same blue as the wrapping paper and it had little butterflies all over it. There was a blue and silver tassel hanging from the top. I looked at the open page. At the top it said:
The Gospel According to John.
The first sentence on the page was the verse I'd copied.

I ran my hand over the page—the paper was thin and felt delicate, which means it felt fragile, like it would crinkle easily. I closed the book and held it up to my nose and breathed in the scent of leather; then I ran one finger over my name. I couldn't believe it was really mine.

That's it. I'll take the dictionary and the Bible. I hope they'll both fit in my backpack.

I make two flat squares with the black clay and put them on top of the cube, like a roof on a house.

I hope my mom won't be mad if I leave the other two books.

I reach for the white clay and unwrap it. I make four little rectangles out of the white clay and put them on the front of the house—shutters. I make one big rectangle for the front door.

I don't want to steal anything from Sierra, but she can't use my clothes or toothbrush anyway. And she said the backpack and notebook and pen were mine to keep. The dictionary and Bible are definitely mine. I need some money too. I don't know what to do about that. Maybe if I leave my other two books, that will make up for anything I take. Ruby said Sierra hadn't read
Etiquette,
so maybe she'd like to have it.

Out of the red and yellow clay I make little flowers. I stick them on the bottom of the house all the way around.

Maybe I could ask Pete for some money. I could tell him I want to buy a present for Sierra. But that's a lie. I don't want to lie.

I look at the little house sitting in front of me and feel that familiar lump in my throat. I swallow, but it's still there. My vision blurs as tears fill my eyes.

I take my fist and smash the little house—I smash it hard. I smash it until it's just a lump of colors that don't mean anything.

Making a sculpture was a stupid idea!

Dr. Bethany doesn't say anything. She just scoots a little closer and puts her hand on my back and pats me like I'm a dog or something. Probably to make me feel better.

But it doesn't.

Nothing will. Not ever again.

CHAPTER FORTY

Sierra

After I drop Kaylee off at Dr. Beth's, I go to the bank. As I stand in line waiting for the next available teller, I ask myself what I'm doing. When I talked with Pete yesterday, it all seemed so clear.
Let the system work . . .

But how can that be best for Kaylee? Hasn't she lived through enough upheaval in her life? Doesn't she deserve to move on—to enjoy the stability of a safe environment—someone to love her and care for her—someone she can depend on? Isn't that what I offer her?

"Next."

Enough analyzing, Sierra. Just do it.
I approach the teller. "I'd like to withdraw $1,500 from my savings account, please."

"How would you like that?"

"Hundreds."

As the teller counts out fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills, I remind myself that I'm not responsible for what Kathryn does with the money. I'm simply helping her get back on her feet so she can provide a home for Kaylee, if that's what she wants. I'm taking what she said at face value. If she chooses to use the money for something else, well, that's her problem.

"Thank you." I take the cash, tuck it into an envelope, and put it in my backpack. I'm ready for her if she returns.

No . . .
when
she returns.

When I pick up Kaylee, she appears sullen and more withdrawn than usual.

Dr. Beth pulls me aside and whispers. "Lots of love today, Sierra, give her lots of love."

"Is she okay?"

"We had a small breakthrough—lots of interior churning going on inside her. Of course, I'd expect that after seeing her mother. It's hard to know how to help her, but I think she was able to express some of what she's feeling through her art. By the way, what color is your house?"

"Brown with white trim. Why?"

"Just wondering. Call me if you see signs of extreme angst."

I nod. "Thanks, I will." Then I wonder who I call when
I'm
feeling extreme angst? An apt descriptive for what's churning in me today. I put my arm around Kaylee's shoulders as I guide her out of the office but feel her stiffen as soon as I touch her. I take a step back and let her walk out on her own.