Words (7 page)

I step back to study the effect and wonder at the pall casting faint shadows in my kitchen. I've been so engrossed in my work that I didn't notice the sun rising behind a dense bank of coastal fog. I walk to the glass door that leads to the deck and observe my yard through a shroud of gray and notice for the first time this morning the distant wailing of a foghorn in the bay.

I dump the long-cold coffee and fill the tea kettle. While I wait for it to boil, I again study this first layer of work. I'm satisfied. After it dries, I'll add another layer—and then another and another and another. Each layer builds upon the previous adding dimension to the work. A finished piece often contains as many as fifty layers. After I've achieved the depth and texture I desire, I may add some of the words I've torn from pages—the words may be whimsical in nature or may "speak" a deeper meaning—all depending on the piece. Finally, I'll use the oil pastels to enhance the textures.

I began using this layering technique during my second year at SFAI, and it has become what I'm known for as an artist. Not long ago Ruby said the technique defines me—deep, impenetrable layers.

This particular piece, upon first glance, will look like nothing more than a grooved, rust-and-green abstract. But upon closer inspection, the astute will see redwood bark with all its intricate mapping and shading with sprigs of green foliage. It is the tree of my nightmare last night—or perhaps what you would see of the tree if you were standing with your nose against the trunk. My arrogance is that I believe only those who have "eyes that see" understand my work. But I don't do it so people will get it or interpret it. I do it to survive.

I set the canvas aside to dry. Then I shower again and scrub the matte medium from beneath my nails. I feed Van. Vacuum. Make a grocery list. Balance my checkbook. And clean out the refrigerator. When I can think of nothing else to fill the time, I concede, grab the keys to my Jeep, Van's leash, and we head out. Today I need Van. After my nightmare last night, I'm not looking forward to returning to the clearing and the redwood, and I'm certainly not going alone.

I take the back road that winds through the redwoods and then through Felton. By the time I reach Felton, the fog is dissipating. I head toward Bonny Doon where the sky is vibrant and the air heavy with the scent of mulching earth and pine. Van sits next to me in the passenger seat, tongue lolling and eyes squinting against the sun.

Again I drive to the area rather than hike. No need to waste time today. I'm here for only one reason, and it shouldn't take long. If this girl is real, what's the chance of me finding her in the exact same spot?

I park a hundred yards or so from the clearing just in case. If she is there, there's no need to alert her to my presence. I let Van out, attach the leash, and we make our way through a thicket of redwoods and pines. Van, rather than leading as he did last night, must sense my mood and walks quietly by my side as we enter the open space. I stop where I parked yesterday and survey the clearing. It's much the same as it was with the exception of the placement of sunlight and shadows. It's later in the afternoon and the sun is lower. While it was sunny in this spot yesterday, now it's shaded and the sunlight rests on the giant redwood across the way. I see now that it's one of five redwoods that make up a circle of trees.

I stare at the tree and see Annie in her coffin. I close my eyes, willing the image to disappear. I open my eyes and watch for a few minutes. A squirrel scampers up a nearby trunk and a blue jay swoops low beneath a redwood bough. Beyond that, all is still.

Van makes the first move and, nose to the ground, wanders toward the middle of the clearing—he goes as far as the leash allows then he turns back and looks at me.

"I'm coming." I follow his lead until we reach the group of trees.

Once there, I reach out and run my hand over the bark of the largest tree. I feel the charred edge of the opening. The words of a poem come to mind—something I had to memorize in high school no doubt.
One tree, by being deeply wounded, has been impressed as Witness Tree.

"So what have you witnessed?" I whisper.

I've tightened the leash so Van will stay by my side, but he's pressing forward, anxious to explore the cavern inside the tree. I hold him firm and stoop, just as I did in my dream. I take a deep breath and begin to crawl inside. Then I stop and do something I haven't done in years. I pray:

Help me.

I hesitate before admitting the truth to a God that I don't trust.
I'm scared.

With that, I crawl in until I reach a point where I realize I can stand.

What strikes me first, before my eyes adjust to the dark space, is the smell. Like winter, like wood burning in a fireplace or like a campfire. I feel the beat of my heart slow.

And then I know . . . I just know. Before I see anything, I know she is real and that this is her place. Maybe it's intuition. Or maybe something more, something I don't understand. Whatever it is, I know I'm supposed to be here.

As my eyes adjust, I see that Van is sitting in what appears to be a circle. I bend down and touch the perimeter. Pinecones—in a perfect circle.

I step over the pinecones and join Van in the middle. I sit next to him. He nuzzles my shoulder and I lean into him. "Who is she, boy? Why does she come here? Why are we here?" He has no answers for me, but I'm glad he's with me all the same.

We sit for several minutes before Van spies a squirrel and darts out of the tree. I rise to follow him, but something catches my eye. In the farthest corner of this cavelike room, a shaft of sunlight coming through an opening higher up reflects off something. It appears to be some sort of glass. Careful not to disturb the pinecones, I step over them and reach for what looks like a mayonnaise jar.

I carry it out of the tree so I can see it in full light. The jar is filled with odds and ends. A smooth stone, a penny, a broken pencil, a few slips of paper, and what looks like a gold chain. I unscrew the lid and empty the contents into my hand.

There's a paragraph printed in tiny letters on one of the scraps of paper:
Their names were Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker, and I am sorry to say that they were both really horrible people. They were selfish and lazy and cruel, and right from the beginning they started beating poor James for almost no reason at all.

James? How horrible. Who's James?

I pull the chain out of the clutter and see a small heart-shaped pendant hanging from it. Engraved in the middle of the heart are the initials K. W. I close my hand around the necklace and hold it tight.

Who are you?
I remember her eyes.
And why are you afraid?

I drop all of the items back into the jar, screw the lid on, and put it back just where I found it. I make sure all the pinecones are in place. And then I leave.

I find Van dozing in a patch of sunlight.

"Come on, boy. Let's go home."

He wags his tail and follows me to the Jeep.

As I drive home, my mind wanders back to Annie. I tell myself that thinking about her now is ridiculous. Yesterday was my day for memories. Yet, she feels closer than she has in years. Perhaps it was the clarity of the nightmare last night, seeing her small body nestled in the casket, or maybe the events of yesterday and today, seeing this unknown child, has taken me back.

I try to put the thoughts out of my mind. I flip on the radio set to a Bay Area news station and try to concentrate on a debate between two members of congress. Their arguing annoys rather than distracts.

I turn the radio off and think about the week ahead and realize I have little scheduled. I have one appointment with clients, but I left the rest of the week open so I can work. I have two commissioned pieces to complete for a couple from Sausalito. They saw my work in one of the galleries in Carmel and wanted something more specific to the decor of their waterfront home. I don't enjoy working to someone else's specifications, but it pays the mortgage.

I think again about the piece I began last night. While I know it's the tree from my nightmare, I also know it's the tree in the clearing. They are not the same exactly, but my subconscious, in the depths of slumber, has somehow linked the two. One represents death. One represents survival. The two seem intrinsically entwined. Why?

Again, the haunted eyes of the child I saw yesterday come to mind. What has she survived that her young eyes reflect fear rather than the playful innocence one might expect to see from a child hiding in a tree? And why am I compelled to find out? Isn't it possible that I just startled her yesterday? But my instinct tells me there's something more.

Instinct? Intuition? These are senses I haven't considered in years—senses I've tried to shut down, I suppose. Because where they lead, I usually don't want to go. They are senses that require a knowledge and trust of oneself. I must trust myself in order to trust my instinct. And I don't trust myself. That's the crux of it.

I reach for the radio knob again and twist it on. I punch buttons until I hear a familiar beat. I turn up the volume until the pulsating music fills the Jeep . . . and my mind.

It was in the months following Annie's death that I began to realize what I'd lost. The magnitude of the loss crashed against me, drowning me in shame and sorrow.

A few weeks before her birth, I was finally coming out of my stupor. I began eating without having Mom or Ruby force-feed me, I showered daily of my own accord, a relief to them I'm sure. Most significant to me was that I began noticing the baby growing within me. I felt the nudges and kicks inside my womb and began to feel a sense of awe at what was transpiring inside my body. I put thoughts of how this child was conceived aside, and I claimed one of my mother's favorite promises: "God causes all things to work together for good . . ."

Mother had spent hours at my side the last two months talking and quoting Scripture. Even when she thought I was asleep or not listening, she talked. Mostly she imparted God's grace as she understood it and lived it. She assured me over and over that God had already forgiven me, loved me, and loved this baby. She reminded me that nothing could separate me from the love of God. She insisted that He had a plan for my life.

Some of that sank in—or at least I thought it did. I began to feel hope—hope for my own life and the life of my unborn child.

We hadn't talked about what I would do once the baby was born. Putting it up for adoption seemed like the logical choice. But each time I considered giving the baby away, the purpose I was trying to find in my pain slipped from my grasp. If I gave her up—I was sure the baby was a girl—then why would I have gone through all of this in the first place?

If I kept her, I could teach her everything I was learning. I could give her the same love and stability my parents had given me plus the insight I'd gained through my own mistakes.

My mistakes . . .

There'd been so many. Guilt, that familiar intruder, hissed his accusations as each sin came to mind.
And now,
he reminded me,
you bear one of those consequences in your womb.

But maybe, just maybe, I could turn this consequence around. It was this desire, along with the years of guilt I'd struggled with, that I finally shared with my mother two weeks before Annie was born. I remember the stunned look on her face and then her tears as she internalized my pain. After wiping away her tears, she held my face in her hands and looked me in the eyes, "You must always remember that guilt is not from God, Shannon. There is no condemnation for those in Jesus Christ. Don't ever let guilt make your choices for you. There's nothing God can't forgive. When you've sinned, the Holy Spirit will convict you, but His convictions are gentle. He doesn't accuse or condemn."

We cried together that afternoon. I told her that I wanted to keep my baby—that I'd love her and teach her and keep her from making the same mistakes I'd made. I think my mom wanted the same. She wanted this grandchild.

The next two weeks were better. Even good. My body still craved the drugs, but my mind and soul had found a new purpose. And drugs didn't fit with that purpose. My mother, daddy, and Ruby had made the first choice for me by forcing me to stay away from the drugs. The next choice was my own, which was the only choice that would ultimately make a real difference. I knew I was going to raise this baby and I would do it to the best of my ability. If that meant attending NA and working the twelve steps, then that's what I would do.

By August the doctor figured I was in the beginning of my last trimester and he warned me again of the risks to the baby because of my drug abuse. His litany included miscarriage, poor fetal growth, placental abruption, premature rupture of membranes, premature delivery, and stillbirth. All were just meaningless words to me. I wasn't worried. I knew God's plan and was willing to cooperate. I'd turn my life around and raise this baby, and He'd work all things together for good and ensure that she was healthy.

I began anticipating the baby's arrival. In the evenings I'd lie in bed with my hands over my mound of a belly and whisper my dreams to my daughter. I told her that I loved her, that I was sorry for putting her in danger. I told her about her grandma and grandpa, her uncle Jeff and Ruby. I even told her about Jesus and how much He loved us.

My first doubts about God's plan came the morning I awoke with a searing pain in my back. When I got out of bed, I felt fluid trickling down my leg followed by a gush that splattered the floor.

"Mother.
Mother!"
I didn't move. I bent over to ease the pain in my back and waited. She would know what to do.

She must have heard the fear in my voice because I could hear her quick steps from the kitchen to the bedroom. "Shannon, what's—"

She saw the puddle on the floor and the pain on my face and knew I was in trouble. She helped me back into bed and ran for the phone.

I heard her murmured conversation with the nurse from the doctor's office and then heard her dial another number. Within a few minutes she was back at my side.