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"Darling, I've called for an ambulance. The nurse says we need to get you to the hospital immediately."

"Can't Dad take us?"

"There's no time, Shannon. Dad's gone to run a few errands and we can't wait for him to get back. We need to go now. Your water's broken. We need to go now—for the baby. It's too soon."

I felt the first shudder of fear. "She'll be fine though, right?"

"Shannon, where's your backpack? I'll pack a few things. Your toothbrush, a bathrobe, and . . ."

"Mother, what about the baby?"

"Let's not worry. Just pray. I'm sure everything will be fine."

I tried to believe her, but the next contraction shredded my waning certainty.

Within an hour of the first pain in my back that woke me, my baby was born. There was no stopping her. She was so tiny that she seemed to slip from my body of her own accord. As the doctor caught her in his hands, she let out a cry so small it sounded like the mew of a kitten.

The doctor brought her to me for just a moment. While he held her, I reached out and caressed her head. She was so small, so fragile. Then she was gone. The doctor handed her to a nurse who rushed her to the intensive care nursery.

For the next nine days I was at the hospital around the clock. When I wasn't sitting by Annie's incubator, I was in the hospital chapel. I begged God's forgiveness and I bargained with Him. If He'd save my daughter, I'd serve Him. I talked myself into believing that God had allowed Annie's premature birth as a test of my renewed commitment. And I planned on passing that test. Never before or after did I pray like I did during those nine days. I was sure God would see that my commitment was real and then He'd restore Annie. She'd continue to develop and strengthen until the day I'd finally take her home.

Again, I'd figured out God's plan and was willing to work with it.

But then early on the ninth day, the doctor told us we were losing her. Her little lungs weren't developing and she was growing weaker each day. I sat with her in the predawn hours with the knowledge that God would betray me. I would lose her and all the dreams I'd dreamed for the two of us in the preceding weeks—all would be gone. I grieved Annie's loss, but perhaps more than that, I grieved losing what I'd hoped we'd share as mother and daughter.

I grieved my dreams.

My memories of the days, weeks, and months that followed are dark. I recall few details. Instead, I remember an impression—a hardening of sorts. I didn't relapse as my parents and Ruby feared. I wouldn't grant myself that sort of reprieve. Instead, I would suffer with the knowledge of what I'd done. I'd pay the price.

With steely determination, I set about putting my life in order. I put the past behind me. I disciplined myself. I took control of my life. I saw grief as weakness and strove to become a mountain of strength. It was then that I changed my name.

Sierra Dawn—strength for a new day.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Kaylee

A free belly dancing clinic on Capitola Beach this evening at 6:00 p.m. That's your community update. Monday, August 17. Now let's check the weather . . ."

I jump when the radio and lights come on.

He paid the bill.

What does that mean? Yesterday was Sunday, so he must have paid the bill this morning sometime. He didn't come back after he left yesterday. He's not following the schedule I found in his truck, so now I don't know what to do except wait.

I hate waiting.

I tried reading this morning, but I couldn't concentrate on the words in the dictionary. Now I'm trying to read the third book that holds up the shelf—a book of poems by Robert Frost. I used to like poems. My teacher in third grade, Mrs. Stanford, taught me how to write haiku. That's a kind of poetry from Japan. Mrs. Stanford said they don't teach that in school until the fifth grade. But she taught me because she said I was smart. I was the best reader in the class. Mrs. Stanford knew I wasn't good at math though so she made a deal with me. She'd teach me to write haiku if I'd practice adding and subtracting numbers with four digits, like 2,348 minus 1,262. So I stayed in at recess that day and worked on problems she wrote on the board for me. Then the next day, during lunch recess, she taught me how to write haiku poems. She taught me about syllables and how to count the beats. You have to know what syllables are to write haiku.

I put the Robert Frost book down and get up and go into his room and take a pen off his nightstand. Then I go to the kitchen and rip a piece off one of the grocery bags I've saved. I take them back to my mattress and lay down on my stomach. I put the paper on the floor in front of me and as I think about the first line, I tap out the syllables on the mattress.

I hide in the dark

The wind howls outside my door

He always finds me

Satisfied, I fold up the piece of paper as small as I can and then tuck it into the hole in the mattress.

By the time I got to the fifth grade I already knew all about poetry. But the Robert Frost book is hard to understand. I pick it up again and flip through the pages. Most of the poems don't make sense to me, even when I look all the words up in the dictionary. Mr. Frost writes a lot about trees and leaves and the weather, but it seems like the words he uses mean something else.

I can't concentrate on the poems either so I give up and just sit and stare at the walls and think about things.

Mrs. Stanford was tall, like the lady I saw. Maybe that lady's a teacher too. Or she could be a ranger. Maybe that's why she was up here. Rangers drive Jeeps, I think. But they wear uniforms. She wasn't wearing a uniform.

I get up and go to the kitchen to turn the radio off so I can hear him if he comes back. Then I make that scrambled egg he said I could eat yesterday. I'm so hungry that I want to eat the scrambled egg in one bite. Instead, I try to make it last, make it seem like more. I take tiny bites. I feel each bite on my tongue. I chew slow so the flavor reaches my taste buds. I think of a word that I added to my box this week:
sa·vor—verb
1. to perceive by taste or smell, esp. with relish. 2. to give oneself to the enjoyment of:
to savor the best in life.

I savor each bite of my eggs.

I bet Emily Post likes that word too.

When I'm finished—my stomach is still growling.

I go from the kitchen to the front window and peek through the crack between the boards. I know what I want to do, but what if he comes back and I'm not here? What would he do?

He says I'd be in trouble. But what kind of trouble?

I think of the worst possible thing he could do to me. It's the thing he started doing to me after we moved here. He only did it when my mom was gone or when she was asleep. He told me it was our special secret and that if I told my mom, she wouldn't love me anymore. He said she'd be jealous and then she'd leave.

Sometimes I think maybe that's the real reason she left. She must have known. If that's the reason, then she probably won't come back. She probably won't love me anymore. Ever.

I hate it when he does it.

The scream, a low howling, starts in my head.

I cover my ears and this time, it stops.

Then I wrap my arms around my middle and bend over trying to relieve the ache in my stomach. As I do that, a new thought comes to me: If that's the worst thing he can do, then I might as well do what I want, because he'll do it anyway. He always does. Almost every day now that he doesn't have to hide it from my mom anymore.

He could shoot me too, with his rifle. Maybe that's the worst thing.

No.

The other thing is worse.

I look down at my clothes. I'm still wearing the K-Mart jeans and T-shirt. These are my best clothes, even though they're not my favorites. Emily Post says:

Clothes do more than add to our appearance; they are our appearance. The first impression that we make upon others depends almost entirely upon what we wear and how we wear it.

I brush some dust off the knees of my jeans. This is the best impression I can make, not that I'm actually going to meet her.

I turn and look at the door.

I hesitate.

And then I go.

I walk away from the cabin fast. Then I run. I cross the stream where a fallen tree makes a bridge, arms stretched out to balance myself as I put one foot in front of the other. I jump off the log and sprint to the clearing, jumping over rocks and weaving through the trees. I run all the way to the edge of the clearing. By the time I get there, I'm breathing heavy and my stomach, instead of aching, is full of butterflies again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Sierra

I roll over and look at the clock radio: 6:45 a.m. I slept later than usual. I reach for the phone and dial Ruby's number.

"Hello?" and then a groggy, "Sierra, don't you ever sleep?" I can picture Ruby reaching for the eye mask she wears when she sleeps and squinting at the clock radio beside her bed.

"Of course I sleep. And I eat. Where's breakfast? Here or there?"

"Uh . . ." Ruby sighs. "Here, I guess."

"Okay, but no tofu scramble. Promise?"

"Right. I'll slaughter a pig before you get here."

"
Mmm
. . . bacon. Sounds good." Then I don my most casual, no-big-deal tone, "Hey, by the way, I'm bringing someone with me."

"What? Who?" She yawns. "Is Margaret in town?"

"No, he's a new friend." I pause. "His name's Van . . . I want you to meet him."

Ruby is now fully awake. "What? A guy? Where'd you meet him? Who is he? Sierra, this is great. Is this great? This seems great. Why didn't you tell me about him on Saturday?"

"Well, you know, I wasn't ready. This is a big step for me, Ruby." I twist the edge of the bed sheet around my finger as I listen for Ruby's predictable response.

"A big step? That's an understatement. Wait a minute—it's too big a step for you. What are you doing?"

"We'll see you in about an hour, Ruby. Better get up and get going."

I hang up, very pleased with myself. I can't wait to see Ruby's expression when I introduce her to the new love in my life.

Forty-five minutes later I pull into Ruby and Michael's driveway in Scotts Valley. The house is nestled at the end of a court in a new custom home development. The back of the home, and most important, the separate studio they had built for Ruby, look out on a small valley filled with ancient trees that stand taller than the highest roof peaks. They built the home after Michael's stock in the computer company he works for skyrocketed.

Ruby and I have met for breakfast at least once a week for a dozen years now. When we lived together, Saturday morning breakfasts became routine, the time we'd catch up with each other on the happenings of our week. Once Ruby and Michael married, we began meeting on a weekday morning after Michael left for work. We have no set schedule, but one or the other of us will call when we feel like it and we'll meet.

I let myself in the front door.

"Hey, Rube . . . we're here." I head for the large, contemporary kitchen.

When I see her, I can't help but smile. More often than not when we have breakfast at her place, she's still in her pajamas when I arrive. Today she's dressed, wearing makeup, and I notice that she's set the table for three. A twinge of guilt tugs at my conscience.

"Where is he?" She looks around me to see if he's coming.

"I left him outside. I wanted to make sure you were ready for us."

"Well, go get him. Don't leave him standing out there." She pushes me back toward the door.

I turn and head back to the front porch with Ruby at my heels shooting whispered questions.

"Where'd you meet him? What's he do? Is he good looking?" Just before we reach the door, she puts a hand on my shoulder and stops me. "Sierra, is this serious?"

I see her concern and answer her honestly. "Yeah, Ruby, I think it is . . . in fact, I think I'm falling for him."

With that, I open the front door.

Ruby looks out but sees no one. Then she looks down and sees Van sitting on her doormat. She looks at me, then back at Van, then back at me. "This is him, isn't it? This is Van?"

"Ruby, I'd like you to meet Van. Actually, his full name is Van Gogh."

"Of course it is . . . Sierra, why do I put up with you? Tell me. Why?"

By now I'm laughing so hard that I can barely answer her question. "You put up with me"—I gasp for air—"because you love me. Remember?"

"No. I don't remember. I seem to have forgotten that for the moment." Irritation etches her face.

Van, who's been a perfect gentleman thus far, paws at Ruby's leg. I see her irritation vanish as she bends to scratch behind his ears. "Well, you are a cute boy, I'll give her that. She has good taste. Come on in, Van. I have a piece of bacon for you."

With that, Ruby and Van head for the kitchen, leaving me alone on the porch.

"Hey, what about me? Where's my bacon?" I follow the sound of Van's nails clicking on hardwood.

Ruby glances over her shoulder at me. "You don't get any."

Once back in the kitchen I set Ruby's teapot to boil and then take the extra place setting from the table and put the dishes and silverware away. I pour juice for both of us as Ruby beats eggs and cuts vegetables for an omelet. Van rests at her feet hoping for more bacon.

"So, why a dog? Why now?"

Ah, the inquisition begins. "Wait a minute, Ruby, before you get going . . . am I forgiven?" Of course, I know her answer, but rather than coming right out and apologizing, it seems easier to hint at it by asking for forgiveness.

Ruby turns and looks at me. She attempts a firm expression, but I see the smile she's trying to hide.

"I'll let you know after breakfast." She turns back to the omelet she's working on and, undeterred, returns to her line of questioning. "So, why a dog? Why now?"

"Do I need a reason?" Admittedly, I didn't think through the "why" of Van before getting him.

Ruby slides the omelet from the pan onto a plate and then cuts it in half.

"I don't know—it just seems out of character—you being the Lone Ranger and all." I roll my eyes and then consider her question. I wrestle with the answer because I don't like admitting the truth it draws to the surface. "I guess . . . I guess I get lonely sometimes. I want company." Ruby softens. "Oh, well, that makes sense. We all get lonely sometimes. Does he sleep on the bed with you?"