Words

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  He bangs his fist on the front door, which hasn't locked or even shut tight since the night he aimed his .22 at the doorknob and blew it to pieces, swearing that the nonexistent "whore" on the other side wasn't coming in. I assumed he meant my mom, since that's what he usually calls her.

  The first time I heard him call her that, I didn't know what it meant, so I looked it up while he was gone. It was hard to find the word because I didn't think about there being a w in front of the h. I wasn't as familiar with words then as I am now. But finally, I figured it out. I read the definition but didn't really understand what it meant until I looked up some of the words from the definition.

  Now, I wonder . . . am I one too?

  The door gives way under the pressure of his fist. As it swings open, he pounds again but misses and falls into the cabin. He goes straight down and hits the floor, head first. A gurgling sound comes from his throat, and I smell the vomit before I see it pooled around his face.

  I hope he'll drown in it.

  But he won't die tonight.

  Instead, he heaves himself onto his back and reaches for the split on his forehead where, even in the dark, I can see the blood trickling into his left eye. Then his hand slides down past his ear and drops to the floor. At the sound of his snoring, I exhale. I realize I've been holding my breath.

  Waiting . . . waiting . . . waiting.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sierra

  Cocooned in crocheted warmth, I slip my hands from beneath the afghan and reach for my journal—a notebook filled with snippets of feelings and phrases. I jot a line: Like shards of glass slivering my soul. I set pen and journal aside and warm my hands around my ritual mug of Earl Grey, considering the phrase. I like the cadence of the alliteration. I see shining slivers piercing an ambiguous soul. I see a canvas layered in hues of red, russet, and black.

  A memory calls my name, but I turn away. There will be time for memories later.

  I close my eyes against the flame of color igniting the morning sky and allow my body the luxury of relaxing. I breathe deep intentional breaths, exhaling slowly, allowing mind and body to find a like rhythm. With each breath I let go, one by one, the anxieties of the past week.

  Prints—signed and numbered. Five hundred in all.

  Contract negotiations with two new galleries. Done.

  Showing in Carmel last night. Successful.

  Mortgage paid. On time for once.

  Van Gogh neutered. What did the vet say? "He's lost his manhood—be gentle with him. He'll need a few days to recoup."

  Good grief.

  A whimper interrupts my reverie. The afghan unfurls as I get up and pad across the deck back into the bungalow. Van presses his nose through the cross-hatch door of his crate—his woeful expression speaking volumes. I open the cage and the spry mutt I met at the shelter a few days before staggers toward the deck, tail between his legs. I translate his body language as utter humiliation and feel guilty for my responsible choice.

  "Sorry, pal, it's the only way I could spring you from the shelter. They made me do it." His ears perk and then droop. His salt and pepper coat bristles against my hand, while his ears are cashmere soft. He sighs and drifts back to sleep while I wonder at the wisdom of adopting an animal that's already getting under my skin. I consider packing him up and taking him back before it's too late. Instead I brace myself and concede, "Okay, I'll love you—but just a little." He twitches in response.

  The distant throttle of fishing boats leaving the harbor and the bickering of gulls overhead break the morning silence followed by the ringing of the phone. I smile and reach for the phone lying under my journal.

  "Hi, Margaret." No need to answer with a questioning "Hello?" There's only one person I know who dares call me at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday.

  Laughter sings through the phone line. "Shannon, when are you going to stop calling me Margaret?"

  I dubbed her that after the indomitable Margaret Thatcher, former prime minister of her homeland. Her unwavering British accent, even after nearly half a century in the United States, and her strength under pressure inspired the nickname. It fits.

  "Well, as I've told you, I'll stop calling you Margaret when you stop calling me Shannon. Need I remind you that I haven't been Shannon in more than a decade?"

  "Oh, right. Let's see, what is your name now? Sahara Dust? Sequoia Dew?"

  I play along. "Does Sierra Dawn ring a bell?"

  "Right, Sierra Dawn, beautiful name. But you'll always be Shannon Diane to me."

  The smile in her voice chases the shadows from my heart. "Okay, Mother. I mean Margaret." I pull my knees to my chest and reach for the afghan as I settle back in the weathered Adirondack for our conversation.

  "Sierra, I didn't wake you, did I?"

  "Of course not. What is it you say, 'You can take the girl out of the farm, but you can't take the farm out of the girl.'"

  "That's my girl. Your daddy's been out in the fields since 6:00 but he let me sleep. I just got up and thought I'd share a cup of tea with you."

  I do a quick Pacific/Central time conversion and realize with some alarm that it's 9:00 a.m. in Texas.

  "You slept until 9:00? You never sleep that late. What's wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong, darling, I'm simply getting old. I had to get up three times during the night and by this morning I just wanted to sleep. So I indulged."

  "Well, good for you. I'm glad you called. You know my favorite Saturday mornings are spent with you and Earl."

  "I'm not drinking Earl."

  A startling confession. "You're not? What are you drinking?"

  "Sierra, I'm drinking Lemon Zinger!" Her declaration is followed by a giggle that sounds anything but old.

  I stretch my long legs and cross them at the ankles and lean my head against the back of the chair. I feel as though my mother, with gentle skill, has distracted me while she's worked to remove a few of those slivers imbedded in my soul. But unless I stop brushing up against my splintered history, the slivers will return—or so she tells me.

  Just before we hang up, she says, "Shannon"—there's such tenderness in her voice that I let the slip pass—"are you going to the cemetery today?"

  Her question tears open the wound, exposing the underlying infection. I imagine her practicality won't allow her to leave the wound festering any longer. Instead she lances my heart.

  I lean forward. "Yes, Mother. You know I will." My tone is tight, closed. But I can't seem to help it.

  "Darling, it's time to let go—it's been twelve years. It's time to grasp grace and move on."

  The fringe of the afghan I've played with as we've talked is now twisted tight around my index finger, cutting off the circulation. "What are you saying? That I should just forget—just let go and walk away—never think about it again? You know I can't do that."

  "Not forget, Sierra—forgive. It's time."

  "Mother, you know I don't want to talk about this."

  "Yes, I know. But you need to at least think about it. Think about the truth. Ask yourself what's true."

  I sigh at my mother's oft-repeated words and grunt my consent before I hang up—or "ring off" as she would say.

  I left Texas at eighteen and headed to California, sure that was where I'd "find myself." On the day I left, my daddy stood at the driver's door of my overstuffed used station wagon gazing at the hundreds of acres of soil he'd readied for planting in the fall and gave me what I think of now as my own "Great Commission." In the vernacular of the Bible Belt, my daddy, a farmer with the soul of a poet, sent me out into the world with a purpose.

  "Honey, do you know why I farm?"

  At eighteen I'd never considered the why of what my parents did. "No, Daddy. Why?"

  "Farming's not something that can be done alone. I till the ground,
plant the seeds, and irrigate. But it's the rising and setting of the sun and the changing of the seasons that cause the grain to grow. Farming is a partnership with the Creator. Each year when I reap the harvest, I marvel at a Creator who allows me the honor of cocreating with Him."

  He'd stopped staring at the fields and instead looked straight at me. "Look for what the Creator wants you to do, Shannon. He wants to share His creativity with you. He wants to partner with you. You find what He wants you to do."

  With that, he planted a kiss on my forehead and shut the door of my car. With my daddy's commission tucked in my heart, I left in search of my life. My older brother, Jeff, was already in California completing his final year in the agricultural school at Cal-Poly in San Luis Obispo. Tired of dorm life, Jeff and two friends rented a house in town and told me I could rent a room from them for the year. I was thrilled.

  Our neighbors and Mother and Daddy's friends couldn't understand why they'd let me run off to California. In their minds, California was a dark place where drugs and sex ruled. But Daddy assured them California was not the Sodom and Gomorrah they imagined. He should know. His roots were in California. He was born and raised there. Jeff and I grew up hearing about the Golden State and were determined we'd see it for ourselves one day. College in California seemed a logical choice to both of us.

  As I headed west, I thought of my parents and what I'd learned from each of them through the years. Daddy taught me to see. Where others in our community saw grain, Daddy saw God. He always encouraged me in his quiet and simple way to look beyond the obvious.

  "Look beyond a person's actions and see their heart. Look for what's causing them to act the way they act, then you'll understand them better."

  When I was about twelve, Mother and Daddy took us with them down to Galveston for a week. Daddy was there for an American Farm Bureau meeting. After the meeting, we stayed for a few rare days of vacation. I remember standing on the beach and looking out at the flat sea. Daddy pulled me close and pointed at the surf.

  "What do you see?"

  "The ocean?" I asked more than stated.

  "Yes, but there's more. You're seeing God's power."

  I must have seemed unimpressed because Daddy laughed. "It's there, Shan. Someday you'll see it. But I'll admit it's easier to see it in the crashing surf and jagged cliffs of the California coastline."

  I didn't understand what he meant then—and I'm still not sure I fully understand—but his description of the California coastline followed me as I was off to see it for myself.

  My mother taught me to look for something else. "What's the truth, Shannon?" she'd ask over and over, challenging me to choose what was right. She taught me to analyze a situation and then make a decision that represented the truth foundational to our family.

  Most often the truth she spoke of was found in the big family Bible she'd brought with her from England. She'd lay the book out on the kitchen table and open it to the book of John in the New Testament and she'd read from the King James version: "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."

  "There's freedom in the truth, Shannon. You remember that," she'd say.

  Again, I'm only now beginning to understand what she meant. But these were the lessons from home that I carried with me to California.

  So why hadn't I applied those lessons? Why had I wandered so far from my parents' truth?

  Those are questions I'd ask myself many times over. I'd yet to find the answers.

  Restless after the phone conversation with my mother, I slip into the gardening clogs I keep under the deck and cross the postage stamp of grass to the flower beds that border the lawn. One lesson from home that I did learn and apply was how to grow things. Anything. As I deadhead the rose bushes, the bees in the lavender serenade me with their humming. I occupy my mind with a mental list of weekend chores: rake rose beds, turn compost pile, pull the trash can to the curb.

  As I come to the Barbara Bush roses, I smile. I had to drive over the hill earlier this year into San Jose to find a nursery that carried the pale pink hybrid named after the conservative former first lady. There were none to be found in the nurseries of liberal Santa Cruz County. The bush is now heavy with large velvety blooms and, without thinking about what I'm doing, I cut an armful of stems and carry them into the kitchen where I wrap the bouquet in newspaper and place it in the fridge until I'm ready to leave.

  As I shower, memories beckon again. My mother's plea to think about what she said nags at me. She is right—I have not, cannot, forgive. How do you forgive yourself for someone else's death? This is the burden she's asking me to let go—an encumbrance so intrinsic to who I've become that setting it aside would necessitate amputating a part of myself. I no longer know where I begin and the pain ends. We're inseparable, this burden and I.

  A recent review from an art critic in the San Francisco Times comes to mind:

  Sierra's work intrigues and torments all at once. The onlooker can't help but wonder at the story that makes each canvas bleed.

  The review felt—feels—invasive.

  My work is the embodiment of my grief. Only on canvas do I express the depth of anguish—there, without having to assign words to feelings, I writhe in agony. But for others to wonder at what drives my art disturbs me. This pain is private. The irony is never lost on me that my commercial success is the result of my most profound personal failure.

  Standing in front of the mirror, I see an image that belies the aching soul within.

  My mane of blonde hair is prematurely graying, but the effect enhances my natural highlights and gives me the appearance of an authentic sun-bleached California girl. And I realize that at thirty-four, I still appear more girl than woman. I wear the length of my years on the inside.

  I dress in my standard uniform of khakis, T-shirt, and flip-flops, then throw socks, hiking boots, and a sweatshirt in my backpack. I will take the vet's advice and let Van rest—after all, I don't really deserve the solace his company might offer today. After giving him fresh water and food in the yard, I return and stand in front of the refrigerator contemplating the roses inside.

  The first memory I allow to intrude stabs—

  Her face, just moments before she died, is so clear. The blue veins so prominent beneath her papery skin as she fought for life have faded, leaving her pale—beautiful, with the blush of a rose—and to touch her skin was to touch the velvet of petals.

  I open the fridge and cradle the paper-wrapped bouquet in my arms.

  I lost her twelve years ago today. What would those years have held had she lived?

  I take a deep breath and head out to my Jeep parked in the driveway.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kaylee

  The morning sun feels warm on my shoulders as I walk to the stream. But I still feel cold on the inside. I always feel cold afterward. After him. That's the only way I know how to describe it. For a little while, I don't feel anything at all except cold.

  But I always know when I'm thawing out because that's when the scream starts.

  I hear it in my head.

  Sometimes, I can't make it stop.

  When I reach the creek and see the blackberry bushes, my stomach growls. The berries are so fat they look ready to pop. I slide down a little hill to reach the bushes growing along the stream and begin picking the berries as fast as I can. The first warm berry explodes in my mouth and soon juice is dripping down the sides of my chin. I must eat a hundred berries before I stop.

  I snuck out last night after I was sure he wasn't going to move from his place on the floor and checked his truck for groceries. Sometimes he'll stop at the store before he goes to the Stumble Inn, his "home away from home" as he calls it. But all I found in the truck was a twelve-pack of beer. There were five empty cans on the floor of the passenger side and seven left in the box th
at he'd probably opened on his way home from the bar.

  I'm pretty sure he's an al·co·hol·ic—noun 1. a person addicted to intoxicating drinks.

  It was a few hours later before I heard him move.

  "Kaylee, help me up. Get me a towel or something." His voice was thick with beer and sleep.

  I lay still, pretending I was asleep as he crawled toward my mattress.

  He shook me, "Kaylee, wake up. Talk to me. What happened to my forehead?"

  I didn't move.

  He shook me again, hard this time. "You stupid mute, wake up!"

  After a few minutes of silence, I felt his hand on my thigh and I knew I still had a long night ahead of me.

  When I've had my fill of berries, I walk to the big rock that sticks out of the stream—the rock is low and flat. I lie on my back on the rock, face to the sun, and warm myself before getting into the water.

  I wade in with my clothes on and shiver as the water reaches my waist. I pull my shirt up and struggle to get it over my head. Once it's off, I dunk it in the water. I ball it up, grind it together, and then let it loosen as I swish it around. I do this several times until I can hardly see the berry stains, then I lay it out on the rock to dry. With my shirt off, I look and feel for the sore spots on my belly just beneath my rib cage—sore from the weight of him.

  I might not feel anything on the inside, but the bruises hurt.

  Next I pull my wet jeans off. They're missing the top button, have holes at the knees, and are too short. But they still fit, sort of. I've grown taller, but not much wider. I have some other clothes that he brought home from K-Mart last year. They fit better, but I like these. My mom bought these.

  I wash my jeans and put them on the rock too, and then I wash myself and feel the other bruises . . . I reach to the bottom of the creek and pull up handfuls of sand and scrub it over my body trying to wash away the smell of him.