Words

by Ginny L. Yttrup

Speaking her name breaks all the rules. It hangs in the air between us. The anger I felt just moments before dispels and grief, a dense gray fog, settles in its place.

  "Ruby . . ." I stop, not knowing what to say.

  "It's time, Sierra. It's time to talk, time to let go, time to accept forgiveness."

  I recall my mother's words earlier this morning: Darling, it's time to let go. It's been twelve years. It's time to grasp grace and move on.

  "Have you been talking to my mother?"

  "Margaret? No. Formidable woman. Scares me to death. You know that."

  I laugh in spite of myself. Only Ruby can navigate life's darkest caverns with a sense of humor.

  Ruby loves my mother almost as much as I do, I know this. They share an unspoken bond born of shared love and shared pain. A bond that formed during my pregnancy, during Annie's birth and death, and during the hellish days and months that followed when I hit bottom. They became a team, my mom and Ruby. They nursed me back to the land of the living when I wanted nothing more than to climb into the grave with my daughter.

  "Sierra?" She waits for a response from me.

  I falter. "Margaret said the same things this morning—but I can't just let go. It's not that easy."

  "I never said it would be easy. But if you share the burden, you lighten the load. The more you try to deny the pain, the more strength you give it. I see it, Sierra. It consumes you. It's in your eyes. It's in your art. It haunts you."

  Maybe it's the familiarity of the thought—haunting—something I'd been thinking myself just before she arrived. Or maybe she's right, it's just time. Whatever the reason, I take a deep breath and follow her lead.

  "I think the pain . . . the memories . . . they're making me . . . crazy."

  "How so?"

  "I don't know, it's just that today was odd, you know?" I search for the words to explain, but they don't come easily. She waits. Her silence spurs me on.

  "I saw something today—"

  "At the cemetery?" She whispers. She knows we're walking sacred ground.

  "No. Afterward. I drove up near Bonny Doon. I hiked in that area a few weeks ago and wanted to return to study the light, the way it filters through the redwoods. After this morning . . . after . . . you know . . . I decided I'd go back. It seemed like a good day to be outside, to get away. There's a dirt road off the main road. You can hardly see it, but I'd noticed it when I was there and today, instead of hiking, I drove up there."

  As I tell Ruby about my morning, I find myself back in the forest, standing at the point overlooking the ocean. Unlike the glimpses of the bay you catch when twisting over the mountains on Highway 17, from the western edge of the range, you see the open Pacific—an expanse whose width and depth seem to drop off the edges of the earth. At the horizon the sun reflects off the water casting a white sheen that blurs the line between sea and sky. Closer to shore, whitecaps slice the blue-gray palette.

  I think again of my daddy's belief that the power of God is somehow displayed in the panorama before me. Intellectually I understand his meaning. The ocean is power itself: the pull of the tides, the crash of the surf, its ability to provide life and sustenance, and its ability to take life and drink it into its depths. It gives and it takes. Ebbs and flows. Providence and destruction are within its power.

  But where this power reassures my daddy, it only reinforces my perception of God. He is arbitrary—giving and taking, ebbing and flowing, loving and judging at whim. I wonder if psychologists would question my background when analyzing my beliefs. They might run through a mental checklist of assumptions: Father—authoritarian, stern, undemonstrative, uncaring. But my earthly father is none of those things. He's a gentle and loving man who never hesitates to extend grace or give me his best. Yet, for reasons I don't understand, I can't translate that image to my heavenly Father.

  Mother says it's my own sin that keeps me from doing so—she says that my own judgment is so harsh that I can't accept, as God's child, His lack of judgment in my life. I can't accept His forgiveness. "His forgiveness through the blood of His only Son," is how she'd say it. She says the natural consequences of my actions are God's allowance—His loving discipline in my life. But beyond that, my sin is as far as the east is from the west in His mind.

  She doesn't understand though. She didn't make the choices I made. She wasn't responsible for her child's death. Murder is punishable and the sentence is stiff—an eye for an eye and all that. I chose drugs. No one forced them on me. And ultimately my choice stole my daughter's life.

  I sought the hallucinations and enlightenment that other users touted. I wanted to open my mind to new possibilities and dimensions and then translate those images into my art. Looking back, it seems an odd choice for a Texas farm girl from a Christian family. But I think, to my parents' credit, I was confident. I believed I could do anything I set my mind to. They'd always told me as much. But somewhere that confidence became confused with invincibility. I thought I could do anything, unscathed. And so I didn't think about the aftereffects of drugs. None of us did. We just did them. It was part of the culture—or at least, part of the culture I chose.

  Ruby stayed away from all of it. She warned me. She begged me. Then she cleaned up after me.

  It was Ruby who found me at parties and hauled me home via city bus or cable car. It was Ruby who, more than once, pulled me naked, in the middle of the night, from the bed of some guy I didn't even know. It was Ruby who first realized I was pregnant and had the sense to get me to a doctor. She never asked about the father, she knew better.

  I have no idea who fathered Annie.

  And finally, it was Ruby who called my parents—who spoke the truth that broke their hearts. I will never forget the morning they walked into our apartment—my mother, all British propriety and efficiency, and my daddy, tender but tough. They'd done their grieving in private, I suppose. By the time they reached me, they'd made a plan and intended to carry it through.

  Those months, weeks, and days before and after my parents came, are just a blur to me. I do know that soon after they arrived, my daddy found the little bungalow in Santa Cruz and moved us there. They said they wanted to get me away from everything—the parties, the drugs, the people. And while part of that was true and wise, I know, I also think that my daddy needed to get away from the cacophony of the city, away from the San Francisco Bay bustling with sailboats, tour boats, and freighters. He needed the solace of the sea and the solitude of quiet beaches. He needed to do business with his God.

  My mother told me later that Ruby insisted on coming with us. She argued that Santa Cruz was a community of artists and that she could work there. She could help them with their plan—to get the drugs out of my system, to watch me around the clock, and to keep me from what I wanted most.

  So Mother and Daddy moved us into the bungalow, a summer vacation rental. They moved themselves into a little motel on Ocean Street. From there Daddy would walk to the beach that ran between the Boardwalk and the yacht harbor, a quiet stretch of sand hidden from the tourist-lined street by the cliffs that tower over it. I don't remember seeing him much during those months.

  Mother and Daddy spent their savings that summer. All of it. I don't think it ever occurred to them to take me home where the members of our rural community would try and convict me in the court of legalism—the very court where I would later try and convict myself.

  For me, those summer months were horrible. My body yearned, begged for the drugs that had become my addiction. I spent countless hours either in bed or on the little sofa in the living room shaking, convulsing, and vomiting. I paced the floors at night unable to sleep, often Ruby paced with me. There was nothing that could be translated into "art" unless I wanted to paint the fiery landscapes of hell. I have vague recollections of my mother or Ruby or, occasionally, my daddy there at all times, whispering, comforting, and
wiping my forehead with a damp cloth. They never left me alone.

  During the days, one, or sometimes all three of them, would drag me to an NA meeting. They sat through those meetings with me and learned from others walking the road they hoped I'd choose. They mistook my passivity for acceptance—a choice even.

  But I simply didn't have the strength or initiative to fight them.

  The memories, so carefully buried, so long hidden, taunt me, as does the shining Pacific in the distance. Why did I allow myself this jaunt into the past? I reach into my pocket for a Kleenex and wipe away tears I've waited twelve years to shed. They can wait a while longer. After I blow my nose, I ball up the Kleenex and throw it, as hard as I can, to the ground. The way in which I might throw myself to the ground if I had the courage. I hate what I did to my life—to her life—and I can't seem to get beyond it. I don't deserve to get beyond it.

  Exhausted by the emotions of the morning, I bend to pick up the Kleenex and shove it back in my pocket and head back to my Jeep in the clearing. Chilled from standing so long in the shade, I climb on top of the hood of the car to warm myself in the sun. Intending to lie back and rest for a few minutes, I pull my hair from its ponytail and knot it at the nape of my neck where it's more comfortable.

  Just then, something to my right catches my eye, a slight movement or shifting of light. It's then I notice the gigantic redwood with its hollowed trunk and what looks like a pale face gazing out at me from inside the burnt tree. I stare, unsure of what I'm seeing, although I'd swear it's the face of a child, a young girl. But how can that be?

  I look away, up toward the top of the tree, and then return my gaze to the trunk. She's gone. Or it's gone.

  My skin prickles as a chill runs through me. I smile at my crazy imagination and lie back on the hood of the Jeep to soak in its heat. As I lay there, I wonder what holding this pain so close has done to my psyche. I'm now seeing apparitions? Tiny faces gazing at me in the forest? Just then a sound, a rustling, nags me—a sound so slight, it's barely audible—yet it is distinguishable amidst the breeze in the branches and the birds overhead.

  Finally I sit up. And there she is. A tiny thing. Long, dark hair. Small hands covering her ears. I watch as she tiptoes, then runs, from the clearing, hair flying behind her. She's there for just a moment. And then she's gone.

  I recount all of this to Ruby.

  "It was like seeing a ghost. She looked like she was about the age Annie would be, if . . ." I stop talking, realizing how crazy I must sound. I can't believe I've said all of this out loud.

  I look at Ruby and really see her for the first time since I began talking. There are tears in her eyes.

  "Ruby, I don't want your pity!" I spit the words at her. Then I apologize. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me."

  "Hey," the tenderness in her voice catches my heart, "it's okay. I don't pity you. I just realize how much I've missed you. When you lost Annie, I lost you. You curled into yourself. You shut me out. You shut everyone out."

  "You didn't lose me, Ruby, I'm sitting right here." My tone is sarcastic, I know, but again, I can't seem to help it. "Just forget it. I don't even know why I told you. It's not a big deal. So, I'm seeing things. So what? Right? The light in the woods shifts in strange ways. I imagined it. Just forget it."

  I see Ruby's countenance shift. The tenderness of a moment ago is gone. "I won't forget it, but since I know you don't want to talk about it anymore," she rolls her eyes as she says this, "then let's just deal with the facts for a minute.

  "If you imagined this child, then why would you imagine her with her hands over her ears? Isn't that a little strange? Sierra, what if she is real? Consider that. Take yourself out of the picture for a minute and think about it. What would a child be doing up there all alone? Where did she come from? Something's wrong with that scenario, don't you think?"

  I hate it when Ruby tells me to take myself out of the picture and reminds me, as she often does, that it's not all about me. I realize again the narcissism of the pain I carry. I struggle to see beyond it. Beyond myself. And in doing so, I make a snap decision.

  "Fine. I'll go back. I'll see if she was real or just a ghost." I give Ruby my best haunting impression. "Boo!" If she thinks I'm fine, I'll be fine. If she'll let this drop, I'll be fine.

  "Good. Go back. It seems worth checking out, right? If you see her again, then you'll know you're not crazy."

  I ponder this a moment longer, "Right. I'm sure I just imagined it—her—but I'll look around and then I'll know for sure."

  There is much left unspoken between us. We both know it. But Ruby acquiesces to the rules again. The questions I saw in her eyes before have been replaced with a resolute control. Perhaps she got what she wanted from me this morning. Score one for Ruby.

  I understand more than she thinks. Not only did she lose me when Annie died, but I lost her. My refusal to open up, to explore my pain, has distanced us. The intimacy we enjoyed early in our friendship is gone. One more thing to grieve, I guess. I know I could change things, I know I could find that depth with Ruby again. But it's too hard. Instead, we live, for the most part, at a surface level. We share our love of art and creation. We speak of family and mutual friends. But very rarely do I allow her to dip beneath that surface.

  I wonder, as I often do, why Ruby sticks with me. What does she get out of our friendship? She says we're like family, we're bonded by our shared history. She says that she loves me. Sometimes I think I'm just another project for her, a lump of clay to sculpt and mold into something else, something worthwhile.

  I suppose her reasons matter little. I need her. And I'm grateful for her presence in my life, for her commitment. Perhaps one day, I'll have the chance to repay the favor.

  As I pull into my driveway, I see a beady eye glaring at me through a knothole in the side gate. Guilt tugs at my conscience. What was I thinking, getting a dog? "Hey, Van, sorry to leave you for so long."

  A muffled whine greets me.

  "Oh, you're good, boy. You've already got me figured out. Go ahead, drive the stake of guilt a little deeper."

  I say this as I reach over the gate to undo the latch. As soon as I push the gate open, Van Gogh lunges at me. His speed and agility catch me off guard and as his front paws hit my shoulders, I fall, landing on my backside. Van lands on top of me and smothers me with what I can only interpret as doggy kisses.

  I laugh so hard that tears run down my cheeks and into my ears.

  Van, a lab and husky mix, lets out a low yapping howl. I'd swear he's talking to me in a language all his own.

  I eventually get Van off me and get myself off the ground. Once standing, I look at the dog and realize he probably needs some exercise after being cooped up for a few days. I head to the garage and grab the leash that I bought yesterday. As soon as Van sees it, he jumps toward me again. This time I'm ready for him.

  I recall the information I read in the dog training book that I checked out from the library and say, in a firm tone, "Off!"

  At that, Van sits. He twitches with excitement as I attach the leash to his collar.

  "Good boy, it looks like someone trained you well. Let's go."

  With that, we head off toward the harbor, or at least that's where I assume he's leading me.

  As I trot along behind Van, I wonder why I agreed so quickly to go back and look for the child I saw this morning. Was I just trying to get Ruby off my back? Trying to end our conversation? Or do I need to prove to myself that I'm not crazy? That I'm not seeing things? Now, in broad daylight, with several hours distance from my visits to the cemetery and the forest, the thought that I actually imagined the child, or worse, thought that I might have seen a ghost, seems absolutely ridiculous. I don't even believe in ghosts.

  Then it hits me. Ruby will ask me about this again. She'll ask if I went back. I realize I've opene
d a door that I intended to keep shut. Maybe that's why she didn't push me further at lunch today. She saw the crack before I did.

  Before I know it, we've reached the beach by the harbor. The sea breeze sends a chill through me and I turn and head back. "C'mon, boy. Let's go."

  When we reach the bungalow, we go back through the side gate and the backyard. I unhook Van from the leash and he follows me inside. I fill the tea kettle with fresh water and set it to boil. While I wait, I grab my journal off the counter and head back to the deck where my morning began. I open the journal to a blank page and sketch the pale face I saw staring at me this morning. The features are vague, except for the dark, doe-like eyes. I realize as I sketch that the eyes that stared at me this morning looked as haunted as I felt.

  If she was real, she was scared.

  This thought strikes me—propels me. Whatever the reason, I'll go back. I know I need to find that little girl. There's more to this than appeasing Ruby.

  The whistling kettle calls. I close my journal and my mind. My decision is made. I won't think of it again until tomorrow.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Kaylee

  It's still dark outside when I wake up. I slept a little during the night after he came back and I was sure he was asleep in his room. He left the door open, and I can still hear him snoring.

  I lie back down, roll over on my side, and watch a sliver of light crawl up the wall. As I lay there, I plan my day. I'm going on a covert mission. co·vert—adjective 1. concealed; secret; disguised. After he leaves for work, I'll change my clothes. I decide I'll wear my K-Mart jeans—they look better. Although, since I'm going covert, it doesn't matter anyway. I reach up and run my hand over my matted hair. If I borrow his comb, maybe I could get some of the tangles out. As long as I get all the hair out of the comb, he'll never know I touched it. Oh, but just the thought of touching anything of his is so gross!