Words

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  "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?"

  "Good grief, Ruby. No. He has a crate. I said I'm lonely, not desperate. I don't want dog hair everywhere."

  "Right. Well, I'm proud of you. I think he'll be good for you. It's a good step—it's progress."

  "Progress? He's a dog, Ruby, not progress. Don't make such a big deal over nothing. He's just good company. So"—I change the subject before she delves into all the psychological reasons that getting a dog shows "progress" in my life—"what are you working on this week?"

  Our time over breakfast includes a hilarious discourse from Ruby about her latest subject—or "victim," as we like to call them. Ruby sculpts the human form in all its varying states—men, women, children, the elderly. But somehow she captures more than form—she sees her subject's soul and translates that in her work. Hers is a rare gift. It just so happens that the soul of her latest subject is a bit warped, or so she says.

  After breakfast I decide to take the lead and tell Ruby about my return to the clearing above Bonny Doon. I decide I'll save her the struggle of pulling it out of me. I figure I owe her that after my little stunt this morning. Anyway, I find myself wanting to talk—wanting to process what I found.

  While Ruby pours me another cup of tea and herself another cup of coffee, I mention my discovery yesterday. "Hey, I went back up to Bonny Doon. Looks like I'm not crazy after all."

  "You saw her again?" Ruby sits back down across the table from me.

  "No. But I saw evidence of her." I fiddle with my spoon as I think about what I'd found.

  Ruby leans forward, "What do you mean?"

  "It looks like that tree I told you about is her place—like a fort, or something."

  "Nobody lives up there, do they? Why would she play there?"

  "She might live up there. Who knows? You hear about people like that. They find a deserted logging cabin and claim it as their own. Rent is free. Climate is mild. They make the best of it. Every now and then The Sentinel reports a special interest story about a family like that."

  "That's true. Do you feel better? Less crazy?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good."

  Ruby gets up and begins clearing the table like that's the end of it. Where's her persistence when I want it?

  "Um . . . Ruby, wait. So . . . so you think that's it? I mean . . . you think she just lives up there, right?"

  Ruby stops, tilts her head, and looks at me like she's considering more than I've asked. After a moment she sets the plates she's holding back on the table and sits down again.

  "What do you think, Sierra?"

  "Hold on, don't go into shrink mode on me. Don
't start answering questions with questions. It's not a big deal, I'm just wondering if you think that's really all there is to it?"

  Ruby ignores my sarcasm. "Well, I have no way of knowing. I didn't see her. I didn't see the tree. What's your instinct tell you?"

  "I'm not sure . . ." I hesitate as I remember my sense of knowing in the tree the day before. I'd known the child was real and that she was afraid. "My instinct tells me something's wrong. But how do I know? My instinct's pretty rusty."

  Ruby looks down at Van who's asleep at our feet then she looks back at me. "Sierra, I think you can trust your instinct—trust yourself. Look, your instinct didn't lead you astray with Van."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Think about it. How'd you choose Van? What made you pick him out of all the other dogs at the shelter?"

  "Ruby, look at him, how could I not choose him? That had nothing to do with instinct."

  "Sure it did, all dogs are cute in one way or another. But something drew you to this dog. Something made you choose him. You knew he was the one for you, right?"

  "Maybe. I did just sort of know, I guess. He seemed like the right one." I reach down and bury my hand in the warmth of Van's fur.

  "Sierra?"

  For the second time in less than a week, I hear a tender tone in Ruby's voice, and when I look back up, I see tears in her eyes.

  "What's wrong?"

  She sniffs. "Nothing's wrong. In fact, I think everything is right. I'm glad you introduced me to Van this morning. He's a good dog. He's right for you. And he is progress." Ruby reaches across the table and places her hand on top of mine. "Now, trust your instinct again. If you think something's wrong, if you think this child's in trouble, then you need to find out for sure."

  "But . . ." I hesitate to admit the truth. "I'm . . . scared." I whisper my confession.

  Ruby teases, "Come on, you? You're a mountain of strength, Sierra Dawn, remember?"

  "Oh, yeah."

  "Sierra, God has a plan. Why not just go with it this time and see what happens?"

  I get up from the table and gather the remaining dishes. "I'll think about it." I can't commit to more.

  By the time I leave Ruby's, it's almost 11:00 and the sun is high overhead. I unzip the canvas top from my Jeep, and Van and I take off with the wind in our hair—or fur. I head out Mt. Hermon Road toward Hwy 17 with the intent of returning home to work for the remainder of the day. But as I tick off the miles toward home, something nags at me—a distinct feeling that I'm going the wrong way.

  The closer I get to home, the more agitated I become. By the time Hwy 17 turns into Ocean Street, my agitation has turned to anger. I pull off the street and into an empty parking lot.

  "What? What do You want from me?"

  Van cocks an ear and then sinks down in the passenger seat.

  I reach over and pat his neck, "Sorry, boy, I'm not yelling at you." I sigh, "I just . . . I just don't know what to do."

  I rest my head on the steering wheel and try to figure out what to do. Should I go back and try to find the little girl again? No. That's ridiculous. This has nothing to do with me . . .

  What if it were Annie?

  The question pricks my conscience and then stabs my heart.

  "But it's not Annie!" I scream. "She's gone. She's"—the word catches in my throat and I feel hot tears brimming—"dead." I wipe away my tears with my fist and then bang my fist on the steering wheel.

  "She's dead and this has nothing to do with her or with me!" With that, I put the Jeep back in gear and pull back onto Ocean Street. Within minutes, I'm in my driveway and out of the Jeep.

  I hold the driver's side door open for Van. "Come on, get out."

  Van doesn't move.

  "Van, come on!" He still doesn't move. I reach behind the front seat for Van's leash and attach it to his collar.

  "Van Gogh, come!" I speak the command in my firmest tone and tug on the leash. He resists and remains in the passenger seat.

  I throw down my end of the leash and walk around the car and open the passenger door. "Van," I say through clenched teeth, "get out now."

  Van jumps from his seat to the ground, runs around the front of the Jeep with his leash dragging behind him, and jumps back in the driver's side door. He maneuvers over the gearshift and sits back in the passenger seat.

  "Fine. Stay there!" I slam the passenger door and head for the bungalow. Again I feel hot tears slide down my cheeks. This time I don't even bother wiping them away. I reach the front door, turn the knob, and remember my house key is in my backpack, which, of course, is still in the car.

  I turn back toward the car and see through a blur of tears that Van is still holding his vigil in the front seat.

  "And she thinks you're 'progress'? You're just a pain in the neck!"

  As I again reach behind the front seat, this time for my backpack, Van leans in and begins licking the tears from my face. "Stop it." I push him away. But he moves closer, this time resting his wet muzzle on my shoulder.

  It's too much.

  Twelve years' worth of pain rumbles to the surface. There's no stopping it. Like a train roaring through a tunnel, the sobs come with a force I can't stop—great heaving sobs. I hold Van tight and soak his fur. I don't care what I look like standing in my driveway, clinging to the dog in my car. I don't care about anything except this pain I've held for so long.

  And can hold no longer.

  I don't know how long I stand there—minutes? Hours? Finally the sobs wane. I climb into the passenger seat with Van and pull a few crumpled napkins from the glove compartment. I blow my nose and lean into Van again, resting my head on him and closing my eyes. Spent. Exhausted. But oddly at peace.

  The question comes again: What if it were Annie?

  I think of my daughter so long gone from me. I think of the dreams I had for us. I wonder, as I have a thousand times before, what she'd look like now if she were still alive. And then I remember the fear I saw in the eyes of the child in the clearing.

  Yes. What if it was Annie and no one came to help her?

  I get out of the Jeep and walk back to the driver's side and get in.

  "Okay, you win. We're going back." I'm not sure if I'm speaking to God or Van—they're seemingly working together. But Van's tail wags in response.

  As I turn the key in the ignition, I realize I'm taking my first step of faith in over a dozen years. I'm not in control here.

  And I'm scared to death.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sierra

  By the time I reach Bonny Doon I feel less scared and more resolute. I will find the child, figure out the situation, and then put this behind me.

  I park a short distance from the clearing so I don't startle her if she is there. I get out, walk around the Jeep, open the passenger side door, pick up the end of Van's leash, and tell him, "Come."

  This time he's out of the Jeep as soon as the word is out of my mouth.

  "Now you're obedient . . ."

  Standing by the Jeep, I close my eyes and inhale deeply. The scent is warm, organic—a blend of composting leaves and needles and the sharp tang of pine. The familiar smells of the forest soothe me and the intentional breathing relaxes me. Some of the tension I've felt the last few days eases from my neck and shoulders.

  I like to think that since Annie's death, I've taken control of my life. I make decisions based on facts rather than emotions. For instance, I decided to get a dog because I spend a lot of time outdoors alone. A dog is protection. I should have thought to tell Ruby that this morning rather than going off about feeling lonely. Really, it was a simple solution to deter a potential problem.

  Likewise, it now seems logical to seek out this child, make sure she's not in danger, call in the authorities if necessary, and then be done wit
h this. The fact that this situation has tugged at my emotions for some reason is simply a result of fatigue, or hormones, or perhaps just the coincidental timing of the anniversary of Annie's death. There's nothing more to it than that.

  I actually find myself amused at my earlier fit of tears. "I'm just tired," I tell myself. I smile and my shoulders relax. I've figured out the plan and now feel a measure of control. Van looks up at me, muscles twitching. Obviously he's eager to get going.

  As we walk toward the clearing, Ruby's words come back to me. Sierra, God has a plan. Why not just go with it this time and see what happens?

  God's plan. A fragment of a verse my mother often quotes plays at the edges of my mind: I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord.

  For the first time it occurs to me that the verse implies that God knows His plans . . . and maybe I don't. A shadow of fear eclipses my resolve. The last time I thought I knew God's plan, Annie died.

  My steps slow and Van looks back at me. I stop and he sits, seemingly giving me time to unscramble my thoughts.

  Can I let go of my plan and trust God's instead? A plan that I have no control over? I don't think so. I turn back and head toward the Jeep. Van remains seated until the leash between us is taut.

  I stop again.

  Why not just go with it this time and see what happens? Ruby's words ring in my mind as if she were standing next to me speaking them again.

  Why should I go with it? So far, I haven't liked God's plans. His plans included Annie's death. I know my mother would say that Annie's death was a natural consequence of my drug abuse. "A consequence God allowed for reasons we may not understand this side of eternity."

  That's an understatement. I don't understand. I will never understand. God could have prevented Annie's death but He chose not to. As angry as I am with myself for causing her death, I realize I'm equally angry with God. I've never allowed this thought to fully form in my mind before now. I've never put words to the feelings I've worked so hard to deny.

  This isn't a step of faith He's asking me to take. It's a lunge over a canyon of unknowns. Am I willing to risk falling into despair again? Am I willing to lose control?