I remember what I heard my mom say . . .
She'd had a hard time, she'd lost her job. And for a price I could stay with Sierra for awhile. What did she mean?
I comb through a section of my hair and think of Sierra. My eyes fill with tears again and the lump in my throat aches. My chest gets tight. Then I take the comb, pull my arm back, and throw it as hard as I can. It bangs against the closet door and then drops to the ground.
I don't need the stupid comb!
I wipe my eyes and nose on the sleeve of my shirt. Crying is for babies. I know what I have to do, and I'll do it. I get out of bed again and reach down to the lower bookshelf and pull out the last Nancy Drew novel—The Clue of the Whistling Bagpipes. It's the only one I haven't read. I'll start it today and as soon as I finish it, I'll leave.
That's what I have to do.
I have to leave.
I have to find my mom.
She needs me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Sierra
I know the signs. The nervousness. Twitching. Even her complexion. She's an addict."
I turn and stare out the kitchen slider but see nothing in the yard beyond. Instead, I see myself all those years ago—young, impressionable, ready to take on the art world.
The drinking and pot seemed harmless. As I told Ruby at the time, "Everybody's doing it." But heroin? Heroin was a different deal. I shudder as I recall the insidious need for more—always more.
"Hey, Sierra, you still with me?"
I turn my attention back to Pete, who is sitting at my kitchen table. "Um . . . yeah, I'm listening."
"Kaylee's mom said she'd be back?"
I nod. "She'll be back if she thinks there's any chance she can get some money out of me." I lean back in the kitchen chair and stretch my legs in front of me, trying to ease some of the tension I've felt since answering the door a couple of hours ago. "Pete, is there any possibility Kaylee was kidnapped by that"—I shudder as I think of him—"by that monster she was with?" A stronger word comes to mind, but I refrain.
"It's possible. The police report indicated there wasn't any evidence of Kathryn having lived in the cabin with Kaylee. Kaylee is the only one who knows for sure. Her psychiatrist is making some progress with her. You'll appreciate this—she's using art therapy as a means of exploring Kaylee's background. A nonverbal means to work with a nonverbal child. But Kaylee seems reluctant when asked about her mother. She won't respond in writing, pictures, or otherwise. She may be protecting her, which isn't unusual. According to the police reports, the guy claimed to be the mother's boyfriend, but we don't know for sure. Pete shakes his head and his face softens. "His is a sad story . . ."
"His is a sad story? How can you say that?" I feel absolute revulsion even thinking about him. All I can think about is Kaylee and what he put her through. "You feel sorry for him?" Heat rises to my face.
"Sierra, he was a kid once too. Think about what his life must have been like for him to end up like he is. He told the police his old man used to beat him with a baseball bat. And that was the least of it . . ."
It's Pete sitting across from me, but I hear my daddy: "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."
I nod. "I understand what you're saying, but I can't feel sorry for the guy. I'm too angry."
"Anger is the appropriate response, Sierra. 'Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in Me to stumble, it would be better for him to have a heavy millstone hung around his neck, and to be drowned in the depth of the sea.'"
"Is that from the Bible? It sounds familiar."
"Matthew 18. Red letters. Straight from Jesus' mouth."
Again I'm reminded of my daddy. "Well, I'd like to hang a rock around his neck and drop him to the bottom of the ocean!" I seethe as I say the words.
"I'm not justifying his actions. He's responsible for his choices. I'm just saying there are factors behind his choices. Unfortunately, all too often, this is how these things turn out. A child is abused and because the child never talks about it, has nowhere to turn, can't get any help, that child ends up perpetuating the cycle. The abused becomes the abuser. It's what these children know. It makes me mad too. It's why I work with these kids. I want to help break the cycle. It doesn't have to be this way."
He studies my features. "Use your anger, Sierra. Use it to help Kaylee. When you're exhausted after another long day of talking to her and getting nothing in return, when you wonder why you got involved in the first place"—he softens again—"when loving her hurts too much, let that anger spur you on. Use it."
When loving her hurts too much . . .
His words invade my soul. How does this man already know me so well? Or is it just the PhD after his name, all that psychological training giving him license to assume he knows what I'm feeling?
I nod my agreement, hoping that will end the conversation. I have no desire to discuss my feelings for Kaylee. Hurt. What does he know about hurting?
"When I was about Kaylee's age . . ."
I look back up—the timbre of his voice has changed—lowered. And now he's the one staring out the slider. But like me, he doesn't seem to see the yard beyond. He stops as though carefully choosing his words.
"I had a coach—Little League." Pete looks back at me. "He molested me. It happened over the course of several weeks, and I was too embarrassed—too ashamed—to tell my parents. But they noticed a change in me, in my behavior. I was lucky—blessed, actually, with great parents. They paid attention. They figured it out. They filed charges and followed the case through the court system. And they got help for me."
I didn't know what to say. But Pete didn't seem to expect me to say anything. His eyes meet mine again.
"I understand the shame and hurt Kaylee's experienced. I didn't go through what she's gone through. But I suffered enough to understand, to some degree, her pain. I also know there's hope for her." He stretches and looks at his watch. "Well, I've already stayed longer than necessary. I better go . . ."
"Pete, do you have children?" The question is out of my mouth before I consider whether or not it's any of my business.
"No. But I'd like to, someday. Guess I'll have to get married first." He raises one eyebrow and smiles. Then he seems thoughtful again. "I'd like to be the kind of parent my parents were."
"Yeah, me too."
Pete stands, picks his iced tea glass up from the table, and walks to the sink. He rinses the glass and sets it in the sink, then turns back to me. "You keep an eye on that little gal tonight. That was traumatic for her this afternoon. In the meantime we'll keep looking for her mom. We know she's close. It shouldn't take the police department long to pick her up. I'll call Dr. Beth in the morning and give her a heads-up and see if she can see Kaylee tomorrow afternoon. Will that work for you?"
"Sure. Whatever Kaylee needs."
"Call me if you need anything."
"I will. Thanks."
After he leaves, the bungalow feels empty. I head down the hallway and crack open Kaylee's door. She's asleep, her book open on her lap. I tiptoe in, take the book, and put it on her night table, and then bend to kiss her forehead. "I love you, little one." She stirs at my whispered words but doesn't wake. "Van, come on, you need a trip outside." Van jumps off the bed and follows me out of the room.
I open the slider and follow Van to the backyard. I ease into the Adirondack chair as Van wanders around the yard. The setting sun casts a luminous glow over the deck and yard. As I lean back in the chair, a sigh escapes from the depths of my soul. I close my eyes, hoping to turn off my mind, but thoughts of this afternoon continue to intrude.
I think again of the division I felt in myself—the desire to draw from my own experiences to help Kaylee's mom, and the stronge
r desire to exploit her struggle for my own gain, to keep Kaylee with me. Are my desires selfish?
Yes. And no. I care deeply what happens to her. I long to ease her pain—to give her the love she deserves—the love I experienced as a child. I want the best for Kaylee.
"So what is best for her?" I speak my question into the dusk. It's a question I asked Pete earlier, but I couldn't accept his response in the moment. Now I ponder his words. "Don't we serve Kalyee's best interests by helping her mom?"
"And how do we do that?" I'd asked.
"We let the system work. When we find her, we let her know our goal is to reunite her with her daughter, to help make her situation workable. Through CWS, she'll attend parenting classes, we offer job placement assistance, there will be supervised visits, and eventually, if all goes well, Kaylee is returned to her mother."
"What? That's it? A mother neglects, abandons, and allows her daughter to be abused and you help her get her daughter back?"
"Of course not, Sierra. If there is evidence of abuse of any kind, charges will be pressed. If drugs are involved, as you suspect, then we also hope for evidence of that—possession ensures court-mandated rehabilitation. In the meantime Kaylee remains a ward of the court, she receives the help she needs and a safe environment in which to heal. Either way, it's a long road ahead."
A long road . . .
Each day Kaylee is here the pain at the prospect of losing her becomes greater. Ruby would tell me I'm being too "all or nothing" again. How many times has Ruby said. "It's both/and Sierra, not either/or." Is that true in this situation? Is it possible Kaylee could love both her mother and me?
I think of what Pete shared about his childhood. He turned his pain around—found purpose in it. For the first time I see new purpose in what I've suffered. Maybe I can use the pain of my past to help shape the future of another—of Kaylee, and perhaps, even her mother.
Van stands there, his chin resting on my leg. I scratch behind his ears, grateful for his companionship. "Are you hungry, boy?" His tail wags in response. "C'mon, I'll feed you."
I get up from the chair, Van at my heels, and return to the kitchen where I fill Van's bowl with food. Then I open the junk drawer and dig until I find a pair of scissors. I walk back outside to the far corner of the yard and clip a small bough from the towering redwood likely planted there by the original owners in the thirties. The bough is deep green, with lighter green at the tips—the new growth of summer.
I take the bough back into the house and set it on the tray of my easel, then head down the hallway to check on Kaylee. She's still asleep. I walk to her bed and sit on the side, next to her. I brush her bangs off her forehead and gently nudge her shoulder until her eyes open. It takes a minute for her to focus on my face.
"Hey, do you want some dinner? Homemade macaroni and cheese?" One of her favorites. She shakes her head and rolls on her side, away from me. As she does, I hear her stomach growl.
What is she feeling? I can only imagine . . .
"Kaylee, you need to eat, to keep up your strength. Is there something you'd rather have? Chicken maybe? Or there's leftover meatloaf from last night." I hear her stomach rumble again.
She sits up, edges her way to the other side of the bed, and gets out. Without looking at me, she makes her way to the door. I follow her down the hallway and into the kitchen where she opens a cupboard, takes out a bag of shell-shaped macaroni, and hands it to me.
"Okay, mac and cheese it is." I reach for a pot, fill it with water, and set it to boil. Kaylee takes a seat at the kitchen table and rests her head on her folded arms. She will ignore me.
Her anger, or anguish—I'm not sure which—fills the small kitchen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Kaylee
Dr. Beth, my psychiatrist, is pulling out paper, pens, and paints while I wait at the little table in her office. Bethany is her first name. She told me I can call her Dr. Beth because her last name is too hard to pronounce. Like I'm going to pronounce it anyway.
She talks to me like she thinks I'll talk back.
Mute, remember? 1. dumb; silent. 2. unable to speak; dumb.
She asks me lots of questions, especially about my mom. But I don't want to tell her about my mom. She asks me questions about him too. On days when she asks me about him, I'm glad I can't talk. I don't know what I'd say. When she asks me too many questions, the scream starts and I have to cover my ears.
She doesn't ask as many questions now, instead she lets me draw or paint.
She's nice, but I know what a psychiatrist is. They're doctors for people with "mental disorders," that's what the dictionary says. I don't have a mental disorder. I just don't talk.
At first I liked it when I got to draw and paint. I'd pretend I was an artist like Sierra. But I won't draw or paint today, no matter how much Dr. Bethany wants me too.
I can't think about Sierra.
Instead I'll think about my plan. I'm going to find my mom. Which means . . .
I have to leave Sierra.
"Kaylee, you look sad today. I heard your mom paid a visit to Sierra yesterday."
I just look at her.
She's quiet for a minute then says. "I'd imagine seeing your mom stirred up lots of feelings in here." She points to my chest. "Would you like to draw, maybe work on something to help you work through some of those feelings?" She sets the paper and pens in front of me.
I fold my hands in my lap and stare at the paper. I don't mean to be stubborn, but I just can't draw today.
"Would you rather use the paints?"
I shake my head. No. No paint either.
"Okay. Let's do something different." Dr. Bethany gets up from the little chair she sat in next to me, takes the paper and pens and paints with her, and goes back to her art cupboard. She puts them away and pulls something else out and comes back to the little table. "Let's make something with clay." She sets five bricks of clay in front of me—all different colors. "You can make a sculpture."
A sculpture? Like Ruby?
I pick up the brown brick of clay and look at Dr. Bethany.
"Go ahead, Kaylee. You can unwrap it. Open all the colors if you'd like."
I open the brown clay and begin smashing it in my hands, getting it warm and soft. While I do that, I think about what I'll need to take with me when I leave. I can only take as much as will fit in my backpack—just some clothes, my new sweatshirt and shorts. My toothbrush. My notebook and pen, in case I need to ask someone a question.
I smash the clay a little more, then shape it into a square, like a cube. Then I reach for the black clay and unwrap it. As I work with the clay, it feels like all the jumbled thoughts in my mind are working their way out through my fingers. Like all those feelings are coming out of me and going into the clay. Then I remember one of the definitions I read for the word therapy: any act, hobby, task, program, or whatever, that relieves tension. I've got a lot of tension right now, so maybe this therapy is good. I look up at Dr. Beth, who's sitting across from me at the little table, and I smile. Then I get back to my list.
I have to take my mom's three books with me, but I don't think they'll fit in my backpack. They're heavy too. Maybe I can just take the dictionary.
I also have to take my Bible.
The morning Mrs. Bickford left I found a present on my bed. It was a square package wrapped in blue paper with white fluffy clouds on it and there was a white bow on the top. Tucked under the bow was a white envelope with my name on it. I carried the present out to the kitchen where Sierra was working and I showed it to her.
"That's for you, little one. Mother left it for you. Open it."
A real present? For me?
I pulled the card out of the envelope and read Mrs. Bickford's note:
Dearest Kaylee, I noticed you copied a verse from the churc
h bulletin the other day. The verse came from this book—the Bible. I thought you might enjoy reading the stories of Jesus and how much He loves you. I've placed a bookmark in the book of John so you can find the verse you copied.
Jesus loves you, Kaylee, and so do I.
Blessings, darling.
Love,
"Grandma" Bickford
I pulled the bow and paper off the package and then opened the box. Inside was a book with a white leather cover. On the front in gold letters it said: Holy Bible. On the bottom, in smaller gold letters, was my name: Kaylee Wren.
I turned to the kitchen counter and reached for the pad of paper and pen.
Is this really mine? Do I get to keep it?
"It's all yours, kiddo. It has your name on it. Mother thought you might like it. The Bible is . . . well, it's really important to her. It's an important part of her life. She wanted to share it with you. She thought it might help you."
Sierra reached for the Bible and picked it up. She opened it and flipped through a few of the pages. "I have one just like this. Mother and Daddy gave it to me the day I was baptized." She seemed like she was thinking back—like she was talking to me, but also to herself. "Maybe we could read this at bedtime, sometimes. Would you like that? It might be good for both of us."
I nodded. She handed the Bible back to me and I opened it to where Mrs. Bickford had placed the bookmark. I pulled the marker out—it was almost the same blue as the wrapping paper and it had little butterflies all over it. There was a blue and silver tassel hanging from the top. I looked at the open page. At the top it said: The Gospel According to John. The first sentence on the page was the verse I'd copied.
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