Words

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  I ran my hand over the page—the paper was thin and felt delicate, which means it felt fragile, like it would crinkle easily. I closed the book and held it up to my nose and breathed in the scent of leather; then I ran one finger over my name. I couldn't believe it was really mine.

  That's it. I'll take the dictionary and the Bible. I hope they'll both fit in my backpack.

  I make two flat squares with the black clay and put them on top of the cube, like a roof on a house.

  I hope my mom won't be mad if I leave the other two books.

  I reach for the white clay and unwrap it. I make four little rectangles out of the white clay and put them on the front of the house—shutters. I make one big rectangle for the front door.

  I don't want to steal anything from Sierra, but she can't use my clothes or toothbrush anyway. And she said the backpack and notebook and pen were mine to keep. The dictionary and Bible are definitely mine. I need some money too. I don't know what to do about that. Maybe if I leave my other two books, that will make up for anything I take. Ruby said Sierra hadn't read Etiquette, so maybe she'd like to have it.

  Out of the red and yellow clay I make little flowers. I stick them on the bottom of the house all the way around.

  Maybe I could ask Pete for some money. I could tell him I want to buy a present for Sierra. But that's a lie. I don't want to lie.

  I look at the little house sitting in front of me and feel that familiar lump in my throat. I swallow, but it's still there. My vision blurs as tears fill my eyes.

  I take my fist and smash the little house—I smash it hard. I smash it until it's just a lump of colors that don't mean anything.

  Making a sculpture was a stupid idea!

  Dr. Bethany doesn't say anything. She just scoots a little closer and puts her hand on my back and pats me like I'm a dog or something. Probably to make me feel better.

  But it doesn't.

  Nothing will. Not ever again.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Sierra

  After I drop Kaylee off at Dr. Beth's, I go to the bank. As I stand in line waiting for the next available teller, I ask myself what I'm doing. When I talked with Pete yesterday, it all seemed so clear. Let the system work . . .

  But how can that be best for Kaylee? Hasn't she lived through enough upheaval in her life? Doesn't she deserve to move on—to enjoy the stability of a safe environment—someone to love her and care for her—someone she can depend on? Isn't that what I offer her?

  "Next."

  Enough analyzing, Sierra. Just do it. I approach the teller. "I'd like to withdraw $1,500 from my savings account, please."

  "How would you like that?"

  "Hundreds."

  As the teller counts out fifteen one-hundred-dollar bills, I remind myself that I'm not responsible for what Kathryn does with the money. I'm simply helping her get back on her feet so she can provide a home for Kaylee, if that's what she wants. I'm taking what she said at face value. If she chooses to use the money for something else, well, that's her problem.

  "Thank you." I take the cash, tuck it into an envelope, and put it in my backpack. I'm ready for her if she returns.

  No . . . when she returns.

  When I pick up Kaylee, she appears sullen and more withdrawn than usual.

  Dr. Beth pulls me aside and whispers. "Lots of love today, Sierra, give her lots of love."

  "Is she okay?"

  "We had a small breakthrough—lots of interior churning going on inside her. Of course, I'd expect that after seeing her mother. It's hard to know how to help her, but I think she was able to express some of what she's feeling through her art. By the way, what color is your house?"

  "Brown with white trim. Why?"

  "Just wondering. Call me if you see signs of extreme angst."

  I nod. "Thanks, I will." Then I wonder who I call when I'm feeling extreme angst? An apt descriptive for what's churning in me today. I put my arm around Kaylee's shoulders as I guide her out of the office but feel her stiffen as soon as I touch her. I take a step back and let her walk out on her own.

  As we walk to the Jeep, I make suggestions on how we might spend our afternoon. "Would you like to go to the park?" No. "How about the beach? We can take Van with us." No. "Ruby's back from her showing, we could call and meet her for lunch." This suggestion is met with an adamant no—a definite shake of her head. "I thought you liked Ruby?" She shrugs her shoulders. "Well, back home, I guess?" Yes.

  As we drive home, I chatter at Kaylee about what I'll make for lunch, and how I need to pull some weeds and mow the lawn. I tell her we need to return our library books and go to the grocery store tomorrow. She responds to nothing—no smile, no recognition of my presence. She stares straight ahead and as soon as we pull into the driveway, she's out of the Jeep and standing on the front step before I've even unbuckled my seat belt.

  I join her on the porch and unlock the front door. "What's the hurry, little one?"

  She pushes past me, goes inside, walks straight to her bedroom, and closes the door.

  I decide I'll give her a few minutes. I let Van in from the backyard and then walk to my bedroom and stash my backpack in the back corner of my closet. The cash inside nags at my conscience. "Out of sight, out of mind," I tell myself.

  I go to Kaylee's room and tap on the door, then open it a crack and poke my head inside. She's lying on her bed, reading. "I'm going to make lunch—I'll call you when it's ready."

  She ignores me.

  I stop at the linen cabinet in the hallway and pull out an old quilt. I drape it over a chair in the kitchen. I open the fridge, pull out three hard-boiled eggs, mayonnaise, and mustard. As I chop the eggs and mix the ingredients, I wonder how long Kaylee will stay angry. Before Kathryn showed up yesterday, we'd developed an easy rapport. Kaylee trusted me, it seemed. And although silent, our relationship was marked by warmth and affection.

  But now? This morning, when I went to the bathroom to comb her hair, she took the comb from my hand and began combing it herself. Her message was clear: I'll do it!

  It seems I'll have to earn her trust again.

  I stop stirring the egg salad and consider the dichotomy between the thought of regaining Kaylee's trust and my decision this morning to pay Kathryn off—to essentially aid her demise in order to keep Kaylee for myself. Can Kaylee trust me?

  It's for her best, I remind myself. And I'm not aiding in Kathryn's demise. I'm helping her get back on her feet. End of story.

  I make two sandwiches, slice two apples, put the sandwiches and fruit on plates, then grab a couple of the small individual bags of chips Kaylee likes so much and put it all on a tray. I pull a pitcher of lemonade out of the fridge and fill two tall glasses and add those to the tray as well. I also cut a slice of the angel food cake I made yesterday morning and put it on a plate for Kaylee. I grab a fork for the cake, and add a couple of napkins. The perfect picnic.

  I take the quilt out to the backyard and spread it on the lawn, then go back in the kitchen for the tray. I yell over my shoulder as I pick up the tray. "Kaylee, lunch." When I see her in the kitchen, nose still in her book, I call for her to come outside. "I thought we'd have a picnic."

  She looks uninterested, plops down on the edge of the quilt, picks up half a sandwich, and eats while she reads.

  There's so much I want to say to her. I want to talk to her about her mom, but then what would I say? Today her silence is contagious. I watch as she devours her lunch, with the exception of the chips, which she picks up and takes with her, back to her room, I presume.

  And so the day goes. Kaylee reads, only coming out to get things from the kitchen. A banana once. A granola bar the next time. Then another bag of chips. She takes them all back to her room.

  I let her. I'm glad she's eating.

  After a lon
g, silent day, I tell Kaylee it's time for bed. She washes her face and brushes her teeth, while I wait in her bedroom. She finally snuggles into bed and when I lean down to kiss her forehead, I'm met with the scents of soap and toothpaste.

  "Would you like me to read to you for awhile?" I expect her to shake her head and turn away from me, just as she did when I offered to comb her hair, part of our nightly routine, but instead she looks at me and nods. My heart aches at the grief I see in her eyes.

  "Oh, little one, I'm sorry you're so sad. You are so lovable. Do you know that?" The shrug of her shoulders is barely noticeable—then she reaches for her book and hands it to me.

  I look at the title, The Clue of the Whistling Bagpipes. "This is a good one." I sit on the edge of the bed next to her and she leans into me. Okay, now we're getting somewhere. "Last chapter?" She nods.

  When I finish the chapter, I close the book, put it back on the shelf, turn on her night-light, and lean to kiss her good night one more time. As I bend over she reaches for me and clasps her little arms around my neck and clings to me. I hold her close, feeling each knob on her spine as I do, and I whisper in her ear, "I love you, Kaylee Wren." She squeezes hard, then lets go of me and lies back on her pillow.

  "Tomorrow will be a better day, little one."

  Later I climb into my own bed exhausted by the emotional strain of the day. I fall into a fitful sleep. I toss and turn, and when I sleep, my dreams seem straight from hell. The prick of a needle going into my arm wakes me from the last dream. I sit up in bed, heart pounding, palms sweating. I untangle myself from the sheets, and then turn and hang my legs over the side of the bed. I take deep breaths until I'm oriented.

  I glance at the clock: 2:11 a.m. Great. I shake my head and shoulders, trying to loose the remnants of the dream from my mind. When I finally lie back down, all I can think of is the money in my backpack.

  What was I thinking? In the hush of the night, without the murmured distractions of day, there is nowhere for my mind to go except to the truth: I'm not seeking Kaylee's best interest, I'm seeking my own. Protecting myself. Returning to the familiar rather than forging my way through the unknown. Relying on myself rather than God.

  If I love Kaylee, and I do, then I have to love her mother. I have to make the choice to love her. The choice my daddy spoke of so often. "Real love is more than a feeling, it's a choice." He'd say.

  I lean over and switch on the lamp on my nightstand, get out of bed, and rummage through the box on the floor that holds the things from the desk I'd had in Kaylee's room. I find what I'm looking for—a deposit slip—and fill it out in the amount of $1,500. I walk to my closet, reach for my backpack, and feel for the envelope of cash. I pull it out and put the deposit slip in with the cash. Tomorrow I'll return to the bank.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Kaylee

  After Sierra tucks me in, I lay awake for a long time. I can't let myself fall asleep tonight. I don't feel sleepy anyway. All day I've felt angry at Sierra, but tonight, when I knew it was the last time ever that she'd tuck me in, I couldn't be angry anymore. I wanted to be close to her, to feel her hair tickle my face as I hugged her, and to smell the flowery scent of her shampoo. I wanted to feel her warmth next to me and to have her kiss my forehead again.

  More than anything, I wanted to say. "I love you too." But I couldn't.

  I probably don't really love her anyway. Or maybe sometimes it's just easier to be mad at someone than it is to love them. I don't know.

  con·found·ed—adjective 1. bewildered; confused; perplexed. That seems to be my permanent state of mind.

  Sierra doesn't need me.

  need—noun 1. to have need of; require: to need someone.

  I don't need her either.

  I did just fine without her before—sort of.

  And she was just fine without me. Wasn't she? I think again of the things I heard her tell my mom—of her baby that died. When I think about that, it feels like someone is squeezing my heart. I roll over and lay my head on Van's back. I pet his forehead and scratch behind his ears.

  I'll miss Van.

  Sierra will come and get him and let him outside one last time before she goes to bed. She's really quiet when she lets him out, but I always feel Van jump up on my bed when he comes back in.

  After Van comes back tonight, I'll wait for a long time until I'm sure Sierra's asleep. Then . . . I'll go. I have everything ready. My backpack is in the closet, all packed, except for the dictionary and Bible. I'll put those in last. I didn't want Sierra to notice them missing off the shelf. I'll have to be careful not to let them crush the bags of chips or squish the banana.

  My plan is to walk to Marianne's, where my mom saw us. Maybe she lives around there somewhere. I can write people notes and ask if they know her and know where she lives. Nancy Drew always finds what she's looking for, so maybe I will too.

  I don't have any money, but I have the chips and banana. That will last a couple of days; I've eaten less than that before.

  When I'm sure Sierra is asleep, after the house has settled and everything's quiet, I tiptoe from my bed to the closet. I see Van lift his head to watch me, but he doesn't move. I grab my backpack and the granola bar I put next to it, then go to the bookshelf and get the dictionary and Bible. I shove them into my backpack. I pull the sides of the backpack together and struggle to zip it. It's a squeeze, but I finally get it zipped. Then I unwrap the granola bar and put it under Van's nose. He loves granola bars! This way he won't follow me to the front door.

  I run to the bedroom door, crack it open just wide enough for me to fit through, then—I stop. I wait. I listen. I think again about all the things I heard Sierra tell my mom.

  I poke my head out my bedroom door and look down the hallway.

  Everything is dark.

  I take a step into the hallway then stop. I swallow. The inside of my mouth feels like cotton and my tongue gets stuck on the roof of my mouth. I swallow again and it feels like I've swallowed a whole bag of cotton balls.

  I wipe my palms on my shorts and readjust my backpack then tiptoe down the hallway. I keep one hand on the wall to help find my way in the dark. I stop at Sierra's bedroom door and listen.

  Nothing.

  I hesitate for just a minute, my feelings pulling me two different ways, but then I turn and go.

  I don't need her.

  I don't.

  But before I reach the living room, my stomach lurches and I feel like I'm going to be sick. I know this feeling. It's the feeling I used to get when I'd hear his truck coming into the driveway. It's the same feeling I had when I was lost in the forest.

  I take a deep breath and stand up straighter.

  Then . . .

  I turn around and run back to my bedroom.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Sierra

  I awoke this morning to the realization that I need to get back to work if I'm going to pay my bills. Reality strikes. I have two commissioned pieces to complete and I'm anxious, as therapy for my own soul, to finish the painting of the redwood. That's not a piece I'll sell—I'll keep it for Kaylee. I'll work this morning and go to the bank this afternoon.

  After breakfast I busy myself preparing a canvas in the kitchen. For awhile Kaylee sits at the kitchen table with a book, but I notice her eyes aren't moving—she stares at one page. She is a quick reader and I've grown accustomed to the slow, rhythmic sound of turning pages. This morning the pages don't turn. All is still.

  Kaylee is out of rhythm. The difference is subtle but noticeable, because I've watched her so closely this last month—watching her is the way I've gotten to know her. Rather than listen to her words, I've watched her movements, her moods, her rhythms—and this morning she's out of sync. Perhaps it is the residual angst of yesterday.

  "Hey, little one . . ." My tone is
soft—she still startles easily—but there's no response. She continues staring at her book—her face an unreadable mask.

  "Kaylee . . . are you okay?"

  She nods her reply—that familiar up and down bobbing of her head. But I don't see affirmation of her well-being in her eyes. She reaches for her pad and pen. Can I build a fort?

  This is her first real communication of the day. "Sure. What do you need?"

  The quilt. Eyebrows raised, the look she gives me asks if that's okay.

  "That's fine."

  She puts down her book and heads for the cabinet in the hallway. I hear the door bang shut and she comes back through the kitchen and goes out the sliding glass door to the backyard. She obviously has a plan. I watch as she uses chairs, the quilt, and rocks to build a fort. Then I see her coax Van inside and she, on her hands and knees, follows him. And I'm left wondering . . .

  How do I know when to ask her deeper questions—to draw out what I sometimes see churning inside of her—or when to just let her be? What must she feel after seeing her mother—and then having her leave again? The familiar ache enters my heart when I consider what she's been through. How does she deal with it all? Is her time with Dr. Beth helping? Will she finally open up and talk to her? Dr. Beth's words run through my mind again: She feels safe with you, Sierra.

  Oh, how I long to erase everything she's experienced and replace it with only love and tenderness. If only I had that power.

  I turn my easel a bit so I can both work and watch the yard to keep an eye on Kaylee. She and Van seem settled for now. As I work, the familiar creative energy courses through me. For years creating was the only time I felt truly alive. But now, with Kaylee in my life, all that is changing. The ice that encased my soul for so long is melting. Underneath I'm finding a truer version of myself.