Words (12 page)

I need You.

At first it's just a thought, then a realization, then a plea—a cry of desperation from the depths of my soul.

I raise my head heavenward. "I need You." I drop to my knees in the sand. For twelve years I've stood on my own, depending on my own strength. I can do it no longer. The wind carries my wailing sobs out to sea. "I need You." The words come between sobs.

I cry for all I've lost—my daughter and my dreams.

When I think I can cry no more, when I think my tears are spent, another question breezes through my soul:
Who enclosed the sea with doors when bursting forth, it went out from the womb?

I recognize the question—it comes from chapter 38 of Job—my daddy's favorite account of creation. "Straight from the mouth of God," he would say. Often, after dinner, when we were all lingering around the table, Daddy would pick up his Bible and read that chapter aloud.

The question silences me.

I lift my head and through swollen eyes I see the gray, tossing, expanse before me. So great is the power I see that I lower my head. Bowed before God, my own questions waft away like ash on the wind. My demands wither and wane. Humbled by the magnitude of His power and love, I finally do it.

I let go.

Then I cry again. This time the tears are for those I've caused such pain—Mother, Daddy, Ruby. And I cry for the pain my rebellion has caused God. I cry because I know that regardless of that pain, He stands with open arms ready to welcome me home.

My sorrows float away on a river of tears.

I've sat so long that the waves clamoring for the dunes are now lapping at my ankles. I get to my feet, bend to roll up the legs of my jeans, and wade into the surf. The water swirls around my feet as the sand shifts beneath me.

The water beckons and I inch my way in until my pants are soaked. When the water reaches my waist, I cry out one last time.

"Forgive me."

I look toward the horizon and see a break in the gray canopy above. Shafts of sunlight stretch from the sky and dance on the water surrounding me. As far as I can see, the world is gray. But where I stand—there is light—and it glistens on the water all around me. At that moment I know what I want to do. I take a deep breath and plunge beneath the icy water.

When I was thirteen, I was baptized. Mother and Daddy said it was time to make a public declaration of my belief in Jesus Christ. So I did.

Today, twenty-one years later, I make that declaration myself because I want to, because I need to. Because it's more than time. Alone before God, I declare that I will trust Him. I accept the forgiveness that He's offered all along, and symbolically, I leave myself—the old Sierra—on the ocean floor.

Why had I wandered so far from my parents' truth? Because I hadn't made it my own truth. Until today.

I come to the surface a new creation—cleansed, free, and for the first time in years filled with hope. As I swim for shore, I see the mountains ahead blanketed by thickets of redwoods. Somewhere on that mountain, there is a child. A little girl who hides in a tree.

And she needs me.

I emerge from the water and run to my Jeep. I grab an old blanket that I keep in the back, dry my hair, and wrap the blanket around my soaked clothes. I look one last time toward the mountains. "I'm ready to follow You, Your plan. Show me the way . . ."

I get in the Jeep, crank the heater, and head up the road to Bonny Doon.

I can't get there fast enough.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Kaylee

If I read something, I usually remember it.

Brent, the last boyfriend, called me
Elephant.
My mom said I have a photographic memory. "Should be good for something, Kaylee."

I can read a book, and if I like part of it, then I'll read that part two or three times and remember it. Forever. It's not like I memorize the whole book or anything, I just remember the parts I like. That's how I remember the words from the dictionary—well, lots of them anyway.

My mom was right, it is good for something. Now when I'm bored, I can sort through the words in my head or remember something from a book. Sometimes I'll write down what I remember.

This morning a paragraph from one of my favorite books is running wild in my brain. It's all I can think about. It's from a book called
Mandy.
The author's name is Julie Edwards. Her other name is Julie Andrews. Maria, from
The Sound of Music.

I go back to his bedroom, take the pen, go to the kitchen and tear another piece off the bag, and then grab the dictionary from under the shelf. I use the dictionary to write on. I can see the words in my mind . . .

At times she felt a soft, cool hand on her brow, and saw a woman's face, sweet and concerned. And often an arm was about her shoulders and a cup of liquid held to her lips. Mandy was aware of tender loving care, but sometimes it threatened to become the nightmare again and she cried out in fear.

I remember the first time I read that paragraph. It was like a little hole opened up inside of me.

Void—noun
1. an empty space; emptiness. 2. something experienced as a loss or privation. 3. a gap or opening, as in a wall. 4. a vacancy; vacuum.

It feels like an empty spot that someone forgot to fill.

This morning the paragraph makes me think of Sierra—of her cool hand on my forehead or her arm around my shoulders. I remember the feel of her hand running through my hair yesterday and her breath on my neck when she whispered in my ear.
Sure you don't want to tell me your name?

My mom loves me a lot, I think. But she's not really the cool hand on the forehead type. She's . . . well, she's just different than that.

The first time I saw
The Sound of Music,
I watched it on television one night when my mom and Brent were gone. I remember thinking how sad it was that all those children lost their mother. Now, I'm just like them.

Maybe Sierra could be my Maria.

I look down at my lap and wonder what my mom would do if she found out what I was thinking. Maybe she'd never come back.

Guilt pokes at my heart.

And the hole inside feels like it might swallow me up.

I look at what I've written, add a period to the end, then fold it up and put it in the pocket of my pants. I reach under my mattress and feel for the note I wrote last night. I fold that and put it in my other pocket, then get up and head for the door. Just before I walk out, I turn, look at the mattress, and my heart just about stops dead! I left the pen and the dictionary just lying there! I run back, grab both, and put them away. I take a deep breath and then let it out. My neck and shoulders feel tight and my stomach hurts again.

Then, even though I know she's not coming today, I head for my tree. I want to leave her my note just in case I can't be there tomorrow.

There's no way of knowing what will happen tomorrow.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sierra

I reach for the doorbell and my body shudders. Heavy footsteps echo from the inside hallway, the porch light clicks on, and Michael opens the door.

"Hey . . . Sierra? I didn't know . . . You look horrible."

"Tha-tha-thanks. May I come in?"

"Oh, of course." Michael opens the door wider and steps aside. "Holy cow, you're shaking." He places a hand on my shoulder and guides me toward the kitchen. "You're wet. Sierra, where've you been? Did Ruby know you were coming? Here, sit. Hang on a minute . . ."

Michael reaches for a pot, fills it with water, sets it to boil, then walks through the family room to the glass doors that lead from the house to Ruby's studio out back.

Within forty-five seconds, maybe less, Ruby's standing at my side. She takes one look at me then stoops next to the chair where I'm sitting and places a hand on my knee, "Sierra?" Concern furrows her brow.

I'm so relieved to see her—so grateful for her—want so much to tell her everything. How sorry I am . . . how selfish I've been . . . how I understand everything now. But tears blur my vision and the ache in my throat keeps the words from my mouth. Instead, trembling, I reach into the pocket of my jeans and pull out a crumpled piece of brown paper. I hand it to her.

She looks at me then at the note she holds.

Dear Miss Sierra,

It was nice to meet you and Van. Thank you for the apple and the granola bar. They were scrumptious.

Please come back soon.

From, Kaylee

P.S. That's my name.

Ruby looks back at me. "Scrumptious?"

Teeth chattering, I nod my head. "Y-yes. Scrump-tious."

"Here, Sierra, drink this, it'll help warm you up." Michael hands me a cup of tea and then reaches and takes the note from Ruby. "Who's Kaylee?"

Ignoring Michael's question, Ruby takes my hand, pulls me from the chair. "Sierra, we need to get you out of these wet clothes. Come on."

She drags me to their bedroom, where she opens a large black lacquered armoire, and pulls out a pair of green velvet pajamas.

"Here, put these on. They'll keep you warm."

"Wait a minute, who's Kaylee?" Michael, perplexed, has followed us into the bedroom. "Why are you wet? And what, I beg, is so scrumptious about a granola bar?"

I take the pajamas from Ruby. "K-Kaylee is . . . a little girl. I baptized myself this afternoon. And when you're star-starving, anything is scrumptious."

Both Michael and Ruby look at me like I've lost my mind. And maybe I have.

I turn and head for the bathroom to change. As soon as I shut the bathroom door, Ruby's knocking on it. "What do you mean you baptized yourself? Is she really starving? What are you going to do? Do you know what you're doing? Sierra?"

I slip into the luxurious emerald green pajamas and feel like I'm playing dress-up. This is the most color I've worn. Ever. I open the door and tell Ruby exactly what I'm going to do. "I'm going to follow God's plan. I just don't know exactly what that is. Yet."

Ruby appears stunned. "Sierra, that color is gorgeous on you."

"Ruby! Did you hear what I said?"

"Sorry. It's just that you look so . . . alive."

With Ruby and Michael staring at me, it hits me. I am. I'm truly alive.

"I am alive, Rube. For the first time in twelve years, I feel alive." I reach for Ruby and embrace her. "I love you, Rube. I'm so sorry for the pain I've caused you. Thank you for hanging in there with me all these years."

Ruby steps back, looks at me, and her eyes well with tears. "You let go." It was a statement rather than a question.

"I let go."

"Will someone please tell me who Kaylee is?"

Ruby and I look at each other and smile. "Let's go back to the kitchen and I'll tell you both the whole story."

Michael pushes his glasses up on his nose. "It's about time."

Sierra, you need to call the county—Child Welfare Services. Obviously, no one's taking care of this child."

"Michael, I know. But didn't you hear me? I don't know who she is or where she lives. I must have walked for miles this afternoon, searching for her—for a house, a cabin, a tent. Anything. All I found was a note in a tree. What do I do, send the authorities to a tree?"

Michael leans forward, elbows on the kitchen table. "No. But you report what you do know. Make the call first thing in the morning. Give them her first name, the general area where you've seen her, what you've observed—then let them tell you the next step. That way at least there's a report on record. It's a beginning."

"You're right."

Ruby comes back to the table with fresh coffee for her and Michael and a grilled turkey and cheese sandwich and another cup of tea for me. "You know, she can't just disappear into thin air. There have to be signs of her up there somewhere. Are you sure you covered the whole area?"

"I don't know. First I followed what looked like a trail through the meadow—the direction I saw her head that first day. It leads to a stream. It didn't occur to me that she'd cross the stream. But when I didn't find anything in the other directions, I looped back and was looking for a place to cross when the rain started. By then it was already dusk. I guess I'll go back tomorrow."

"Want me to come with you?"

Taking Ruby with me is tempting, but . . . "No, I think I better go alone. I told her I'd come back so, hopefully, I'll find her at the tree. I don't want to overwhelm her. Maybe she'll talk to me tomorrow and I can find out more.

"Okay. Call me when you get back and let me know if you find anything."

"Yeah, I will. It's getting late, I better head home and let you guys get to bed."

"Why don't you spend the night?"

"Thanks, Michael, but I need to get home to Van. He's been alone in the yard all day."

"Van." Ruby shakes her head and smiles. "I told you he was progress."

"He's a dog. He's not progress." I swat at Ruby, then give her a hug. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. And thanks, you guys—I won't make a habit of barging in unannounced. I just needed to . . . you know."

"Hey, you're always welcome." Michael puts an arm around me and gives me a slight squeeze. He knows I'd dodge a hug.

"Thanks. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Oh, and thanks for the jammies. I'll get them back to you."

"Keep them. They look great on you."

I look down at the beautiful jewel tone of the pajamas and am reminded that as of today, I am a new creation. The old has passed away. "Maybe I will keep them, if you mean it. They'll remind me of today, of starting anew."

Ruby nods. "They're all yours. And Sierra"—her voice catches—"I love you and I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you." I whisper the words and wipe the tears now streaming down my cheeks. I reach for Ruby and we hug each other tight—crying, laughing, and free.

Once home I walk into the kitchen and see Van outside, asleep against the kitchen door—fur pressed to glass. From inside, I tap on the door, wake him, and then open it. Van stretches, walks past me into the kitchen, stops, sniffs his crate, and heads straight for the bedroom.

"Hey, what's this, the cold shoulder?" I follow him into my room and watch as he, without hesitation, jumps up on the bed. He sighs and settles in.