Words (21 page)

"Oh, Dr. . . . Pete. Kaylee was just asking about you. Kaylee, this is your social worker." Sierra looks up at the man. "She's wondering what a social worker is . . . or does."

"Hi, Kaylee. I'm Pete. And you're . . . ?" He turns to Ruby.

Ruby sticks out her hand and introduces herself. "I'm Ruby Morrissey—a friend of Sierra's."

"Ruby Morrissey? The artist?"

"Yes."

"I've seen your work. It's amazing. You capture the essence of humanity—the psyche of your subjects."

As the man talks to Ruby and smiles, I start to get it. He's social. That must be part of the work he does.

Ruby smiles and looks at Sierra. "Doctor of?"

"Psychology." Sierra rolls her eyes and gives Ruby a goofy look.

"Am I missing something?"

The social worker looks confused.

"Ruby's a frustrated psychologist at heart. You two should get along nicely."

Ruby swats Sierra's arm, then talks to the man again. "Thanks for the compliment. It's rewarding when someone sees beneath the clay."

The social worker turns back to me. "So, Miss Kaylee, you're looking lovely tonight. Much better than earlier. Do you feel better?"

I lean my head way back and look at his face. There are lots of lines and wrinkles, but they look like the kind you get from smiling lots—the kind my grammy had. He's probably near the same age as Sierra and Ruby. Maybe a little older than my mom.

I nod my head. Yes, I feel better.

He walks over and grabs one of the chairs and pulls it to the side of the bed and sits down. "Might be easier to talk if you can see me. Let me tell you what I do and why I'm here, and then if you have questions, maybe you can jot them down for me. Will that work?"

Maybe. I nod my head but shrug my shoulders too. I'm not sure.

I listen while he explains about his job and why he's here. He tells me he's already started looking for my mom. He's doing an "investigation." He asks if I know what that is. I know:

in·vest·i·ga·tion—noun
1. the act or process of investigating or the condition of being investigated. 2. a searching inquiry for ascertaining facts; detailed or careful examination.

Then he asks if I have any other family besides my mom—a father maybe, or grandparents, aunts, uncles . . . anyone?

There's no one.

Then he tells me about leaving the hospital when the doctor says I'm ready—that I'll go live with the Foster family . . .

The Fosters? Who are they?

What about Sierra?

I reach for my notebook. I have to ask. But when I try to pull the cap off the pen, my hands start to shake, and they're so clammy that my fingers slip off the cap.

I see him, Pete, watching me. He's patient. He just waits.

But the more he watches me, the harder it gets. I start gulping for air. I gasp. I need air. My hands begin shaking.

"Kaylee, look at me, look at my eyes. Now, take one deep breath. Try again. One breath." He turns and waves to Sierra, like he wants her to come over here. "Sierra, I think Kaylee's feeling some anxiety. Would you hold her hand?"

Sierra reaches for my hand. She holds it in both her hands.

"All righty, Miss Kaylee . . . try again. One deep breath. That's it. Now another. Keep looking at me. Good. Good girl. One more breath. Great."

I take another breath and then another. Pretty soon I'm breathing almost like normal and my hands stop shaking.

"Kaylee, does that happen sometimes? Do you have trouble breathing? And feel shaky? Maybe sick to your stomach?"

I think about what he's asked and wonder how he knows. I nod my head.

"Okay. I know it feels scary, but it's okay. You've had a hard time—a lot to deal with. And sometimes when things are hard, we get anxious, and our bodies react. In fact, I think that's why talking is hard for you too. There's nothing wrong with you. Your body is just reacting to the stress you feel because of the difficulties you've faced. You're great, but your circumstances haven't been great. Does that make sense?"

What he says makes me want to cry. I take another deep breath and keep looking at his face. Nothing's wrong with me? I'm not sure I believe him . . . but I want to.

"Now, did you want to ask me a question?" Pete points to my notebook.

I swallow once, twice, then nod my head.

"Good. Questions are good. But first, may I ask you a question? Sierra will stay right here, right next to you, okay?"

Nod.

"Were you ever able to talk?"

I feel my face get hot and I can't look at him. I just stare at the sheet on the bed and think back to before . . .

Yes, I could talk.

I nod again.

"But then something happened and talking became difficult?"

Another nod.

"Kaylee, that happens sometimes and it's okay. You'll talk again, when you feel ready. But for right now, don't worry about it. And if even writing your question is hard, that's okay too. There's no rush."

But there is a rush. I have to know about Sierra . . . Will I still get to see Sierra when I have to go live with the Fosters?

She's still holding my hand so I pull my hand out of hers and reach for the pen again. My hands shake just a little but not so much that I can't pull the cap off this time. I open the notebook and write:
What about Sierra?

I start to hand the notebook to Pete, but then pull it back and hold it against my chest. He seems nice, but . . . Finally, I realize I don't have a choice. If I want to know, I have to ask, so I hand him the notebook. I watch him read. Then he holds out his hand. "May I borrow your pen?"

He writes something on the page and then looks at Sierra. Before he hands the notebook back to me, he asks if it's okay if Sierra goes and sits back down with Ruby.

I grab her hand again. But then I nod my head and let go.

When I get the notebook back, I don't see an answer, just another question. But now I understand why he wrote it instead of just asking me. He wants me to be honest. And if my answer to his question is no, then it might hurt Sierra's feelings.

But the answer's not no.

Yes, I like her. She's
. . . I think for a minute . . .
phenomenal and she's very responsible.
I hand him my answer.

I watch a smile start at his eyes and then spread across his whole face and then he laughs—a deep, big laugh. "Really?" He puts his hand out for the pen again.

When I get the notebook back, I smile too. He says if she's that great, he'll have to get to know her better. He also told me I'd still get to see her—maybe even a lot.

"Miss Kaylee, thank you for this nice exchange. I do believe it's past my bedtime, so I'll be on my way." Then, he holds out his hand, just like he did when he met Ruby—just like I'm a grown-up.

I hold out my hand and let him take it. He shakes it. "Good night, missy. I'll be back in the morning . . . but not too early. I'll let you get your beauty sleep." Then, he puts his huge hand on top of my head and messes up my hair.

I like him.

And he doesn't have horns.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Sierra

It's past midnight by the time I leave the hospital. I want to stay, but Pete, before he left, advised me to let the night nurses do their job. He told me to get some sleep, to "give Kaylee some space."

Space
. . . The word echoes in my mind like the trill of a lone hawk in a desolate canyon.
Space.
Did she ask for it? What did she write in her notes to him? Did she ask that I leave?

Doubt—a whirling vortex—sucks me into its depths.

Instead of turning toward home, I turn toward the ocean and head for the lighthouse on the point. I pull into the deserted parking lot, turn my headlights off, and stare into the inky night. I crack my window open and listen to the crash of surf meeting shore. Stars shimmy overhead and their dance allures. The beauty woos me, calls to me, and my fingers tingle.

The feeling is familiar—the need to work, to create. I long to splash emotions across a canvas. To daub, dabble, and dot my doubt in shapes and patterns. To release unspoken thoughts and feelings and see them take form.

Sleep? Sleep won't come this night. Instead I will work. I must work.

I think of the unfinished canvas in my studio. I back out of the parking lot and return the way I came. The streets between the lighthouse and home are empty, quiet—yet the short drive seems eternal.

Morning finds me standing outside the Santa Cruz Public Library. I pace back and forth in front of the locked doors and check my watch again: 9:58 a.m. It opens at 10:00 a.m.
exactly,
evidently. My pacing is as much from impatience as from the caffeine coursing through me. A pot of coffee sustained me as I worked last night, but now my heart is racing and my patience waning. Finally I see a woman inside, keys dangling from one hand, heading toward the door.

"Good morning! Happy reading!"

Her greeting is much too chipper for me, a woman who hasn't slept for two nights running. "Morning. Is the reference desk open yet?"

"Of course! Follow me."

As I worked on the abstract of the redwood last night, questions nagged. How do redwoods survive after a fire like the one that hollowed Kaylee's tree? What gives it the ability to sustain such a wounding and continue to flourish? Why, in the forest, do they often grow in circles? What lessons do the redwoods hold? I intend to find out.

I also want to check out a few books for Kaylee—maybe a book or two will take her mind off her troubles. Once I reach the counter, I reach into my backpack and dig for my sketchbook. I jotted notes from the slips of paper I read in Kaylee's jar and I want to refer to those now.

"How may I assist you?"

I glance back at the librarian and almost chuckle out loud when I see that she's placed glasses on the end of her nose. Her inquisitive eyes peer at me over the rims.

I open the sketchbook and find what I'm looking for. "Um, I'm wondering . . . are you familiar with a book about a boy named James? I believe he has two aunts . . . Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spike."

"Spiker. It's Aunt Spiker. Of course I know it!" She claps her hands with glee, and I take a step back from the counter overwhelmed by her exuberance. "It's
James and the Giant Peach,
of course!"

"Ah . . . of course. What about a book called
Mandy,
by Julie Edwards?"

"Yes. Yes. Charming little story. Such talent! She sings, acts, and writes!"

I feel my eyes glazing over as I try to think who she might be talking about.

"Julie Edwards. You know, Julie Andrews!
The Sound of Music
. . .
Mary Poppins!
Edwards is her married name, and her pen name."

"I see. Well, yes, I'd like to find those books along with anything else you might suggest for a young girl."

"How old is she? What are her interests?"

"Um . . . well . . . she's . . . uh . . . maybe ten or so, but she's really smart. And she likes . . ." Of course, I have no idea what she likes. "Well, I think she likes the two books you've mentioned, so anything else you might have in similar genres would be fine."

"Oh, there are so many to choose from! But yes, of course, several come to mind right away.
The Secret Garden, The Anne of Green Gables
series. Oh and
Little Women!
Has she read
Little Women?"

"
Little Women?
I don't know. But sure,
Little Women
sounds great. I'm also looking for information on redwoods . . . some research I'm doing."

"Redwoods? Oh, they're a fascinating species, aren't they?!"

Is there anything she doesn't know?

Fifteen minutes later I walk to my Jeep under the weight of six or seven books.

When I walk into Kaylee's room, I'm pleased to see more color in her cheeks and the dark crescents under her eyes seem to have faded some, but the bruise on her cheek is still visible, although it's more yellow than purple this morning.

She's sitting up with a tray in front of her laden with breakfast items: Cold cereal, hot oatmeal, bacon, pancakes, orange juice, and milk.

"Wow! That's quite a breakfast. You must be feeling better."

She smiles at me, a mustache of milk above her lip. For the first time, she looks like the child she is. For just a moment I see nothing in her face or eyes but contentment.

Then she points to the pile of books I'm holding.

"I stopped by the library. Do you like to read?"

I set the books on the table next to her bed and pull out the ones I chose for her. I hand her
James and the Giant Peach
and
Mandy
first.

She takes the books—her touch is gentle. She rubs one hand over each of the covers and then opens one of the books and holds it up to her nose and sniffs. She closes the books and touches each one again. She fingers the pages, and smiles at the pictures on the covers.

Finally, she looks from the books back to me. Her face is earnest, thoughtful, almost like she wants to say something. I wait . . . hopeful. But instead she just smiles. A wide, open smile. And she nods her head up and down.

"You're . . . welcome." I clear my throat and turn so she won't see the emotion her smile evoked. I busy myself with the other books, thumbing through them until I'm composed.

When I look back up from the pile of books, I see that she's holding
Mandy
close to her chest while eyeing the other books on her bedside table.

"Here, I got one more for you.
Little Women.
Have you read it?"

She shakes her head, no. She looks at me, eyebrows raised, and points to the other books.

"Oh, I'm doing some research on redwood trees. I'm an artist . . . I paint, sort of. It's hard to explain. I'll show you sometime." I shrug my shoulders and look at my feet. I've always found it difficult to explain that which is so personal to me. "Anyway, I'm working on a project now. Actually . . . it's your tree . . . in a way . . ."

Kaylee opens the drawer of the bedside table and grabs for her notebook and pen. I watch her scrawl something on a blank page and wait for her to hand it to me.