Words (27 page)

It will never end.

She thinks back to what she told the woman who has Kaylee—that for a price she could keep her daughter a little while longer. She's not selling her daughter. She's not.

I'm just going to get myself back on my feet. With a little extra money, I can wean myself off the meth. I just need a little—just enough to stop the crawling, the shaking. Then I can think. I can make a plan.

Just a little more . . . that's all I need.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Kaylee

Through my tears, the ceiling seems to float overhead. Tears drip into my ears, but I don't care. I roll over and rest my check against the damp pillow. It's cool against my cheek but offers little solace.

Solace.

I feel the word in my mouth and imagine the hissing sound of the
S
and
C,
but still I find no comfort. I mentally spit the word out. It's useless.

I search my mind for the right word—the perfect word. It doesn't take long to find it:

con·found·ed—adjective
1. bewildered; confused; perplexed. 2. damned.

Damned. That's a word I'm not supposed to say. They say it's a swear word, but all it really means is that I'm doomed, that bad things are just going to keep happening to me for no reason. That's why I'm confounded. Nothing makes sense.

She came back.

She found me.

I thought I was dreaming because I was almost asleep, but then I heard her. I heard her voice. I opened my eyes, looked around, and knew I wasn't asleep. The window above my bed was open and I heard them on the porch outside. I stayed very still and listened, although it was hard to hear over the beating of my heart thumping in my ears. But I heard enough.

I heard my mom.

I heard her tell Sierra I was kidnapped. Maybe she still has amnesia. Maybe she doesn't remember everything the right way. She had amnesia. That's why she didn't come back. I know it. Now she only remembers some things. That must be how it works.

I listened for a few minutes more, then I got up and ran to the door.

Mom! Mommy!
I yelled the words in my head, but they wouldn't come out my mouth. I opened the door and . . . and there she was.

She found me.

I wanted to say things to her, to tell her I love her, to ask her where she'd been, to tell her everything's all right now. But I couldn't.

"Stupid
mute.
"

He was right.

Now she probably thinks I don't care. What if she never comes back again? Or . . . what if she does?

Bewildered. Confused. Perplexed.

Damned.

I can hear Pete and Sierra whispering in the kitchen. After my mom left, after she walked away, I tried to follow her. But Sierra grabbed me and carried me into the house and held onto me while she called Pete. She wouldn't let go of me, no matter how hard I fought her. Finally I just gave up. I couldn't fight anymore. I'd cried so many tears I was exhausted. When she finally let go, I curled up on the kitchen floor like a big question mark.

I didn't understand. I don't understand.

Sierra sat next to me on the kitchen floor and rubbed my back and told me she was sorry—that I was her responsibility now—that she couldn't let me go with my mom because my mom is sick.

She must understand about the amnesia too.

Then Sierra said. "I love you, Kaylee."

But I don't care.

I don't.

It doesn't matter anymore.

When Pete came, he picked me up in his big arms and carried me to my room. Sierra followed him. Pete laid me on my bed and Sierra covered me with the blanket. Pete sat next to me on the bed, but because he's so big, it made the bed sink down and made me roll toward him. I sat up, scooted way over to the other side, and laid back down with my back to him.

"Missy, I want you to listen to me for a minute, okay?"

I didn't nod or anything. I just laid there.

"I'm not going to try and guess what you're feeling right now. But whatever you're feeling is okay. And it might take some time to make sense of it all. Whether you're sad, or angry, or relieved, or confused, or all of that, it's okay. We'll work it out together when you're ready."

Then I heard Pete whisper to Sierra. "Get her notebook and pen. I'll leave it here on her table."

I heard Sierra unzip my backpack, and I could picture her handing the notebook to Pete.

"Kaylee, I'm putting your notebook here on your table. If you want to write about what you're feeling, or if you have questions, it's right here. Sierra and I are going to sit in the kitchen for awhile and let you rest. But if you want to ask me anything, or if you want Sierra, you just come get us. We're just down the hall, missy."

Then I felt Pete tuck the blanket in around me. He put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. "You rest, Kaylee."

Now they probably think I'm asleep, but I'm not.

I throw the blanket off, get out of bed, go to the bookshelf, and reach for the dictionary. I set it on my bed and climb back in. It's the first time I've read the dictionary since coming here. I decide I'll read whatever page I open it to. Page 279—the
C
s—they're my favorites.

co·ag·u·la·tive

co·ag·u·la·tor

co·ag·u·lin

I don't bother reading the definitions. The words are swimming on the page. I try not to think about the cabin and all the times I read the dictionary there. Instead, I try to remember the times my mom had me look up words.

Go get the dictionary, Kaylee . . .

But I can only hear her mean voice in my head. The way she sounded when she was talking to Sierra on the porch, and the way she was at the cabin sometimes.

She wasn't always mean.

I skip down.

co·a·lesce

co·a·les·cence

I like the way those words feel in my mouth. I bet they sound pretty when someone says them out loud.

I hear Sierra's voice get louder in the kitchen. I can't hear what she's saying, but she sounds upset.

Sierra . . .

I can't think about Sierra.

co·a·les·cent

Does she really love me?

coal·field

It doesn't matter anyway, not now that my mom's back.

coal·fish

Coalfish? That's a funny word. What's a coalfish? I don't remember that word. I wipe my eyes and read the definition: a dark-colored fish belonging to the cod family: also called black pollack.

Coal is black—that must be why the fish is called that. Soot comes from coal.
Stick straight and dark as soot.
That's what my mom used to say about our hair. I run my fingers through my hair. It's clean and feels like silk now. No tangles. I look over to the table by my bed and see the pink comb Sierra combs my hair with every night before I go to sleep. It's sticking out under my notebook. I reach for it and run my thumb over the teeth.

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.