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As I headed west, I thought of my parents and what I'd learned from each of them through the years. Daddy taught me to see. Where others in our community saw grain, Daddy saw God. He always encouraged me in his quiet and simple way to look beyond the obvious.

"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 better."

When I was about twelve, Mother and Daddy took us with them down to Galveston for a week. Daddy was there for an American Farm Bureau meeting. After the meeting, we stayed for a few rare days of vacation. I remember standing on the beach and looking out at the flat sea. Daddy pulled me close and pointed at the surf.

"What do you see?"

"The ocean?" I asked more than stated.

"Yes, but there's more. You're seeing God's power."

I must have seemed unimpressed because Daddy laughed. "It's there, Shan. Someday you'll see it. But I'll admit it's easier to see it in the crashing surf and jagged cliffs of the California coastline."

I didn't understand what he meant then—and I'm still not sure I fully understand—but his description of the California coastline followed me as I was off to see it for myself.

My mother taught me to look for something else. "What's the truth, Shannon?" she'd ask over and over, challenging me to choose what was right. She taught me to analyze a situation and then make a decision that represented the truth foundational to our family.

Most often the truth she spoke of was found in the big family Bible she'd brought with her from England. She'd lay the book out on the kitchen table and open it to the book of John in the New Testament and she'd read from the King James version: "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."

"There's freedom in the truth, Shannon. You remember that," she'd say.

Again, I'm only now beginning to understand what she meant. But these were the lessons from home that I carried with me to California.

So why hadn't I applied those lessons? Why had I wandered so far from my parents' truth?

Those are questions I'd ask myself many times over. I'd yet to find the answers.

Restless after the phone conversation with my mother, I slip into the gardening clogs I keep under the deck and cross the postage stamp of grass to the flower beds that border the lawn. One lesson from home that I did learn and apply was how to grow things. Anything. As I deadhead the rose bushes, the bees in the lavender serenade me with their humming. I occupy my mind with a mental list of weekend chores: rake rose beds, turn compost pile, pull the trash can to the curb.

As I come to the Barbara Bush roses, I smile. I had to drive over the hill earlier this year into San Jose to find a nursery that carried the pale pink hybrid named after the conservative former first lady. There were none to be found in the nurseries of liberal Santa Cruz County. The bush is now heavy with large velvety blooms and, without thinking about what I'm doing, I cut an armful of stems and carry them into the kitchen where I wrap the bouquet in newspaper and place it in the fridge until I'm ready to leave.

As I shower, memories beckon again. My mother's plea to think about what she said nags at me. She is right—I have not, cannot, forgive. How do you forgive yourself for someone else's death? This is the burden she's asking me to let go—an encumbrance so intrinsic to who I've become that setting it aside would necessitate amputating a part of myself. I no longer know where I begin and the pain ends. We're inseparable, this burden and I.

A recent review from an art critic in the
San Francisco Times
comes to mind:

Sierra's work intrigues and torments all at once. The onlooker can't help but wonder at the story that makes each canvas bleed.

The review felt—feels—invasive.

My work is the embodiment of my grief. Only on canvas do I express the depth of anguish—there, without having to assign words to feelings, I writhe in agony. But for others to wonder at what drives my art disturbs me. This pain is private. The irony is never lost on me that my commercial success is the result of my most profound personal failure.

Standing in front of the mirror, I see an image that belies the aching soul within.

My mane of blonde hair is prematurely graying, but the effect enhances my natural highlights and gives me the appearance of an authentic sun-bleached California girl. And I realize that at thirty-four, I still appear more girl than woman. I wear the length of my years on the inside.

I dress in my standard uniform of khakis, T-shirt, and flip-flops, then throw socks, hiking boots, and a sweatshirt in my backpack. I will take the vet's advice and let Van rest—after all, I don't really deserve the solace his company might offer today. After giving him fresh water and food in the yard, I return and stand in front of the refrigerator contemplating the roses inside.

The first memory I allow to intrude stabs—

Her face, just moments before she died, is so clear. The blue veins so prominent beneath her papery skin as she fought for life have faded, leaving her pale—beautiful, with the blush of a rose—and to touch her skin was to touch the velvet of petals.

I open the fridge and cradle the paper-wrapped bouquet in my arms.

I lost her twelve years ago today. What would those years have held had she lived?

I take a deep breath and head out to my Jeep parked in the driveway.

CHAPTER THREE

Kaylee

The morning sun feels warm on my shoulders as I walk to the stream. But I still feel cold on the inside. I always feel cold afterward. After him. That's the only way I know how to describe it. For a little while, I don't feel anything at all except cold.

But I always know when I'm thawing out because that's when the scream starts.

I hear it in my head.

Sometimes, I can't make it stop.

When I reach the creek and see the blackberry bushes, my stomach growls. The berries are so fat they look ready to pop. I slide down a little hill to reach the bushes growing along the stream and begin picking the berries as fast as I can. The first warm berry explodes in my mouth and soon juice is dripping down the sides of my chin. I must eat a hundred berries before I stop.

I snuck out last night after I was sure he wasn't going to move from his place on the floor and checked his truck for groceries. Sometimes he'll stop at the store before he goes to the Stumble Inn, his "home away from home" as he calls it. But all I found in the truck was a twelve-pack of beer. There were five empty cans on the floor of the passenger side and seven left in the box that he'd probably opened on his way home from the bar.

I'm pretty sure he's an
al·co·hol·ic
—noun 1. a person addicted to intoxicating drinks.

It was a few hours later before I heard him move.

"Kaylee, help me up. Get me a towel or something." His voice was thick with beer and sleep.

I lay still, pretending I was asleep as he crawled toward my mattress.

He shook me, "Kaylee, wake up. Talk to me. What happened to my forehead?"

I didn't move.

He shook me again, hard this time. "You stupid mute, wake up!"

After a few minutes of silence, I felt his hand on my thigh and I knew I still had a long night ahead of me.

When I've had my fill of berries, I walk to the big rock that sticks out of the stream—the rock is low and flat. I lie on my back on the rock, face to the sun, and warm myself before getting into the water.

I wade in with my clothes on and shiver as the water reaches my waist. I pull my shirt up and struggle to get it over my head. Once it's off, I dunk it in the water. I ball it up, grind it together, and then let it loosen as I swish it around. I do this several times until I can hardly see the berry stains, then I lay it out on the rock to dry. With my shirt off, I look and feel for the sore spots on my belly just beneath my rib cage—sore from the weight of him.

I might not feel anything on the inside, but the bruises hurt.

Next I pull my wet jeans off. They're missing the top button, have holes at the knees, and are too short. But they still fit, sort of. I've grown taller, but not much wider. I have some other clothes that he brought home from K-Mart last year. They fit better, but I like these. My mom bought these.

I wash my jeans and put them on the rock too, and then I wash myself and feel the other bruises . . . I reach to the bottom of the creek and pull up handfuls of sand and scrub it over my body trying to wash away the smell of him.

When I finish, I take a deep breath and dive under the water into the deepest part of the stream. Water fills my ears until I can't hear anything but the pounding of my heart. I pretend I'm a mermaid. I cross my legs and kick, like I have one big fin. Then I twirl in the water and watch my hair swirl around me. I stay under until I see black and white spots in front of my eyes and my lungs hurt. I want to stay longer—I want to stay forever—but finally I have to come back up.

I get out of the water and climb back on the rock and lay out with my clothes to dry. I'm not afraid of anyone seeing me. I hardly ever see someone here—but I always hear them coming and I hide before they see me.

The rock is warm and my eyes get heavy. I want to sleep in the sun. But I can't—not here. What if I didn't wake up and get back in time? Instead, I get up, put on my clothes, and head across the meadow into the forest. It's a lot like the area right around the cabin with pine trees and redwoods. Only here the redwoods are like giants and the ground is covered with ferns, mushrooms, and heart-shaped clovers. The clovers are my favorite.

I'm careful as I walk, looking for banana slugs or anything that might squish under my toes. If anyone was paying attention, they'd see the trail I've made through the meadow into the forest. But he never comes out here, so it doesn't matter. The trail leads to my tree—a colossal redwood.

That's my favorite
C
word—
co·los·sal
. It means awesomely huge.

The bottom of the trunk was hollowed out by a fire a long time ago, but the tree is still alive. The inside of the trunk is like a big room. When the light is right and shines through the opening, I can bend my head back and look way up and see where the fire stopped. I don't know how the tree can still be alive, but my mom said that redwoods are re—uh, resilmet, or something. I'll have to look it up. But anyway, I think it means they can take a lot. That would be a good word to put in my box.

When I go inside the tree, I see small tracks, probably from a squirrel. Then I see that a few of the pinecones I used to make my circle are missing. Definitely a squirrel then. They love pinecones.

I go out and pick up three pinecones and carry them back into the tree. I put each one down just right so the circle is whole again. Then I step over the line and sit in the middle. The circle is the safety zone, like in a game. No one can get you there. The only way to get into the circle is if you say, "Mother, may I?" I love that game. I like being the "Mother" who gets to say "Yes, you may" or "No, you may not." We used to play that at recess when I went to school. Sometimes I got to be the Mother, but usually Marcy Baker bossed her way into being it. But I was good at that game, I never forgot to ask, "Mother, may I?"

I lie back in the circle with my arms behind my head and watch dust float in the light shining through the opening in the trunk. It's so quiet and still here that the dust barely moves. It just sort of hangs in the air. I wonder how much dust I breathe into my nose every day. The thought makes my nose tickle. You can only see the dust if the light is right, most of the time you don't think about it being there.

This tree is my sanctuary.
sanc·tu·ary—noun
1. any place of refuge: asylum. That means it's my safe place away from him.

It's about time to head back. He started another new job a couple of weeks ago and I'm still figuring out his schedule. He works at a gas station now. He's there on Saturday and Sunday and then again on Monday, Tuesday, and Friday. He has his schedule written on a scrap of paper in his truck, I checked it again last night. It's hard to know what his days off will be like. Sometimes he spends them at the bar playing pool. Other times he just hangs around the cabin. Those are the worst days. Either way, I stay in the cabin on his days off because I don't know when he'll come and go.

If I go back now, I can sleep until afternoon and then go over my words for a couple hours before he comes back. I want to find that
R
word I was thinking about. As I watch the dust and make my plan, I hear something. I sit up.

It's a car or a truck.

What if it's him? What if he came back early and couldn't find me?

The berries start churning in my stomach and I feel sick.

I stay in the circle and wait.

The engine stops. Turns off. Pretty soon I hear a door slam.

It sounds different than the slam of his truck door. My stomach settles a little when I realize, now that I think about it, the engine didn't sound like his truck either.

I crawl to the edge of the opening in the tree. Still mostly hidden, I sneak a peek outside and see a Jeep in the clearing by the point. I know the car is a Jeep, because Brent, my mom's last boyfriend, drove a Jeep. But this one looks a lot older than Brent's. What I don't see is the person who drove it. So I crawl back into the farthest corner of the tree trunk and sit in the dark spot where the sun doesn't shine.

I wait a few more minutes.

When I don't hear anything, I crawl back to the opening and look out again.

This time I see a woman at the edge of the point. She doesn't move. She just stands there looking out. On a sunny day like today, you can see the ocean from there. She stands there for a long time. Her back is to me, so I know she can't see me, so I just observe her. To observe means you pay special attention to something. I'm paying special attention to her.

I don't feel sleepy anymore.

The first thing I observe is her hair. It's so long that it almost touches her waist. She has it in a ponytail tied with something. Not ribbon, just a band or something, so it's probably even longer than it looks. It's blonde and curly and there's lots of it.