Words (31 page)

I take the notebook out of her hand and scribble a quick note.
I'm sorry.
I put the notebook back on her lap and she looks at it then looks back at me.

"No, Kaylee, it's okay. I just didn't know that you knew. I didn't know how much you heard the day I talked to your mom. Yes, I had Annie. I was Annie's parent—her mom." Sierra seems to think for a minute—she seems to make a decision. "Kaylee, there's nothing I won't talk to you about. I will tell you anything you want to know—anything. If you have questions about Annie, or about your mom, or about anything, I'll try to answer them. I will always be honest with you. Okay?"

I nod. I have lots of questions. But I've never really had anyone to ask. I know there are some things, like the questions that made the scream start, that I can't ever ask. But there are other things I want to know.

I take the notebook back again and think for a minute. Then I write what I've been wondering about:
The first day I saw you . . .

I stop. I don't want to make her feel bad.

"The first day you saw me . . . It's okay, Kaylee. Go ahead. You can ask."

I realize she's watching me and reading as I write. I finish my question:
You were crying. Was that because of Annie?

Sierra looks from the pad of paper out to her rose garden. I see her sigh—the rise and fall of her chest and shoulders. I look down at the quilt and trace the pattern of a flower on one of the squares of fabric.

"I want to tell you, little one. I'm just not used to talking about this so you'll have to be patient with me. Not everything is easy to talk about." She reaches over and puts her hand under my chin and lifts my face up so I'm looking at her again. "Okay?"

I nod.

"Yes. I was crying about Annie that day. It was the anniversary of the day she died and I'd just come from the cemetery. I go there once a year. I was . . . angry. Angry at myself. Angry because she died."

Because of drugs?

I can tell my question hurts her. I don't want to hurt her, but I need to know.

"Yes, because of drugs." Sierra starts pulling on the thread in the quilt again. She doesn't look at me when she talks. "Drugs can take over a person's mind, and then they do things they'd never do otherwise. It's like the drugs start making the choices—not the person. Or something like that. It doesn't mean I wasn't responsible for what happened—I was. But . . . It's hard to explain . . ."

Is that why . . . I stop. Never mind.

"Is that what happened to your mom?" Sierra whispers the question. "Little one, is that what you were going to ask?" She reaches over and takes my hand in one of hers. She brushes her other hand across my forehead and then smooths down my hair. I swallow and my throat aches. Then I nod my head—yes, that's what I was going to ask.

"Kaylee, look at me." She tilts my head up again. "First, I want you to know that you didn't do anything wrong. You aren't responsible in any way for your mom's problems. Do you understand that?"

I try to wipe away the tears running down my cheeks, but they just keep coming. I shake my head—just a little.

"Kaylee? Do you understand that nothing you've gone through is your fault?" Sierra scoots over and sits right next to me. She puts her arm around my shoulders and pulls me close to her.

Tears drip onto my notepad. I lean into her and bury my face in her sweatshirt.

"It's okay, little one. It's okay to cry. Just let it all out. You've been through so much." She hugs me tighter and whispers in my ear. "Oh, Kaylee, I love you."

I feel like something inside me breaks, like a water balloon pops and everything comes gushing out. My whole body shakes and it gets hard to breathe. I gulp for air. I see dark spots on Sierra's sweatshirt where my tears have fallen. Sierra holds me close and keeps whispering in my ear. "It's okay, little one, it's okay. Just let it all out. It's okay . . ."

I hiccup and finally pull away. I pick up my pen again.
She didn't have amnesia, did she?

Sierra is quiet. I look up to see her face—she's staring out at the grass. I can tell she's being careful about what she's going to say. "I don't think so, Kaylee. I think the drugs made her forget . . . everything. At least for awhile. I don't know for sure, but that's my best guess. I think she's taking drugs and it's made her do things she wouldn't have done otherwise." She looks down at me and then pulls her sweatshirt sleeve down over one hand and wipes my eyes and my nose with it. Then she shrugs and smiles. "We'll wash it later."

I nod, then I ask another question, just to make sure.
So using drugs is kind of like having amnesia?

"Drugs can make you forget what's important and forget who you are." Sierra gives me a squeeze and then wipes her own eyes with her sleeve.

Do you think she loves me?

"Of course she loves you. After all, you're soooo lovable!" She smiles and then leans down until the tip of her nose is touching the tip of mine. "How could she help but love you? She's just not herself right now. Little one, may I ask you a question now?"

I nod.

"When I saw you that first day, you had your hands covering your ears—like this." She puts her hands over her ears just like I do. "And then today, I saw you do the same thing. Can you tell me why you do that? Can you explain it to me?"

I feel my face get hot. I look down at the quilt and the squares blur in front of me. I wipe the tears and try to swallow the lump in my throat again.

"Kaylee?"

Aardvark.

Albino.

"Little one, does it . . . does it have something to do with . . . the man at the cabin. Something to do with him?" She puts her hand under my chin and lifts my face up so I'm looking at her, but I look away.

Babka.

Bombastic.

Cloister.

"Kaylee, I know what he did to you and I think it will help you if you can share it with someone. Either me or with Dr. Beth."

Cohort.

I put my hands over my ears and pull my knees to my chest. I wrap my arms around my legs and bury my face against my knees. The scream, louder than ever, rages through my mind and body. My legs and arms start to shake and I rock back and forth.

Colloquial.

Crescendo.

The scream won't stop.

Cretin.

I can't make it stop.

I feel Sierra lie down next to me. She puts her arms around me and holds onto me.

I can never tell her.

I can never tell anyone.

Never.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Sierra

I hold the phone in my hand and try to decide who to call. Dr. Beth is probably the right choice, she told me to call if I noticed "extreme angst" in Kaylee, but it's Pete's card I hold. I dial his number.

After identifying myself to the receptionist who answers the phone, I wait. And wait.

"Hey, Sierra?"

"I blew it. I think I really blew it. I don't know what I was thinking. I just thought if we could talk about it, if she could share it with me—maybe it would help. But I didn't know. I don't know. I shouldn't have asked. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know!"

"Whoa, Sierra, slow down. Take a deep breath. Good. Take another. Okay. One more. Great. Now, tell me what you're talking about."

I feel my heart rate slow as I take Pete's prescribed breaths. The strength and warmth I sense in his voice reassure and my mind begins to clear. "Okay, I think I blew it with Kaylee. Something seemed to be bothering her this morning. She wasn't herself. She hasn't been since seeing her mom. So I thought if I could get her to talk about it, I mean write about it, maybe it would help. Dr. Beth says Kaylee feels safe with me, so I thought maybe she'd share it with me and it was going pretty well, until . . . until . . ."

"Until?"

"Well, earlier, I was watching her in the backyard and I saw her cover her ears—like she was trying to block out a loud noise, and then I could see her begin to tremble. Her whole body was shaking like a leaf. So I began questioning her. I finally asked her why she'd been covering her ears. I told her she'd done that the first day I saw her, and I wondered if she could tell me why . . ."

"Good. Did she respond?"

"Good?" I'm baffled by his response. "No, she didn't respond. So then, oh I can't believe I did this, but . . . I pressed a little more. I asked her if it had anything to do with Jack. I could see I'd embarrassed her or that she felt ashamed or something. Oh, Pete, I could see it on her face. She began to cry and then turned away from me. After a minute she covered her ears again. Then she laid down in a fetal position, with her hands over her ears. It was like she wasn't there anymore—like she was somewhere else. Oh, it was awful. I didn't know what to do."

"What did you do?"

Pete's voice remains calm, like he has complete confidence in me. His tone implies concern for Kaylee but holds no condemnation for me—which, honestly, baffles me. "Um. I laid down next to her and put my arms around her. I stroked her back and her hair. I knew she wouldn't hear anything I said, so I just held her until she calmed—until she finally took her hands away from her ears."

"Good. Good. So when did you blow it?"

"What?"

"You said you blew it. When did you blow it?"

I try to shake the confusion from my head before I respond. Didn't he hear me? "The whole thing. I blew the whole thing. I shouldn't have asked her those questions—shouldn't have referred to Jack . . . Obviously I handled it wrong."

"Tell me what happened next."

"Well, I kept stroking her back and when she took her hands off her ears and I thought she could hear me again, I told her that I loved her and that nothing she'd experienced was her fault. I'd told her that earlier too when we talked about her mom."

"Wait . . . Did she talk about her mom?"

"Yes, she wrote down a few questions for me. Questions about things she overheard when Kathryn was here. She asked about her mom using drugs. Oh, Pete, she has so much to deal with." I sigh. "I'm so sorry. I pressed her too hard. I should have left that conversation to Dr. Beth or you—someone who knows what they're doing."

"Huh. Sierra, from where I'm sitting, you handled everything just right. Your instinct is great. Kaylee communicates with you. She's open to you—at least more open than she is with anyone else. If she's going to open up, my guess is she'll open up to you. I really think you did just fine."

"What? Really? But . . ."

"Tell me what she's doing now. How is she now?"

"Now?" I peek out the kitchen window and look at her again. "She's sitting on a quilt in the backyard, eating a sandwich, and playing with Van."

"She's eating and playing?"

"Yes. After she calmed down, I asked her if she was hungry." I laugh when I remember her response. "Want to know what she wrote?"

"Sure."

"Her note said she was ravenous. She even defined
ravenous
for me. Evidently she doubts my vocabulary skills."

"You did know what ravenous meant, didn't you?"

I can almost see the smile on his face as he teases. "Duh!"

With Pete's chuckle, I feel my neck and shoulders relax. The tension from the last hour eases. I listen as Pete fills me in on some recent developments with Kaylee's mom, but it's too much for me to think about now. I'm spent. I'll have to consider his news later.

"Sierra."

I strain to hear him. His voice has softened to a whisper.

"You're amazing." He clears his throat. "I mean, you did an amazing job with her. You really did. From a professional standpoint, you may have pushed her, but you also opened a door for her. Kaylee's in bondage—a prison of silence. Speaking, especially speaking the truth about what happened to her and allowing those around her to help her understand that it wasn't her fault, will help set her free. She needs to speak, and she needs, when she's ready, to speak the truth. Be cautious—don't push her too hard. You're walking a fine line. But today you gave her permission to tell you what she's been through. You invited her to share her story."

"Okay, thanks. I won't push her too hard. I just . . . I just want to help her."

"You are helping her. And you're doing a great job."

Okay, thanks. Thanks for your time and for . . . you know . . . your encouragement and everything."

"No problem."

Just as I'm ready to hang up, he stops me.

"Sierra?"

"Yes?"

"Hang in there. I meant what I said earlier, you are amazing. Good-bye."

I hold the phone in my hand, startled. I don't know what to do with his compliment . . . Soon, I realize, I'm grinning like a school girl with her first crush. "Oh good grief! Get a grip, Sierra!" I bang the receiver down and head outside to check on Kaylee.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

Kaylee

Kind of a long day, wasn't it, kiddo?"

Sierra sits next to me on my bed. I see her reach for the comb and I shake my head. NO. I take the comb from her hand. Combing my hair isn't her job. I can do it myself. I run the comb through the sides and back a few times and then reach around her and put it back on the table. She just watches me.

"Would you like me to read to you tonight?"

I shrug.

Sierra gets up, bends down in front of the bookshelf, and pulls out my Bible. She opens it to
The Gospel According to Mark.
We started with
The Gospel According to Matthew.
She said the Gospels are the stories about Jesus. That's what Grandma Bickford thought I'd like. And she was right. Sierra told me that Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John were some of Jesus' disciples and that they each wrote about Jesus from their own perspective.

The first three definitions for
dis·ci·ple
all say that it's someone who follows Christ. Christ is Jesus' last name, I think. So I guess even the person who wrote the dictionary knew about Jesus.

Sierra's voice is soft as she reads and my eyes get heavy. I have a hard time keeping my mind on the story about someone who was deaf. Instead I keep thinking about Sierra's questions earlier today—her questions about him. But I don't want to think about him anymore. I yawn and pull the blanket up around my chin and close my eyes.