Words (32 page)

Sierra keeps reading. "'He has done everything well, they said. He even makes the deaf hear and the mute speak.'"

I sit up. What did she say? I grab Sierra's arm and pull the Bible toward me so I can read it myself.

"Kaylee, it said Jesus can make the mute speak." She points to the verse she just read.

I read it for myself. Jesus can make the mute speak? Can He make me speak? I lie back down and think about what I would say if I could talk. I think again of the questions Sierra asked me this afternoon. Would I have to answer her questions if I could talk?

"There's another verse somewhere in the Bible that says 'all things are possible with God.' Or something like that. Jesus can do anything."

I turn my head away from Sierra and face the other wall. I've heard enough for tonight. She seems to understand and leans over and kisses my forehead. "Good night, little one." She stands and reaches for the lamp and then stops. "Shhh . . . Do you hear that?"

I listen and look up at Sierra. She's smiling. The noise—what sounds like screaming—comes again. I can just barely hear it. Sierra's looking at the window that's open over my bed.

"It's the Giant Dipper. The ride at the Boardwalk. There it is again, hear it? You can hear the people screaming as they go down the biggest drop. Sometimes the sound carries on the breeze in the evenings. Do you like roller coasters?"

I shrug. I don't know. I've never been on one.

"Oh, the Giant Dipper is really fun! I'll have to take you soon, before the Boardwalk closes for the winter. Would you like that?"

I shrug again. Maybe. I'm not sure about the screaming part.

She leans over and kisses my forehead again and squeezes my shoulder. "Want me to close your window? Or does the breeze feel good?"

I just look at her. Does she expect me to answer?

"Sorry, little one. Sometimes I forget. I'll close it when I come in later and let Van out." She gently tugs on a clump of my hair and bends down again and whispers in my ear. "I love you, Kaylee Wren. Sweet dreams."

Sierra turns to leave but I reach for her. I catch the hem of her shirt and pull on it. She stops, turns around, and looks down at me. I hesitate but then I open my mouth and even though I know nothing will come out, I mouth the words,
I love you, too.

She bends down again and puts her arms around me and gives me a tight squeeze. When she looks at me her expression is serious, like she might cry. Finally she says, "Kaylee, you just gave me a precious gift. Thank you." She walks to the door and turns off the light. "Good night, little one."

I lie still for a long time. The questions from earlier keep me awake. When Sierra asked why I cover my ears, she knew, somehow, that it had something to do with him. How did she know? If she knows, what does she think? Does she think I'm bad? She said today that nothing I've gone through is my fault, but she doesn't know everything. If she knew, she wouldn't say that. It had to be my fault.

I must have done something wrong or that wouldn't have happened.

I roll over and bury my face in my pillow. I reach behind me for Van, and sink my hand in the fur on his back. He turns and I feel his wet nose nuzzling my hand. I roll back over and scoot down next to him. I pull my pillow down and lay my head next to his.

I can't think about all that now. I need to think about my plan. I have to go. I have to find my mom, to help her. I knew I couldn't go tonight because—well, I just couldn't. But I'll have to go tomorrow. I feel that big boulder sitting on my chest again. I turn my head so I'm nose to nose with Van; I put my arm around him and hug him tight.

I lie there with Van for a long time thinking about my plan—and listening to the screams of people who are supposedly having fun.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Sierra

I love you, too . . .

Kaylee's words—the words she mouthed—hold so much for me. Too much, probably—comfort, hope, even healing.

Her love is God's grace to me.

Is it truly possible that what my mother and daddy have said all these years really applies to me too? All my sins are forgiven? Even what I did to Annie? What my choices caused? My mother's oft-quoted verse comes to mind again. "The truth will set you free . . ." And I hear the question she asked equally often,
What's the truth, Shannon?

Finally I'm beginning to understand the freedom found in the truth. Christ died to forgive my sins and He has forgiven me. Even more amazing is that He loves me.
He
loves
me.
The accusations I've lived with for so long have quieted. My mind is still and I'm resting in truth. Freedom.

Tonight I also dare to hope. I hope for an enduring relationship with Kaylee. I pray for Kaylee, her healing—her freedom. I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know how to help her. All I know how to do is love her. I give the rest to God; I try something new: I turn all my hopes and dreams over to Him . . . and I trust.

Then I think again of Kaylee. Pete is right, the truth
will
set her free. She must speak her truth so we can speak truth back to her. I will spend the rest of my life telling her that what she went through—her mother's drug use, the abuse, all of it—wasn't her fault. She paid the price for others' actions. The familiar anger I feel whenever I think of what Kaylee suffered wells within me again. Then a new thought hits me—and stuns me. Kaylee, an innocent child, paid the price for others' poor choices—just like Christ, who was also completely innocent, paid the price for my choices.

"I get it." I whisper into the dark, choking back tears. "I really . . . get it." I pull myself out of the Adirondack chair and step down to the lawn. There, standing barefoot on the grass, I lift my face to the sky. The Big Dipper hangs low over the bungalow against the black velvet sky and millions of stars dance overhead. Who am I to deny God's mercy? His forgiveness? Who am I to think I know more than the Creator?

Who am I? I know who I am. I am completely unworthy. But I am completely loved. I bow my head, humbled, and offer my gratitude . . . "Thank You for loving me and forgiving me. Thank You." I wrap my arms around myself and head back into the bungalow. It has been a long day.

I'm sure I fell asleep with a smile on my face, but I wake with a start, heart pounding, body tense, and fully alert. The sound that woke me comes again shattering the silence of the night. Screaming! Coming from Kaylee's room!

I bolt from my bed and down the hallway, reaching her in seconds, I'm sure, although it feels like it takes much longer. Too long. She is in her bed, thrashing back and forth, arms flinging overhead as though she's trying to hit something or someone. I reach for her shoulders to shake her awake and notice that her sheets and pillow are soaked. Tears glisten on her cheeks. She screams again—a deep, primal, agonizing scream.

The first sound, I realize, I've ever heard come from her mouth.

"Kaylee!" I shake her. "Wake up! Little one, wake up! It's just a dream!" I shake her again—less gentle this time. I must wake her. I must pull her from whatever horror has her in its grip.

"Kaylee!"

She quiets, the thrashing stops, and her eyes open. But she isn't seeing me—she's still lost in the nightmare.

"Look at me. Look at my face. It's me. You're having a nightmare—everything's okay. You're okay." I sit on the side of the bed and reach for the lamp and turn it on. Then I put my arms around her, but she pushes me away. One of her fists flies toward my face. I dodge her blow and grab her arms. "Oh, Kaylee, it's okay. It's just me, little one. You're okay."

As she tries to focus on me, I realize that she's not okay. Of course she's not okay. I put my hands on either side of her little face. "Shh . . . it was a nightmare. You're here now."

Her eyes, wild with fear, finally focus on my eyes, but her body trembles. Then she lifts her hands and covers her ears.

I drop my hands from her face and wrap my arms around her shoulders and hold her trembling body tight. For the second time in twelve hours, I stroke her back and her hair and hold her until finally her arms drop back down to her side and her breathing returns to normal. I finally let her go, but just long enough to move from sitting on the edge of her bed to lying down next to her. I put one arm under her shoulders and the other around the front of her, then pull her close. And there, with her head on my shoulder, she falls back to sleep.

I lie awake holding her all night. I hold her until the rays of a new day filter through the curtains above her bed. I begin the day with a whispered prayer. "This is the day the Lord has made . . ."

It is a verse I remember from Sunday school, and today it is a prayer of commitment. I commit Kaylee's day, and mine, to God. He is in control.

He has to be, because I have no idea what I'm doing.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Kaylee

I hold my breath and count.

One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three . . .

When I reach one thousand forty, my lungs burn and I let out a
woosh
of air and then suck in a deep breath. Then I hiccup again.

"Okay, let's try something else." Sierra gets up from the table and goes to a cabinet and pulls out the sugar bowl. Then she gets a spoon and a glass. She fills the glass with water and brings it to the table. She dips the spoon in the sugar bowl and takes out a heaping spoonful.

"Open your mouth and swallow the sugar as fast as you can. Then drink the whole glass of water."

She puts the spoon of sugar in my mouth and I try to swallow the dry granules, but they get stuck in my throat. I swallow again but feel like I might choke. I reach for the glass of water.

"Drink the whole thing without stopping."

I gulp the water and drink the whole glass. I set it on the table and wait. Sierra watches me. We both wait.

"Hey, that did it!"

And then, I hiccup again.

"Oh no. Well you may just have to wait them out. Do you want to try to eat some breakfast or do you want to wait until the hiccups are gone?"

I grab my pen.
I'll wait.

I slump in my chair and scribble little circles in my notebook. The nightmare last night seemed so real, just like I was back at the cabin with him. But in the dream my mom was there too. She was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, which wasn't really like the kitchen in the cabin at all, but that's how dreams are. She was watching him and he was watching me. Then her head sort of rolled to one side and rested on her shoulder. Her eyes were still open but she wasn't really looking at anything. He looked at her; then he came and sat down next to me and put his hand on my thigh. I knew what was going to happen but instead of just waiting for it to happen, I pushed his hand away. But then he grabbed me. I started to scream and tried to fight him, but he was too big. I kept screaming for my mom, but she never came to help. She just sat in the chair, staring at nothing.

Now I can't get the nightmare out of my mind and the scream is in my head. I shake my head, I hiccup, and I shake my head again. But this morning I can't make the scream go away. I cover my ears and lay my head on the table.

Pretty soon Sierra sits in the chair next to me. She reaches over and takes my hands off my ears. "Little one? How can I help?"

I don't know. All I can think about is my mom and how she looked in my dream. And I think about him and I hear the scream. Then I hiccup again. Sierra scoots her chair closer to me. Finally she asks me if I'd like to listen to some music. "Would that help?"

I nod. I don't know if it will help, but maybe . . .

She gets up and goes to her room. When she comes back, she has headphones connected to her MP3 player. She puts the headphones on my ears and turns up the volume. The music fills my head. Sierra sits by me again and starts rubbing my back. With my head resting on the table, and Sierra's hand on my back, and the sound of the music filling my ears, my eyes get heavy and my breathing gets more normal. The hiccups go away. I sit like that for a long time.

Sierra always knows how to make me feel better.

This should make me feel good.

But it doesn't.

Sierra lifts headphones off one of my ears. "Hey, kiddo, that was an awfully big sigh. I'm sorry you're having a hard morning. I wish I could make whatever's troubling you go away." She leans forward and whispers, "I love you. How about some breakfast now?"

I lift my head off the table just enough to nod. I better eat. This might be the last day I get to eat for a while.

"Another sigh? Oh, kiddo, do you want me to call Dr. Beth? Would it help for you to see her this morning?"

I sit up, pull the headphones off, and shake my head. No. No way. No. That won't help. She'll just ask me questions I can't answer and make me draw something. That won't help. I know what I have to do. I reach for my notebook.

May I have oatmeal and bananas?

Sierra reads my note. "Oatmeal and bananas it is." She gets up and starts to make my breakfast. While she's cooking, the picture of my mom from my nightmare last night stays in my mind. It isn't hard to remember, because I've seen her like that before: just staring, sometimes scratching at her neck and face, shaking. When she was like that, I'd get a wet washcloth and hold it on her forehead or neck. Or I'd get a glass of water and hold it while she'd take sips. Sometimes I could get her to lie down in her bed and I'd lie next to her. When she'd get sick, when she'd throw up, I'd hold her hair back, like she used to do for me when I was little and I got sick. Then I'd put toothpaste on her toothbrush and help her brush her teeth.

When she was like that, I don't even think she knew I was there. Maybe she was like that because of the drugs—maybe I'm starting to understand. One thing I know for sure is that she needs someone to help her.

And it has to be me.

I'm the only one she has.

I look at Sierra who's standing at the stove stirring the oatmeal and I slump back down in my chair. She doesn't need me. She doesn't. She has Ruby and her parents and her job. She'll be fine. I tell myself this over and over. But then a little voice in my head interrupts and says,
But you need her . . .