Words (33 page)

I lay my head back down on the table.

I don't need her.

I just like her and I like being here. But I don't really need her.

I don't!

"Here you go, kiddo. Go light on the brown sugar, okay?" Sierra sets the bowl down in front of me, but I push it away.

It's time for me to go.

And this time I'm resolved.

re·solved
—1. firm in purpose or intent; determined.

Resolved
means this time I won't change my mind.

I spend the day getting ready again—just like I did last time. I spend most of the day in my room reading. Sierra comes in several times and asks me questions. "Would you like to go to the wharf this afternoon? We could watch the seals."

No.

"What about a drive over to Monterey? We could go to Dennis the Menace Park—I bet you'd love it."

No.

"The Boardwalk? We could ride the Giant Dipper this afternoon!"

To this suggestion I shake my head hard. No!

"Okay!" Sierra's voice gets quiet. I can tell she's worried. "Kaylee, are you . . . are you upset because of your mom? Or . . . does it have something to do with Jack? You know you can tell me anything. If you'll just tell me what you're feeling, I think it would help. If you could just tell me . . ."

No! I take the book I'm holding and throw it against the wall. No! No!
No!

Sierra jumps. I see anger replace concern on her face. She walks over and picks up the book, sets it on the bookshelf, and then walks back to my bedroom door. "Kaylee, I only want to help you. Throwing things is inappropriate behavior, even if you are angry." Her words are steady, like she's working really hard to say the right thing. "I know you're tired. So am I. We didn't sleep much last night, did we? I guess we'll stay here and rest for the day. Maybe I'll work a little and you can read, or . . . whatever." She turns and walks out of my bedroom.

I follow her and shut my door. I shut it hard—almost a slam. I need her to leave me alone today and maybe that made it clear. I lean against my door and then slide down to the floor. I sit with my back against the door and my knees pulled to my chest. I hug my knees and rest my head on them. I feel a tear slide down my cheek and onto my knee.
I'm sorry, Sierra . . . I'm sorry.
I choke back a sob.

I can't cry now. I have too much to do.

I am resolved.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Sierra

You said to call if I noticed extreme angst in Kaylee . . ."

As I listen and respond to Dr. Beth's questions, I open the slider and walk to the Adirondack chair and sink into it. I should have called her earlier—for Kaylee's sake of course, but also because as I listen to Beth, I realize, as I did when speaking to Pete yesterday, that I'm not in this alone. God has provided tangible evidence of His care for me, for Kaylee, through others. It's been so long since I've let myself rely on anyone else.

"It seems like she's on an emotional roller coaster. Up one minute, down the next. I think I've seen every emotion cross her little face: fear, anger, sadness, happiness, joy, peace, and then back to fear and anger again."

"Sierra, we can't discount the trauma Kaylee's experienced—we don't even know the depth of that trauma. But what we do know is enough to expect that Kaylee will experience a wide range of emotions that she's not prepared to deal with. What you're seeing is, sadly, within the range of what I'd consider 'normal' under these circumstances. And seeing her mom likely unearthed feelings she's managed until now.

"Sierra, Kaylee aside for a moment, how are you doing? This is a lot for you to handle too."

I lean my head against the back of the chair and breathe deep, filling my lungs with warm sea air. "Honestly? I think I'm riding that roller coaster with Kaylee. I feel so much love and concern for her, but at the same time her silence and moods frustrate me. I'm having to walk away from her because I'm angry that she won't answer my questions and because I can't figure out why she seems angry with me." I close my eyes and sigh. "I don't know how to help her."

"Sounds like you're feeling as though you have no control . . ."

"Exactly."

"Those are emotions I'd expect you to feel. It's hard to work with someone when communication is so limited. Kaylee needs you to be steady, even—someone she can count on. You won't handle everything perfectly. None of us does. But your steady countenance provides Kaylee with a sense of safety, and that's what she needs now."

"And what about her emotions? She seems so angry today."

"I don't know, Sierra. I can't know what she's feeling. It's possible she is angry with you, or needs to feel angry with you. Maybe she's struggling with what she feels for you and what she feels for her mother. It's not unusual for a foster child to feel they're betraying their parents by caring for their caregiver. She may be pushing you away right now as she deals with whatever she's feeling for her mom. Again, these are only assumptions. Hold on a minute, let me check my schedule . . . Can you bring her in tomorrow morning? I'm not supposed to see her again until next week, but it sounds like sooner might be better than later."

I get up and walk back to the kitchen to hang up the phone, having agreed to bring Kaylee in to see Dr. Beth in the morning. I feel more settled knowing someone else will see and talk to Kaylee right now.

I'll check on her again and then decide what to do about dinner. If it were just me, I'd open the fridge and grab a piece of cheese or fruit and call it good.

But it's no longer just me.

I blink my eyes several times trying to clear what feels like a thin veil of sand.

I tap on Kaylee's door and then crack it open and peek in. She is lying on her bed reading, of course. But today she's reading her dictionary. "Hey, are you about ready for some dinner?"

She shrugs, never taking her eyes off the big book.

"I think we'll make it an early night."

Still no response. She keeps her gaze riveted on the dictionary.

I close her door and shake my head. Another long, silent evening lies ahead. I wander back to the kitchen and set the teapot to boil. As I wait for the whistle, I think back to my conversation with Pete yesterday and allow myself to consider what I haven't until now: Kathryn has entered a rehabilitation program.

I recall Pete's words: "Sierra, Kathryn's entered a residential rehabilitation program. She showed up at CWS this morning. She was in pretty bad shape, but I was able to talk to her, to convince her we would help her, if she'd accept our help. She finally agreed."

I haven't let my mind jump ahead to this possibility, not in all these weeks. I was so sure she'd come back here looking for money. "So, what does this mean? For Kaylee?"

For me?

Pete exhaled. "Well, it could mean Kaylee is returned to her mother's care if Kathryn successfully completes the program. She wasn't arrested for possession, so there are no legal ramifications—"

"What?"
My pulse throbs in my temples. "No legal ramifications? What about abandoning your child? Is that legal these days? Neglect? Abuse? What about that?"

"Whoa, hold on. Of course there are legal ramifications for abandonment and abuse. But right now we don't know the whole story. Kathryn's sticking with the kidnapping story and so far, all we have is her word against Jack's. I don't believe either of them has told the truth, but we don't have proof either way. When the police arrested Jack, there was no evidence of Kathryn having lived in the cabin. For all we know, Kaylee
was
kidnapped by him. But Kaylee is the only one who knows the truth."

"She has to tell us, Pete. She has to talk."

"Yes. But she'll only talk when she's ready to talk, and right now I think pressuring her, telling her too much, will only increase her anxiety and inability to speak. Her emotional health, her well-being, are the priority. I do think it's important she know that her mom is all right, that she's getting the help she needs. She needs to understand that Kathryn is sick, that she's dealing with the disease of addiction, and that she's receiving the care she needs."

Pete pauses and I hear him sigh. "You know, that little gal gets to me." He chuckles. "I work with kids everyday and I'm supposed to maintain a professional distance, not become emotionally involved in their lives. Though, honestly, I've never understood how not to become emotionally involved. If you care, you're involved. And Kaylee, well, she's just something else. She's very easy to care about."

"I know. She's so quirky and so lovable."

"Of course you know. I want the best for her, Sierra. Never doubt that."

"I know, but, ultimately, isn't the truth the best for her?"

"Sure it is. But for now Kaylee's not ready to tell the truth. Or much of anything."

"So what do we do?"

"You keep on doing what you're doing. Provide a safe place for her, care for her, love her. And I'll keep doing my job. We have some time—rehabilitation doesn't happen overnight."

"Okay." A ragged sigh marks my resignation. "I know you're right. But . . . there's one more thing we need to do."

I picture Pete cocking his head to one side, much like Van does when I talk to him. "What's that?"

"We need to pray."

He is silent for a moment—thoughtful, I think. "Yes. We'll pray. Good to know we're not the ones in control, isn't it?"

"That's for sure. I have no idea what I'm doing."

"You know more than you think. Hey, don't mention any of this to Kaylee just yet. We don't know if Kathryn will stay in rehab. Let's not rock her boat for the moment. As I said, it's important she knows her mom is okay and being cared for, but let me consult Beth today and get her recommendation on how she'd like to handle this information with Kaylee."

"Okay." I think about the ups and downs Kaylee's already experienced this week and agree with Pete's assessment. "She's dealing with a lot right now. There's so much going on inside her already."

Tonight, as I consider that conversation, I realize prayer
is
the only answer. The emotions welling in me at the thought of Kaylee being returned to Kathryn are more than I can handle. And getting Kaylee to speak—that's definitely out of my control. As much as I long to help her—to encourage her—to provide the safety she needs to speak again, I know I can't do this on my own. I need help—I need divine intervention.

I take my cup of tea out to the deck and stare up at the sky, as has become my habit lately. Stars layer the blackened canvas overhead, and I think of the Creator who can name every star in the sky—surely He has the power to help a little girl speak.

"Please . . ." I speak into the night. "Please let her speak again."

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Kaylee

I look out my window and decide the dark seems omnibus tonight. Omnibus? I unzip my backpack and pull the dictionary out and look up
omnibus.

omni·bus—noun
1. a volume of reprinted works of a single author or of works related in interest or theme.

That's not it. I read through the
O
s until I find what I'm looking for.

om·i·nous—
1. portending evil or harm; foreboding; threatening; inauspicious; an ominous bank of dark clouds. 2. having the significance of an omen.

That's it. The dark seems ominous tonight, which is kind of weird because I got used to the dark at the cabin.
You're just being a baby,
I tell myself. What I'm really doing, I know, is stalling.

I reach for my backpack and zip it closed. I unwrap the granola bar and tiptoe to the door; Van follows me. When I get to the door, I open it slowly so it doesn't squeak, then I turn around and put the granola bar on the floor for Van—just like last time. I close the door and begin to tiptoe down the hallway, but my feet feel like they have bricks tied to them and my heart feels the same way. But it doesn't matter. I have to go. I make myself remember the way my mom looked in my dream—and the way she looked so many times before.

She needs me.

She does.

I reach the front door and stop to listen. I hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, and the clock ticking on the wall, but nothing else. Nothing moves. I reach for the door knob, then hesitate. I turn back toward the living room and look down the hall at Sierra's bedroom door.
Good-bye, Sierra.
The lump in my throat aches.

I turn back and open the door and walk out, careful to close the door tight behind me. I go down the steps and stop at the lawn. I look in the direction of the ocean. The moon is shining on what looks like an ominous bank of dark clouds.

I start out across the lawn when I realize something doesn't feel right.

I stop. Something really doesn't feel right. My backpack is so light . . .

The dictionary! I left it on the bed!

I turn and run back to the front door and grab for the knob, but it doesn't turn. I try again, harder this time. But it won't budge. I jiggle it and then twist it as hard as I can. I push against the door, but nothing happens.

It's locked!

I shake the knob and push harder on the door. It has to open. It
has
to! I look over my shoulder into the dark front yard and feel my heart pounding harder and harder. I have to get in. I have to! I gulp for air. I have to get the dictionary!

Then I hear something behind me—something rustling in the flower bed in front of the house. I lift my fist and begin banging on the door. I pound as hard as I can. I open my mouth to yell for Sierra, but nothing comes out.

I can't talk.

I can't breathe.

Tears choke me.

I have to get in! I keep banging on the door—pounding—until finally, the porch light comes on and the door opens. I look up and see Sierra standing there and then, before I can push past her into the house, she is holding me in her arms.

"Oh, Kaylee, what are you doing?" She holds me so tight, and I know I don't ever want her to let me go.

But . . .

I don't need her.

I don't.

She's talking, saying something, telling me to do something, but I can't. I can't do what she wants. I have to go. I have to. I stand there until I can breathe again and then I step back—step away from her. I know what I have to do. I pull away and look past her to the living room. I have to go get the dictionary and I then I have to leave.