Words Read online

  Copyright © 2011 by Ginny L. Yttrup

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-1-4336-7170-8

  Published by B&H Publishing Group

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Dewey Decimal Classification: F

  Subject Heading: VOCABULARY—FICTION SPEECH DISORDERS—FICTION WORD OF GOD (CHRISTIAN THEOLOGY)—FICTION

  Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version, copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society.

  Also used: New American Standard Bible (NASB) copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, used by permission.

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 • 15 14 13 12 11

  For Justin and Jared

  It seems I've left so many important words unspoken through the years. I pray my written words will lead you to the Truth. You are my inspiration and joy.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Words of gratitude flood my mind as I consider those who've walked alongside me through the years of healing that took place before I was ready to write this book, along with those who encouraged and guided me as I wrote. Words seem insufficient, but they are all I have to offer . . .

  To my Lord, Jesus Christ, You are the truth that set me free. Daily, you invite me to partner with You, and daily, I'm awed by that invitation. I pray my words honor You.

  To my mom, Kathy Temple, and my grandparents, Gil and Virginia Foster, you instilled in me a love for books and nurtured me with your love. Grandpa, I wish you were here to read my first book. It's not Louis L'Amour, but you'd have read it anyway.

  To Tim Dakin, Toni Horvath, and Dr. Orville Easterly, wise Christian counselors and healers. You each helped me reclaim my voice.

  To Rose Lester, you have always seen things in me that I can't see in myself. Your love and friendship remain a constant encouragement.

  Elizabeth Jessup, thank you for encouraging me to dream and for accompanying me to those first writers conferences. I'd never have gone alone.

  To Kathy Collard Miller, you were the first writer to critique my work and encourage me. Thank you for cheering me on all these years.

  To the faculty of the Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference, I've grown up as a writer under the canopy of the redwoods and heard God's whispers through so many of you. Gayle Roper, your initial critique of this manuscript and your encouragement to keep writing spurred me on. Thank you.

  Steve Laube, I will never forget our first conversation under those redwoods. Your belief in this project and your willingness to mentor me through the completion of the manuscript still fill me with wonder. I appreciate your guidance, candor, patience, and humor. Most important, I appreciate working with an agent who places his relationship with God above all others.

  And thank you Rebeca Seitz for your enthusiasm about Words and your initial introduction to Steve.

  Karen Ball, friend first, editor second. More than a dozen years ago, you agreed to pursue a friendship with a fledgling writer because she thought she'd heard God tell her that someday she'd work with you. Amazing . . . Karen, you are transparent, grace-filled, tender, wise, and hilarious! I am blessed to call you friend. I am blessed to call you editor.

  Thank you to Julie Gwinn and Jeane Wynn for your efforts to see Words reach the hearts of wounded women. You're each a delight to work with. Diana Lawrence, your cover design took my breath and Greg Pope, your book trailer brought tears. You both use your creative gifts to further God's kingdom. Beautiful!

  Thank you to my faithful friends who listened to me, offered wise words, prayed for me, and read early drafts of the manuscript: Barbara Wilson, Rachel Johnston, Sharol Josephson, Linda Sommerville, Vicki Newman, Kathy Miller, Renee Baber, Janet Hanson, Laurie Breining, and the dear women from the Invisible Bond Bible study.

  Lily Frost, on a summer afternoon overlooking Lake Tahoe, in the mystical way of prayer, I'm certain you prayed this book contract into being. Thank you.

  Thank you to artist Eileen Downs, who invited me to tour her studio, shared her collage process with me, and checked the art details included in the manuscript. Eileen's work is as beautiful as her spirit.

  Thank you to Lieutenant Commander, California Highway Patrol, David Qualls for checking my law enforcement scenes. Your insight proved invaluable. The sacrifices you make to protect the public do not go unnoticed.

  Thank you to Linda Kerner, Public Information Officer, Santa Cruz County Human Resources Agency for patiently answering a long list of questions and forwarding information to me as needed.

  Special thanks to Laurie Breining. God's given you a gift of tender care for others. During the final stages of writing this book, you helped nurse me back to health following major back surgery and three subsequent surgeries. What a year! On days when I attempted to write through the haze of pain and medication, you sat with me. You gave of yourself in selfless ways. I am grateful for your friendship and grateful that so many others are now experiencing God's care through you.

  Finally, I offer a heart filled with gratitude to Kevin, Justin, and Jared. Kevin, we grew up together and you lived some of the most painful years of my story with me. Yet, through it all, you supported my dream to write. Thank you. Justin and Jared, you are incredible young men, in spite of me. I dared to seek emotional health because of you. When the road to health seemed too difficult, I persevered because of you. I fought to break patterns for your sake. I pray you will see God work through Words and recognize the role you've played in the birth of this book. I love you . . . always.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  C
hapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Dear Reader

  Discussion Questions

  "In the beginning was the Word."

  JOHN 1:1

  "All those things for which we have no words are lost. The mind—the culture—has two little tools, grammar and lexicon: a decorated sand bucket and a matching shovel. With these we bluster about the continents and do all the world's work. With these we try to save our very lives."

  ANNIE DILLARD

  CHAPTER ONE

  Kaylee

  I collect words.

  I keep them in a box in my mind. I'd like to keep them in a real box, something pretty, maybe a shoe box covered with flowered wrapping paper. I'd write my words on scraps of paper and then put them in the box. Whenever I wanted, I'd open the box and pick up the papers, reading and feeling the words all at once. Then I could hide the box.

  But the words are safer in my mind. There, he can't take them.

  The dictionary is heavy on my lap. I'm on page 1,908. I'm reading through the Ss. When I finish the Zs, I'll start all over again.

  Su·per·flu·ous.

  I like that word. It means something extra, something special, something you don't need. It's super. But you don't need super. You just need good enough.

  How does it sound when someone says it?

  I didn't really think about how words sound until I stopped talking. I didn't mean to stop talking, it just sort of happened.

  My mom left.

  I got scared.

  And the words got stuck.

  Now I just read the words and then listen for them on the little radio in the kitchen, the only superfluous thing we have.

  As I read, my hair falls across my eyes. I push it out of the way, but it falls back. I push it out of the way again, but this time my fingers catch in a tangle. I work for a minute trying to separate the hairs and smooth them down.

  When my mom was here, she combed my hair most mornings. Our hair is the same. "Stick straight and dark as soot." That's what she used to say.

  It hurt when she pulled the comb through my hair. "Kaylee, stop squirming," she'd tell me. "It'll pull more if you move."

  Sometimes I'd cry when the comb caught in a knot and she'd get impatient and tell me to stop whining.

  Maybe that's why she left. Maybe she got tired of my whining.

  That's what he says. He tells me she didn't love me anymore—that she wanted out. But I don't believe him. I think something happened to her, an accident or something.

  She probably has amnesia. I read that word in the dictionary.

  That's when you hit your head so hard on something that you pass out and have to go to the hospital, and when you wake up, you don't remember anything. Not even your name.

  Not even that you have a daughter.

  I think that's what happened to my mom. When she remembers, she'll come back and get me.

  So I just wait. I won't leave. If I leave, she won't know where to find me.

  And when she comes back, I'll be good. I won't whine anymore.

  I was nine when she left. Now, I'm ten. I'll be eleven the day after Christmas. I always know it's near my birthday when they start playing all the bell songs on the radio. I like "Silver Bells." I like to think about the city sidewalks and all the people dressed in holiday style. But "Jingle Bells" is my favorite. Dashing through the snow in a one-horse open sleigh sounds fun.

  It's not near my birthday yet. It's still warm outside.

  As the sun sets, the cabin gets dark inside, too dark to read. He didn't pay the electric bill again. I hope he pays it before Christmas or I won't hear the songs on the radio.

  Before I put the dictionary away, I turn to the front page and run my fingers across the writing scribbled there: Lee and Katherine Wren. Congratulations.

  Lee and Katherine are my parents. Were my parents. Are my parents. I'm not sure.

  My mom told me that the dictionary was a gift from her Aunt Adele. Mom thought it was kind of a funny wedding gift, but she liked it and kept it even after Lee left. We used it a lot. Sometimes when I'd ask her a question about what something was or what something meant, she'd say, "Go get the dictionary, Kaylee, we'll look it up." Then she'd show me how to find the word, and we'd read the definition. Most of the time she'd make me sound out the words and read them to her. Only sometimes did she read them to me. But most of the time when I asked her a question, she told me to be quiet. She liked it best when I was quiet.

  I miss my mom. But the dictionary makes me feel like part of her is still here. While she's gone, the dictionary is mine. I have to take care of it. So just like I always do before I put the book away, I ask a silent favor: Please don't let him notice it. Please don't let him take it.

  I put the dictionary back under the board that makes up a crooked shelf. The splintered wood pricks the tip of one finger as I lift the board and shove the dictionary under. The shelf is supported on one end by two cinder blocks and by one cinder block and three books on the other end.

  I remember the day she set up the shelf. I followed her out the front door and down the steps, and then watched her kneel in the dirt and pull out three cinder blocks she'd found under the steps. She dusted dirt and cobwebs from the cracks and then carried each block inside. She stacked two blocks one on top of the other at one end of the room and then spaced the last block at the other end of the room, under the window.

  "Kaylee, hand me a few books from that box. Get big ones."

  I reached into the box and pulled out the biggest book—the dictionary. Then I handed her the other two books. She stacked them on top of the block and then laid a board across the books and blocks.

  Even at seven, I knew what she was doing. We'd move in with a boyfriend and Mom would get us "settled," which meant she'd move in our things—our clothes, books, and a few toys for me. She'd rearrange the apartment, or house—or this time, the cabin—and make it "homey."

  After she made the shelf, she lined up our books. Then she placed a vase of wildflowers we'd collected that morning on the end of the shelf. She stood back and looked at what she'd done. Her smile told me she liked it.

  The cabin was small, but of all the places we'd lived, I could tell this was her favorite. And this boyfriend seemed nice enough at first, so I hoped maybe we'd stay this time.

  We did stay. Or at least I stayed. So now I'm the one arranging the shelf and I'm careful to put it back just as it was. Our books are gone. In their place I return two beer bottles, one with a sharp edge of broken glass, to their dust-free circles on the shelf. I pick up the long-empty bag of Fritos corn chips and, before leaning the bag against the broken bottle, I hold it open close to my face and breathe in. The smell of corn and salt make my stomach growl.

  Once I'm sure everything looks just as it was on the shelf, I crawl to my mattress in the corner of the room and sit, Indian-style, with my back against the wall and watch the shadows. Light shines between the boards across the broken front window; shadows of leaves and branches move across the walls, ceiling, and door. Above my head I hear a rat or squirrel on the roof. Its movement scatters pine needles and something—a pinecone, I imagine—rolls from the top of the roof, over my head, and then drops into the bed of fallen needles around the front steps.

  This is the longest part of the day—when it's too dark to read.

  When I read . . .

  I forget.

  That's how it works.

  Once the sun goes down, I don't leave the cabin. I'm afraid he'll come back after work and find me gone. He's told me not to leave because he'd find me and I'd be sorry.

  I believe him. believe—verb 1. to take as true, real, etc. 2. to have confidence in a statement or promise of (another person).

  My legs go n
umb under my body and my eyes feel heavy, but I don't sleep. Sleep isn't safe. Instead, I close my eyes for just a minute and see flames against the backs of my eyelids. They burn everything my mom and I brought to the cabin.

  I remember the hissing and popping as the nighttime drizzle hit the bonfire. And I remember his laughter.

  "She's gone for good, Kaylee. She ain't comin' back." He cackled like an old witch as he threw more gasoline on the flames. The smoke filled my nose and stung my lungs as I watched Lamby, the stuffed animal I'd slept with since I was a baby, burn along with most of our clothes and books. The only exceptions were the three books he hadn't noticed holding up the shelf. My tears couldn't put out the fire, and I finally stopped crying. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and stepped away from the blaze. I squared my shoulders and stood as tall as I could. Something changed in me that night. I couldn't be little anymore. I had to be grown up.

  I open my eyes and reach my hand under the corner of the mattress. My fingers dig into the hole in the canvas, feeling for the music box that had been inside Lamby. I'd found it in the ashes the morning after the fire. I tug it free, then wind the key and hold it up to my ear. As the music plays, I remember the words of the song that Grammy taught me just before she died. Jesus loves me, this I know . . .

  The song makes me feel sad.

  I don't think Jesus loves me anymore.

  Eventually, I must fall asleep, because I wake up startled—mouth dry, palms damp, and my heart pounding.

  I hear the noise that woke me, the crunching of leaves and pine needles. I listen. Are his steps steady, even? No. Two steps. Pause. A dragging sound. Pause. A thud as he stumbles. Pause. Will he get up? Or has he passed out? Please let him be out. A metal taste fills my mouth as I hear him struggle to get back on his feet.

  "Kay—leeee?" He slurs the word. "You up? Lemme in."