Words Page 12

  She smiles—her first since I've been here—and begins to write. She hands the notebook back to me.

  Kaylee May Wren.

  "Wren? Like the bird?"

  She smiles again and nods.

  Now we're getting somewhere. "Okay. I live in Santa Cruz, about three blocks from the beach. Where do you live?"

  I hand the notebook back and then scoot next to her so I can read as she writes.

  I live—She stops, thinks a minute, then writes, up here.

  "Where up here?"

  She turns and gestures behind her.

  "Do you live with your parents?"

  She looks at me for several seconds—like she's weighing something, trying to figure something out. Then she looks back at the page and begins writing. I wait. I reach for a patch of clover growing next to me and pull several stems out of the ground. I pull the leaves off each stem as I wait.

  Finally she hands the notebook back to me—her expression serious.

  My mom has amnesia.

  "Kaylee, you don't live alone, do you?"

  She shakes her head.

  "Who takes care of you?"

  She looks back at the ground, and when I hand her the notebook, she makes no move to take it.

  "Did the person you live with do this to you?" I reach for her cheek, but instead cup her chin in my hand and nod toward the bruise. I take her silence as my answer.

  Anger churns beneath the surface. I want to find whoever did this to her and make them pay. But I have to hold on. I can't let her see my anger. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. "Kaylee, I want to help you. Maybe I can help your mom too. Does your mom live with you?"

  She looks at me, eyes wide, and shakes her head. She reaches for the notebook again. I don't know where my mom is.

  I read her note and a memory beckons: I'm five or six years old, standing in a crowd of people at a shopping center, looking for my mother. I remember my heart hammering like a woodpecker on a tree. Panic gripped me. But before the first tear slid down my cheek, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  "Shannon, I'm right here." Mother bent down and held my face in her hands. "It's okay. I'm right here, darling."

  What must Kaylee feel? What panic has she lived with?

  "Kaylee, maybe I can help you find your mom. But first, you're going to have to tell me where you live. I know some people who can help, but they'll need to know where you live."

  She reaches for the notebook and I slump with relief. She's going to tell me where she lives. I watch as she writes: I live—

  Then she stops. She looks at me, a question in her eyes. Her pen moves across the page. I won't have to leave, will I? I have to stay. She pauses again and then writes one more sentence. Staying is imperative.

  Imperative? The word makes me smile even as a knot forms in my stomach. "Wouldn't it be good to have someone take care of you? Someone who doesn't do this?"

  Her head tilts down again and she stares at her lap then nods her head up and down. She looks at me, then back at the notebook. She takes a deep breath and underlines her last sentence: Staying is imperative.

  "Okay." Obviously, I need to change my tactic. Of one thing I'm certain: I can't leave her to go back to . . . whoever. I won't do that.

  Now would be a good time to give me an idea of the next step of the plan. Please. Please show me what to do. "What if you come with me? Just for a little while. Just for the afternoon, and we can look for your mom. We can go back to my house and call the hospitals or the police. We can see if they know anything."

  She seems to think through the idea. It's obvious she's hesitant.

  "I want to help you find your mom. I just want to help."

  I need to be back before it gets dark.

  I look at my watch. "Okay, that gives us a few hours." I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm not leaving her here, and if I can convince her to come with me, I'm certainly not bringing her back. Oh, Lord, what am I doing? "Do you need to get anything at home first, or leave a note maybe? We could go there first."

  I see what I think is a flash of fear cross her face, then she shakes her head—an adamant no.

  "Okay. Let's go." I pick up the remains of our lunch, stuff them in my backpack, and then stand up. She does the same. I grab my sweatshirt and we head back to the stream. As we walk, questions assault me. Where is her mom? Does she really have amnesia? Who does Kaylee live with? And the most pressing question: what do I do next?

  I have no answers.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Kaylee

  I step on the log that makes a bridge across the stream and put one foot in front of the other—like on a balance beam. I've gotten good at this. I go straight across. Sierra takes Van's leash off and lets him cross by himself. He's fast too. Then she starts across. She goes slow and sort of wobbles. She looks scared. Finally she sits down and scoots the rest of the way across.

  While I wait for her, I think about what she said about helping me find my mom—about calling the hospitals and the police. I finally have someone who can help me find her. But . . .

  I rub my palms on my pants and take a deep breath. My heart feels like it's going to pound out of my chest.

  But, what if . . .

  What if . . .

  . . . my mom doesn't have amnesia?

  This is the first time I've let that question fully form in my mind. It's come to me before, but I don't ever let it stay long enough to really think about it, because . . .

  It can't be true.

  She has to have amnesia or she'd have come back. That's the only explanation. She would have come back for me.

  She would have.

  Unless . . .

  Unless she died.

  This thought makes me feel small—like one of those little bugs that curl up into a ball when you touch it.

  She can't be dead.

  She's not old enough to die.

  But then I remember Rochelle. She was in my class in third grade. She got sick and missed a lot of school. When she came back, she wore a pink beanie all the time, but there was no hair sticking out from under it. Then she got sick again, and she never came back.

  My mom said Rochelle died.

  She was my age.

  "Kaylee, you coming?"

  Sierra has Van back on the leash, and they're several steps ahead of me now. I nod my head. Yes, I'm coming.

  But I'm not sure.

  By the time we're halfway across the meadow, my head hurts. There are too many what-ifs pushing me to think about them.

  What if today is the day she comes back and I'm gone?

  What if he gets back before me?

  What if she doesn't have amnesia?

  What if he's right and she just doesn't love me anymore?

  My legs get heavier with each step and I feel like I can't breathe. Maybe it's better if I just go back and wait because she's going to come back. She will. She has to. She'll get better. She'll remember. She'll come back.

  What if Sierra doesn't understand?

  What if Sierra never comes back to see me again?

  My heart feels like paper, like one of those valentine hearts you cut out of a piece of folded construction paper. When you open it, you have a perfect heart with a fold down the middle and if you're not careful, the heart will tear on the fold. My heart is tearing. One half wants to believe my mom still loves me and will come back. The other half wants to follow Sierra.

  It's like my mom isn't real anymore.

  Sierra is real.

  She's here.

  But my mom is real too.

  I stop walking. She is real and she will be back. I make up my mind. I know what I have to do.

  "Kaylee?"

  I nod and
catch up to Sierra again. We walk side by side on the trail through the rest of the meadow and then on through the forest toward the clearing until we reach her Jeep.

  "Here we are." Sierra walks around the Jeep and opens the passenger door. "Van, you get in the back so Kaylee can sit up front."

  Van jumps into the Jeep and sits in the front seat.

  "No, Van . . ." Sierra leans in and points to the back. "In the back, Van—go." But Van just looks at her. So she leans in farther and tries to push Van to the back. She's leaning way into the Jeep—her back is to me—she can't see me and neither can Van.

  That's when I run.

  I run away from the Jeep—away from Sierra. I run in the opposite direction that we came so that if she follows me she won't find where I live. She can't know where I live. I don't know what he'd do if she ever came there, but what I imagine isn't good. I think of his rifle and the way he likes to carry it around with him—the way he points it at me and laughs. I think of the "secret" and all the things he's told me he'll do if I ever tell anyone.

  I weave my way through the trees, jumping over brush and rocks and pushing my way through manzanita bushes that block my way. My shirt catches on a bush and jerks me backward and I feel the thorny branches digging into my skin, but I pull away and keep going.

  The bruise on my face throbs and my vision begins to blur. Every bruise on my body seems to throb with the rapid beating of my heart. With each step I take, the pain reminds me what I'm running back to.

  I'm running back to him.

  That's when the scream starts.

  And the tears.

  I have to go back. I have to. I have to go back for my mom. If I don't go back, she'll never find me. She'll come back. She will. She will! She has to . . .

  The more I cry, the harder it is to breathe. Tears blur everything and I can barely see where I'm going. Then my foot catches on something—a fallen branch or root or something—and I go down, hard. I lay there, face down in the dirt gasping for air, but I can't catch my breath. My lungs ache and I can't breathe.

  I pound my fists in the dirt and gulp for air.

  The scream rages in my head.

  I finally roll to my side and then to my back. I wrap my arms around my waist and gasp for air again. This time I feel air fill my lungs. I breathe in and out through my mouth until I can almost breathe normally. Then I roll back over on my side, pull my knees to my chest, and curl into a ball. And I begin crying again.

  I cry so long that is seems like I'd run out of tears.

  But I don't.

  It's all too much—my mom, him, Sierra.

  It's all just too much.

  I try to think of a word that describes how I feel. But as hard as I think and as many words as I know, nothing fits.

  There isn't a word for what I feel.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sierra

  Okay, little one, in you go . . . Kaylee?"

  After coaxing Van into the backseat with a leftover crust from my sandwich, I turn to let Kaylee get in the Jeep and . . . she's gone.

  "Kaylee?" I walk around to the other side of the Jeep to see if she's there.

  Nothing. Maybe she went to get something out of the tree. I head across the clearing calling her name. "Kaylee? Kaylee!" As I approach the tree, my chest tightens and my breathing becomes shallow. I bend, look inside, and see nothing. She's not here.

  Blood courses through my veins like galloping horses that trample my heart.

  She can't be gone!

  "Kaylee!"

  I run back to the Jeep, "Van. Come!" Van, who's now dozing in the backseat, perks his ears and sits at attention. I pat the front seat, "Come!" He lunges forward and out the door. He circles me while I reach for his leash. He knows something is wrong. "Sit." He does and I clip his leash in place. With my dog at my side, my breathing and heart rate slow just a bit. "Good boy." I bend and rub Van's neck and behind his ears. "You're a good boy—I'm glad you're here. Now, let's find her!"

  I slam the Jeep door and take off running in the direction of the meadow and the stream. Why would she have left? Why? Whatever her reason, I assume she's going back the way we came. She must be heading home. We'll catch her. We'll catch her and figure out once and for all where she lives. And if I can't get her to come with me, then I'll bring the authorities to her.

  While I've never understood it, I've heard there are reasons people stay with those who abuse them—whether it's a battered wife or a child—they stay with what's familiar because as horrible as it is, it feels secure in some way. The fear of the unknown is greater than the fear of the known. Maybe that's what Kaylee's doing, going back to what she knows. Maybe asking her to go with me was too much to expect. I don't know.

  And that's the problem. I just don't know. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what God's doing. The whole thing is a shot in the dark. I took that step of faith and now I'm plummeting to the bottom of the cavern. This is exactly what I expected. I'm flailing all on my own and there's no one to break my fall. What was I thinking?

  I feel my newly softened heart hardening all over again.

  Struggling for breath, I stop in the middle of the meadow. Van tries to pull me forward but I refuse to go any further. Like a petulant child, I stomp my foot. "Do You even care? Do You care about her? Do You care about me? Do You?"

  Van tilts his head to one side and looks at me. Then he turns toward the stream again and walks the length his leash allows and sits with his back to me.

  "What am I doing here?"

  I wait. I want God to answer me. I want an audible voice from above. I want answers and I want them now.

  Instead, my daddy's words spoken this morning come back to me. Sierra, you'll have moments of doubt. Anytime one of God's children turns back to Him, the enemy puts up a fight. You're going to second guess your choices and you're going to want to turn back to what feels familiar. But don't you do that.

  It hits me then: I'm doing exactly what I think Kaylee is doing. I'm turning back to what's familiar—exactly what my daddy said I'd feel tempted to do. I'm second-guessing myself and hardening my heart. I'm going back to what I know.

  One of us has to brave the unknown.

  This is the answer God gives me. There are no instructions, no how-to's, no guidance, just the encouragement to brave the unknown. And it's enough for the moment.

  "C'mon, buddy." We jog to the edge of the stream and make our way across the fallen log again. Once on the other side, I know I've reached the unknown. From here, I have no idea where to go. So I do what my daddy told me to do. I pray my way through each step and I let God lead.

  What this means exactly, I don't know. But I pray, and I walk, and I pray, and I trust that He's leading the way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Kaylee

  I wake startled, heart pounding, stomach churning.

  Is he home?

  I lift my face and brush something off my cheek and chin—it feels like pine needles and dirt. I sit up and look around but can see little in the dark. Where am I? I'm outside, but how did I get here? Finally the memories fall into place like pieces of a puzzle. Sierra was going to help me . . . I ran away . . . and then I fell.

  My eyes feel puffy and my nose is stuffed-up. I look around again but don't recognize anything in the dark. When I stand up, I feel like the tin man from the Wizard of Oz—all my joints ache. I turn around and around, but all I see are the shadows of trees.

  I don't know where I am or which way I came from.

  He told me I'd be sorry if I ever left.

  I'm alone.

  I'm lost.

  And I'm pretty sorry right now.

  I think about what he'll do when he finds out I'm gone. I don't know which is scarier—being lost in the dark or thinking abou
t what he'll do to me. I don't want to think about it right now.

  I start walking in the direction I'm facing because I don't know what else to do. Twigs, leaves, pine needles, and rocks crunch under my feet with each step I take. For some reason sounds are amplified, that means they're louder, in the dark. I stop for a minute and listen. I hear something rustling in a bush nearby and crickets chirp all around me. Just above me, an owl hoots and it's so loud that I jump like a scared rabbit and run. When I finally stop, my pulse is pounding in my ears.

  I just want to go . . . Where? Home? No. I don't want to go back to the cabin. But I have to. I want to go . . . I wish I'd gone . . . with Sierra.

  Leaving the cabin this morning was stupid.

  Telling Sierra was stupid.

  "Don't you tell nobody . . . it's our secret." I wanted to tell my mom the first time it happened. But he told me not to. Anyway, I was afraid I'd get in trouble if I told her. But then the more I didn't tell, the more I couldn't tell. It was like the secret was a huge snowball rolling after me—like in a cartoon. The longer I didn't tell, the bigger the snowball got. It was always there, just behind me, ready to flatten me.

  After my mom left, things got even worse. "She only wanted one thing. Just wanted what I could get her. That whore just wanted one thing!" He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "You get that, girl? She didn't care 'bout me. Didn't care 'bout you. Just wanted what she wanted!"

  His face looked like a boiled tomato, and it was so close to mine that his spit sprayed my face as he yelled.

  Then he slapped me.

  And he pushed me down.

  I landed on the corner of my mattress—my head and shoulders hit the mattress, but my back and tailbone hit the floor. Hard. He held me down. I tried to get away from him, but he was on top of me and as hard as I tried, I couldn't get away. Then he . . . he hurt me.