Words Page 18

"What?!"

  Pete laughs again. "No. Just a few minutes. You looked like you needed the sleep. I didn't want to wake you. But now that you are awake, how about a cup of coffee? I'd like to discuss a few things with you. The cafeteria, maybe?"

  "Sure. Kaylee, do you mind? Can we bring you anything?"

  I shake my head.

  I know they're going to talk about me, about what to do with me. My palms get sweaty when I think about it. What if they put me in an orphanage? I've read about orphanages. They're cold and dark and they only feed you runny oatmeal and stale bread. The people are mean too.

  I guess it would still be better than living with him, but, what about my mom and what about Sierra?

  I watch as Pete and Sierra turn to leave the room. I want to tell Pete something. One word drops from my mind to my throat. I can feel it there, pushing its way to my mouth. Stop! I have to tell him to stop. I have to tell him something! My tongue moves to the roof of my mouth as I form the "S" but then I stop. I swallow. And the word is gone.

  And so are Pete and Sierra.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Sierra

  Pete makes small talk on our way down to the cafeteria, which is fine with me. I still feel groggy and more than a little embarrassed at waking and finding him staring at me. Once there, we find a table and he pulls out a chair for me and then promises to return with two cups of coffee. I fold my hands on top of the table and notice traces of matte medium under my nails and on my hands. I move my hands from the table to my lap and determine to leave them where he can't see them.

  But then, who cares, really? Will a little glue keep the county from placing Kaylee in my care?

  Because that, I've determined, is exactly what I want.

  I want to take care of her. The thought is absurd even to me, or maybe especially to me. Ten days ago I didn't even know she existed. But I keep returning in my mind to those moments as I watched the paramedics loading her into the ambulance. The impression, the sense, was so strong. So sure. We're meant to be together—I'd bet on it.

  Although, even as I make that bet, a ripple of fear quivers through me. I know loving Kaylee will cost me.

  I pull a band from my pocket and gather my hair into a loose ponytail, then I rub my fingers under my eyes in case the little bit of mascara I bothered with this morning ended up beneath my eyes as I dozed. I watch Pete approach from across the cafeteria. He holds two steaming paper cups in his large hands. I'm taken again by the size of him.

  He sets one of the cups in front of me along with packets of creamer, sugar, a stir stick, and a napkin.

  "Thanks. Were you a waiter in a former life?"

  He chuckles and pulls out the chair across from me and eases into it, stretching his long legs under the table. "Waiting tables got me through college." He takes a sip of his coffee. "So . . . I thought I'd let you know where things stand this morning. Kaylee's doctor will release her tomorrow. He reported evidence of both sexual and physical trauma—bruising, a bladder infection. She's undernourished. She'll leave with some nutritional needs and a prescription for antibiotics. Other than that, she'll be fine. Physically."

  "What about her speech?" I stay focused, tucking the information I've heard away for later. I can't let myself think about what Kaylee's suffered.

  "The doctor says, medically, there's no reason for her lack of speech. It's likely a psychological issue. As you heard me tell Kaylee yesterday, extreme anxiety can cause a child to stop speaking. Typically we see it in kids who struggle with anxiety in specific situations, say school for instance. The child will stop speaking at school but may seem fine at home. They communicate where they feel safe. Occasionally we see a case like Kaylee's where a child stops speaking all together. We likely can't imagine the anxiety and trauma she's faced. She needs a safe environment to heal."

  "Where"—I take a deep breath—"will she be placed?" I pick at the glue on my hands.

  "We have a foster family who's licensed for emergency care on standby."

  "I see." I look down at my hands in my lap so he won't see the disappointment I feel.

  "No, I don't think you do, actually."

  His tone is kind, thoughtful, so I glance back at him and try to read his expression.

  "They're on standby, but I'd like to place Kaylee with you."

  "Oh." I want to say more but can think of nothing. Forgetting about the glue, I reach for the stir stick laying on the napkin next to my cup.

  "Sierra, there's an obvious connection between the two of you. I'm encouraged that she's communicating with you. Kaylee thinks you're, in her words, 'phenomenal,' oh, and also 'responsible.'" He grins and raises his eyebrows. "Not bad."

  I smile at her description.

  "Sometimes, in my job, I have to go on what my gut tells me. And my gut says she's better off with someone she's already established a relationship with, no matter how brief your acquaintance. As I said, her willingness to communicate with you is a good sign."

  "So what do I do? I mean, there must be procedures for this kind of thing."

  "You bet. We need to have you checked out, and fast. I took the liberty of scheduling a background check and a home inspection this afternoon, if you agree. The county always wants to place a child with someone they know and are comfortable with, if we have that option."

  "A background check?" I twist the stir stick around my index finger.

  "You look hesitant . . ." He cocks his head to one side as if considering what I might be hiding. "Anything I should know about?"

  I swallow. "Well . . . It's just . . ." I clear my throat and take a deep breath. "I . . . had a daughter . . ." While staring at the coffee stirrer, I struggle for words I've rarely spoken aloud. "She was born twelve years ago. Premature. I . . . I lost her after only nine days." I take another breath and make my confession: "I was in college . . . young . . . um, and I was . . . using when I got pregnant."

  "How long have you been clean?"

  I look up again to read his face. I expect judgment but see none. He's a good actor, I think.

  "Twelve years."

  "No relapses?"

  "None. I'll never . . . I'm done with that kind of thing."

  "Arrest record? Anything like that?"

  "No."

  He pauses and seems to search my face. I assume he's running me through some psychological filter so his next question surprises me.

  "Sierra, do you believe in redemption?"

  "Redemption?"

  "Yes. It's when—"

  "I know what it is."

  "Good." He reaches toward me and I feel my shoulders stiffen. His hands, twice the size of mine, take my hand in his and I watch as he unwraps the red piece of plastic from around my finger. I feel the heat of a blush creeping up my neck as the blood rushes back into my finger. He takes the lid off his coffee cup and drops the stick inside, then stuffs the lid inside the cup. "Will 4:00 this afternoon work for you?"

  "Sure."

  When we were teenagers, Jeff and I swore Mother had ESP. If I snuck in late after a date, Mother would remind me of my curfew the next morning. If our grades were slipping, Mother called us on it before we mentioned it. If Daddy came in from the fields unexpectedly, Mother had put on lipstick and a splash of cologne five minutes before he walked in the door. "I just had a feeling . . ." she'd say.

  So when I drive into my driveway at 2:30 p.m. and see a car with rental plates parked along the curb and a woman sitting on my front step, I'm surprised, but not shocked.

  "Margaret? Mother?" I call from the driveway.

  She stands, brushes off her camel-colored slacks, and smiles. "Hello, darling."

  Her graying hair is still streaked with gold and is pulled into a French twist. Small pearls dot her lobes and a navy cardigan is draped over her shoulders
.

  "Something told me it was a good time for a visit. I hope you don't mind. I tried to call but couldn't reach you." She's talking as she walks toward me, then stops and embraces me. Her hug, like her, is quick, strong, and efficient. For years I've shied away from such displays of affection, but today I hug her back. Actually, I cling to her.

  When I let go, she steps back and with a practiced eye looks me up and down. "You haven't slept."

  "No."

  She reaches into the Jeep and grabs my backpack. "I think a cup of tea is in order."

  I follow her to my front door, hand her the key, and follow her into my kitchen where she washes her hands and sets the teapot to boil.

  "How long are you staying? Where are your bags?"

  "They're in the boot. We'll get them shortly. I'm staying as long as you want or need me."

  "How . . . how did you know? I mean, how did you know I needed you? I didn't even know until I saw you."

  "Teacups?"

  "Top shelf, behind the plates. I don't use them much. There are mugs on the bottom shelf."

  She turns on her heel and searches my face. "A mug? Without a saucer?"

  "Mother . . . ?"

  "Oh yes, how did I know? I spoke to Ruby, of course."

  So much for ESP or some mystical connection between mother and daughter.

  "She told me about the child. That there was a possibility she'd come here to live." She falters. "Sierra, are you . . ."

  She is so seldom unsure. Her squared shoulders relax, droop even. In that moment I realize the burden she's borne for me, her child, all these years.

  "Am I ready for this?"

  The whispered words fall between us.

  Not since Annie's death have I delved beneath the surface with my mother. I take a breath and dive deep. "I don't know if I'm ready. But I know I'm not who I was two weeks ago." I take a step closer to my mother. "I'm . . . I'm changing. Something happened when I met her. Something in me . . . changed. She needs me. She needs someone to take care of her, someone to . . . love her. Mother . . . I can't imagine what . . . what she's been through. You and Daddy would never have let those things happen to me."

  My mother closes the distance between us. She reaches up and holds my face in her hands and wipes the tears from my cheeks. Then she embraces me and I'm five years old all over again, crying in my mother's arms, only this time it isn't a skinned knee or bruised elbow that draws my tears.

  Today I cry for Kaylee's wounds.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Kaylee

  I still can't believe it's true, but Pete nods his head.

  "It's true," he says like he can read my mind. "The county has decided to place you with Sierra. That means you'll live with her for now. Is that okay with you?"

  I reach for my pad of paper fast and scribble my answer: Yes!

  Pete laughs and shakes his head. "All righty, Sierra it is, then." He pulls a chair next to my bed and sits down. "Kaylee, we'll keep looking for your mom, but in the meantime it's important that you have someone who will take care of you, someone you're comfortable with. I know you haven't known Sierra long, but I see a connection between the two of you."

  I scribble another word on my pad and hand it to Pete.

  Rapport.

  He looks at me and raises one eyebrow. "Yes, missy, you and Sierra share a close rapport." He smiles and shakes his head. He seems to think about something for a minute and then he says. "I think Sierra will be a sagacious caregiver."

  I reach for my notebook and he hands it back to me. I smile at him and then write: She's perspicacious. I hold it up and watch his face as he reads it. He throws his head back and laughs and laughs.

  Just then, Charlene pokes her head in the door. "Hey you two, keep it down in here. We got people tryin' to sleep." She winks at me before she walks back down the hallway.

  Pete wipes his eyes. "Oh, Miss Kaylee, you're something else. I can't wait to hear those big words come out of your mouth."

  This is where you'll stay. It's your room." Sierra pats me on the back. "You can go in, Kaylee. It's okay. It's yours."

  I look back at Pete, who barely fits in the small hallway, and at Mrs. Bickford, Sierra's mom. Van's tail thumps against my leg.

  Pete winks at me and smiles. "You better take a look, Miss Kaylee. Make sure it meets your standards."

  My own room? I take a few steps in. I can't believe how pretty it is. Light shines in through the open window over the bed and white curtains sway in the breeze. The bed is covered with bright colored pillows shaped like flowers. Sitting on the bed, in the middle of all the pillows, is a big stuffed bear. The bedspread is white, like the curtains. Next to the bed is a round table with a flowered cloth and a lamp on it, and something else . . . My jar! I walk to the table and pick up the jar and look back at Sierra, who's standing in the doorway.

  "I thought you might want it. I went up and got it this morning after Mother and Ruby and I fixed up your room."

  Glittering at the bottom of the jar is my mom's locket with her initials on it: K. W. I unscrew the lid and dump the contents into my hand, pulling the locket out of the little pile. Then I put everything else back in the jar. I run a finger over the initials engraved on the little heart.

  "Would you like to wear it? I'll put it on for you." Sierra, who is standing next to me now, holds out her hand. I give her the necklace and she reaches around my neck and fastens the clasp.

  "It has your initials on it."

  They're not my initials. They're my mom's initials. Our initials are the same, but this was her necklace. I haven't thought of my mom since I walked into Sierra's house. The little heart hanging around my neck is cold against my skin and a chill runs through me.

  What if she comes back now? Of course, I still want her to come back. I do. I just haven't thought about it as much lately with everything else that's going on.

  I turn and look at the rest of the bedroom. On the wall next to the bed is a low bookshelf made out of wood that matches the bed. I look at the books and the shelf and can hardly believe my eyes! There on the shelf are my books—my dictionary and the other two books sit on the top shelf, held up by two bookends that look like fat, funny mice. The two lower shelves are filled with books—most of them look old. I turn and look at Sierra.

  "I found those books in your tree too. I thought you'd want them. The other books were mine—I had a box of books in my garage from when I was a child." Sierra bends and pulls one of the books off the shelf. "Nancy Drew was my favorite."

  There are about ten of the Nancy Drew books all lined up, each book has a number on it. I can't believe my books are here—and that I have new books to read too.

  In one corner of the room is a rocking chair. On the chair is a blue backpack—it's just like Sierra's. I walk to the chair and pick it up and look at Sierra again.

  "It's for you. I thought you could keep your notebook and pen in it, and whatever else you want."

  I wonder if I can keep it—forever. Or will I have to give it back when my mom comes? Will I have to give everything back? I look around again. The room is amazing. Beyond amazing. It's marvelous. It's stupendous! I can't believe it's mine.

  "You put this together in record time." Pete leans into the room as he talks to Sierra. Then he says to me. "Pretty nice digs, missy. What do you think?" Pete looks at me, eyebrows raised.

  I nod and smile. I can't believe I get to live here, in my own room, in Sierra's house. I bend down and put my arms around Van's neck and bury my face in his fur.

  I don't want them to see me cry. With my face still buried in Van's fur, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  "Kaylee, how about some dinner? Do you like macaroni and cheese?"

  I look up at Sierra and my stomach rumbles in response. Sierra, Pete, and Mrs. B
ickford all laugh when they hear it.

  "I think that's your answer, Sierra." Pete bends down and takes my elbow in one of his hands and helps me to my feet. "You're in good hands, missy. I'll check back in with you tomorrow."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sierra

  Professionally I'm known as a layerist. Though Ruby, in her frustration, says my art defines me—"deep, impenetrable layers"—I hope that's not true. Or at least is less true today than it was a few months ago. But there is something self-defining in the layering process that intrigues me. The process speaks to the hidden nuances, quirks, and even darkness in each of us. Often, when searching for the perfect words to incorporate into the collage I'm working on, I'll find just the opposite of what I want. Say "hate" versus "love"—I'll cut the word from the page where I've found it and glue it onto the canvas. Then, I layer over it, hiding the paradoxical truth.

  My soul, I know, is made up of such paradoxes.

  But now, with Kaylee, I'm learning to reverse the process. Instead of building layer upon layer, I'm gently peeling away the layers and exposing the truth underneath. I see this process taking place in both myself and Kaylee.

  Emotions I'd long kept hidden are now exposed and the exposure leaves me feeling raw, vulnerable. I tell myself that as I shed each self-protective layer, growth is taking place and it is good, even when it hurts. But to watch it in Kaylee is harder. She's already gone through so much. At a stage in her life when she should feel secure in her trust of loving parents, she finds herself in the home of a stranger. Self-protection seems appropriate, and yet it keeps her from speaking. Oh, how I long to know what she's thinking and feeling. And slowly, as the layers fall away, even without words, I'm learning.

  Most of our "conversations" take place on a pad of paper. Everything I know about her, beyond what I observe, I'm learning through her written words. But conversations without intonation and inflection often become a puzzle—a puzzle I must work with because it holds the very essence of life. Kaylee's life. So I watch for intonation, inflection. I'm learning it's there in the slump of her shoulders as she writes or in the jab of the pen when she adds an angry period to an otherwise innocuous sentence. I see it in the veil that drops over her eyes and face when I ask a question that's too deep, too painful for her to consider. Those questions stop all conversation, and I watch as she walks away from her pad of paper—sometimes with her little hands covering her ears.