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  It's these thoughts and emotions I layer on the canvas in front of me. I used to lose myself in my work—it consumed my mind and all else fell away—including any sense of time. But now I know even the creative process can't block out the responsibility I feel for Kaylee. This, I realize, is another trait of motherhood.

  I glance out at the yard again. Nothing has changed. Yet . . . something nags. I set my brush in the tray on my easel and wipe my hands on the old work shirt I wear when I work, and then I head for the backyard.

  Barefoot, my step is light across the deck as I avoid places where the wood is splintered. I step onto the grass and stand rooted, listening. I'm not sure what I expect to hear. Suddenly the middle section of the fort, the quilt, pushes into a pyramid shape and then pulls out from under the rocks and in a flurry it falls to the ground. Kaylee stands, eyes squinting against the sun, the quilt around her feet. Her hands cover her ears—just like they were the first day I saw her. She looks right at me but doesn't seem to see me. She stands like that for a moment and then, slowly, her hands drop from her ears to her side. Her little body trembles.

  Van crawls out from under the quilt where he was buried. He stands, looks at Kaylee, and then walks across the crumpled quilt and sits next to her. Something is wrong, and Van senses it too.

  The answer to my earlier question stands before me. I will know when it's time to try and draw her out when the time is right.

  And the time is right now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Kaylee

  The fort is dark and warm inside. I sit, Indian style, in the middle of the small space, resting my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands. Van lies down in front of me. I breathe in through my nose, hoping for the smell of burnt wood, but instead smell fresh cut grass. It's not a bad smell, it's just not the same.

  I need to ruminate. That means I need to think hard about some things—like why I didn't go last night. And other things too. Things I should probably think about before I leave to find my mom. That's probably why I didn't go. I just had a feeling I needed to think through a few more things.

  That's all.

  It's not like I was scared or anything. I'm not a baby. I can do whatever I need to do. And I need to find my mom. And I will. But first, I just need to think and plan a little more.

  That's the smart thing to do.

  First, I need to think about the things I heard Sierra say to my mom. Lots of things. Like for one, that my mom's an addict. I know what an addict is and not from the dictionary. I learned about it at school during Red Ribbon Week. That's when they teach you about drugs and how they can hurt you. I knew my mom used drugs because I heard Grammy talking to her about it—that's what they got in a fight about before we moved out of Grammy's house. But I couldn't think about it then. People who use drugs are bad. That's what the kids at school said.

  Maybe . . .

  Maybe my mom didn't have amnesia.

  My breath seems to catch in my throat and I swallow hard. I consider that thought. I lay down on the grass with my head next to Van's head.

  Maybe the drugs just made her forget me.

  Ruminating gives me that heavy feeling in my chest—a hurting kind of feeling.

  But there's more . . . Sierra said she was an addict too. More than Sierra taking drugs, I need to think about Annie. Sierra had a daughter—a baby who died because Sierra took drugs. I feel like I'm wearing 3-D glasses, like the kind I got out of a box of Froot Loops once. When you put them on, you see things in a different way. You see more than one of whatever you're looking at. Now, when I look at Sierra, that's how I feel—like I'm seeing more than one of her—like she's two people. There's the Sierra I know now. And then there's the Sierra who used drugs and whose baby died. It's hard to make them seem like the same person.

  I remember how I felt when Grammy died. Was that how Sierra felt when Annie died? My throat gets tight and the weight on my chest gets heavier.

  I remember the first time I saw her standing in the clearing. She was crying. Was she thinking about Annie that day?

  I roll over and put my cheek on Van's back—his fur tickles my nose. Does Sierra love me because I remind her of Annie, or does she just love me because I'm me?

  Maybe she needs me too, just like my mom needs me.

  Will my mom be okay? If I don't find her, who will help her? How will she get better? I have to go. I have to find her. But that means leaving Sierra . . . How can I leave Sierra, now that I know she needs me too?

  I have other questions too, questions I don't want to think about—questions that make me feel sick to my stomach. Like did my mom take drugs because of me? Did I do something wrong? Was it because of what he did to me? I think back . . .

  No, she took drugs before him. When we lived with Grammy, or they wouldn't have had that fight. We moved in with him after that. But still maybe what he did made it worse for her.

  And why . . .

  Why didn't she . . .

  How come she didn't . . . make him stop?

  That's not a question I can ask anyone. I can't tell anyone. I close my eyes, but when I do, I see him. I remember the things he did. I open my eyes and sit up. I put my hands over my ears. I shake my head and rock back and forth.

  Please make it stop. Please make it stop!

  But the scream keeps going, on and on in my head. The scream rages louder than ever. Finally, I stand up—fast. I forget about the quilt and when I stand it comes undone from under the rocks and falls off the chairs and I'm standing in the sunlight.

  In the light the scream stops.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Kathryn

  I'm . . . Kathryn. Kathryn Wren. My . . . my daughter, Kaylee Wren, is in foster care. I need to talk to someone."

  She stops, not knowing what else to say. I abandoned my daughter but I'd like her back now.

  Like that's going to happen.

  The receptionist writes down her name and, pointing to a row of blue plastic chairs against a wall, tells her to have a seat. Kathryn looks around the stark office and thinks of the last time she renewed her driver's license. Maybe all county agencies look the same. She takes a seat and tries to hold still. She clasps her palms together to keep them from shaking and wills her feet not to tap, but it doesn't work. She takes deep breaths hoping to at least keep the insistent nausea from taking over.

  I want, I need, to get out of here. But the words that woman, the one who has Kaylee, said run through her mind for the thousandth time since standing on her doorstep a few days ago: Your story can end differently . . . She wants to believe her. She gets up and walks back to the reception desk. "I don't have a lot of time. I need to talk to someone now! She's my daughter. I have rights!"

  "It will be just a few minutes, Ms. Wren. Please, take a seat."

  She walks back to the chairs along the wall but knows she can't sit still. Instead she walks back and forth, keeping her eye on the receptionist. She sees her pick up the phone and call someone. The receptionist watches her as she talks to whoever's on the other end.

  What is taking so long? She opens and closes her mouth trying to stretch the muscles in her jaw. She sits. She stands. She scratches the back of her neck. She sits again, this time crossing one leg over the other. Her foot bounces. Finally she sees a large man come out of an office behind the reception desk. He has a file folder in one hand. When he reaches the receptionist, he bends and says something she can't hear—then they both look at her. She stands again.

  "Ms. Wren?" He comes around the reception desk toward her and reaches out his hand. She wipes her palm on her jeans and then shakes his hand.

  "Yeah, I'm Kathryn Wren. I'd like to talk to someone about my daughter, Kaylee Wren."

  "I'm glad you're here. We've been looking for you since Kaylee came our way. I'm Peter Lang
strom."

  She frowns. Wants to ask, "How did she 'come your way'?"

  Did Jack bring her here? Was she okay? What happened? What did she tell you?

  But each question, she realizes, incriminates her. She walked away from Kaylee. You abandoned her. The voice in her head, the one she wants to muzzle, begins its accusations.

  Accusations? It's the truth—you abandoned her.

  I thought she'd be better off without me.

  Really, or was that just your excuse?

  She is better off without me. She is. I should just leave her where she is—with . . . With who? I don't even know who she's with. Guilt chokes her.

  Whoever she is, she's better for Kaylee than Jack. You didn't mind leaving her with him, why does it matter who she's with now?

  She shakes her head and tries to focus—to ignore the argument going on in her mind. She looks up at the face of the man in front of her and realizes he's said something, but she doesn't know what. "What? What did you say?"

  She hears his voice again. He must repeat what he's said, but still she only hears the voices in her head. She's better off without you. She is. You're worthless. She doesn't need you.

  "I'm . . . I'm sorry. I . . . I made a mistake. I shouldn't have come . . ." She turns and begins to walk toward the door. She wants to run. Away—away from herself—as far away as she can go. She wants to run . . . But there's only one way to get away from herself, to turn off the voices in her head.

  Yes, you know the way. Craving claws at her from the inside out. You know what you need. You know . . .

  Somewhere behind her a voice shouts. "Wait. You can't leave. Wait!"

  She can leave.

  She knows.

  She's done it before.

  Your story can end differently . . . differently . . . It can end differently.

  She hesitates for just a second, but in that second the voice behind her reaches her. The man—what did he say his name was?—puts his hand on her shoulder and she hears him speak again. "Ms. Wren. Please wait. Let us help you. We're here to help—to reunite you with your daughter."

  Help? Help me? I'm beyond help . . .

  She hesitates. "Reunite me with Kaylee?"

  "Yes, eventually, if possible. That's always our goal. I need to ask you some questions." He puts one hand on her shoulder and motions behind the reception desk. "My office is this way. I'd like to go over Kaylee's file with you and . . ."

  He steers her in the direction of his office, asking her questions along the way. "First, we need contact information. Your address, phone number . . ."

  Your story can end differently . . .

  No it can't, you know it can't. Who are you kidding?

  Differently . . . It can end differently.

  You're beyond help.

  "Ms. Wren? Did you hear me? How can we reach you? We'd like to help you, but we'll need some information—"

  "Help me?"

  He can't help you. He doesn't have what you need.

  She scratches the back of her neck again—this time, her fingers come away bloodied. She's scratched off one of many scabs. She looks at the blood on her fingers and then looks at the man to see if he's noticed. He has. He watches her for a moment, then turns around and reaches for a tissue from a box on a file cabinet behind his desk. He hands it to her.

  "Thanks . . . mosquito bites."

  He nods. "Ms. Wren, Kathryn, let us help you."

  Your story can end differently . . .

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Kaylee

  I shiver as I feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders. The quilt is on the ground around my feet. There's a lump in the middle—Van! Then I see Sierra standing in front of me. I don't know how long she's been there. When she sees that I see her, she walks toward me and puts her hands on my shoulders then she wraps me in a tight hug.

  "Hey, little one, are you okay?"

  I pull back from her and I nod—I'm fine. I'm not fine, but I don't want her to know—to ask me questions.

  Sierra bends down and picks up the quilt. "Here, let's spread this out on the grass. She grabs an edge of the quilt and starts to drag it away from the chairs. "Want to help me?"

  I know it's not really a question but more like a statement. So I grab the other side of the quilt and follow her. When she stops, we shake the quilt out together and it lands flat on the grass.

  "Have a seat, kiddo. I want to talk to you." Sierra looks at me—her face is serious. But then she smiles—it seems like kind of a sad smile though. "Stay put a minute—I'm going to get your pad and pen."

  I watch her walk away and wonder what she wants to talk about. I have a bad feeling. When she comes back, she hands me the pad. I open it and write: Am I in trouble?

  "Oh, Kaylee, no, of course not, I just want to talk. You have lots going on in your life, and I thought it might help if we talked about some of it, okay? I'll talk, and you can write."

  I nod. But I don't know if it's okay or not. Some things aren't okay to talk about or write about. Van comes over and lies next to me—he puts his head in my lap.

  "That dog sure loves you." She watches us for a minute—then she comes and sits across from me. She takes a deep breath and then she reaches out and pets Van's back. She looks like she's trying to figure out what she wants to say. I wait. The scream is still ringing in my ears.

  "Um . . . Kaylee, I've never . . . I'm not used to . . ."

  It sounds like Sierra's words are a little stuck. I know how she feels. She's pulling at a thread in the quilt as she tries to talk. But then she stops and looks at my face. I can see she's having a hard time. She starts again. "Kaylee, do you know how much I love you?"

  I start to nod, but then I shrug my shoulders instead. I'm not sure how much—or if she even does—even when she tells me she loves me—it's sort of hard to believe her.

  "I love you so much, little one. And because I love you, I hurt when you hurt. Does that make sense?"

  I think about what she's said for a minute. But she doesn't wait for me to respond, instead, she keeps talking . . .

  "And when I see that you're hurting, I want to help if I can. But I don't always know the right thing to do. I haven't been a parent before—I mean, not a parent to . . . I mean, I'm not your parent. You have a parent . . ."

  I look down at my pad and think about what I want to ask. Will it hurt Sierra to talk about it? I don't know. But I need to know about Annie. But, you had a daughter. Right? I hand my notebook to Sierra and watch her face as she reads. She looks startled. Her gaze moves from the page of the notebook and focuses on the quilt.

  I take the notebook out of her hand and scribble a quick note. I'm sorry. I put the notebook back on her lap and she looks at it then looks back at me.

  "No, Kaylee, it's okay. I just didn't know that you knew. I didn't know how much you heard the day I talked to your mom. Yes, I had Annie. I was Annie's parent—her mom." Sierra seems to think for a minute—she seems to make a decision. "Kaylee, there's nothing I won't talk to you about. I will tell you anything you want to know—anything. If you have questions about Annie, or about your mom, or about anything, I'll try to answer them. I will always be honest with you. Okay?"

  I nod. I have lots of questions. But I've never really had anyone to ask. I know there are some things, like the questions that made the scream start, that I can't ever ask. But there are other things I want to know.

  I take the notebook back again and think for a minute. Then I write what I've been wondering about: The first day I saw you . . .

  I stop. I don't want to make her feel bad.

  "The first day you saw me . . . It's okay, Kaylee. Go ahead. You can ask."

  I realize she's watching me and reading as I write. I finish my question: You were crying.
Was that because of Annie?

  Sierra looks from the pad of paper out to her rose garden. I see her sigh—the rise and fall of her chest and shoulders. I look down at the quilt and trace the pattern of a flower on one of the squares of fabric.

  "I want to tell you, little one. I'm just not used to talking about this so you'll have to be patient with me. Not everything is easy to talk about." She reaches over and puts her hand under my chin and lifts my face up so I'm looking at her again. "Okay?"

  I nod.

  "Yes. I was crying about Annie that day. It was the anniversary of the day she died and I'd just come from the cemetery. I go there once a year. I was . . . angry. Angry at myself. Angry because she died."

  Because of drugs?

  I can tell my question hurts her. I don't want to hurt her, but I need to know.

  "Yes, because of drugs." Sierra starts pulling on the thread in the quilt again. She doesn't look at me when she talks. "Drugs can take over a person's mind, and then they do things they'd never do otherwise. It's like the drugs start making the choices—not the person. Or something like that. It doesn't mean I wasn't responsible for what happened—I was. But . . . It's hard to explain . . ."

  Is that why . . . I stop. Never mind.

  "Is that what happened to your mom?" Sierra whispers the question. "Little one, is that what you were going to ask?" She reaches over and takes my hand in one of hers. She brushes her other hand across my forehead and then smooths down my hair. I swallow and my throat aches. Then I nod my head—yes, that's what I was going to ask.

  "Kaylee, look at me." She tilts my head up again. "First, I want you to know that you didn't do anything wrong. You aren't responsible in any way for your mom's problems. Do you understand that?"

  I try to wipe away the tears running down my cheeks, but they just keep coming. I shake my head—just a little.