Words Page 29

  And Kaylee.

  I let go of her hand and stand. "I'm going to go clean up the kitchen, put my easel and things away."

  She nods when I leave her there, sitting on the deck, staring out at the yard.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Kaylee

  At first I try not to think about what Sierra said. I try not to think about Ruby. I try really hard not to think about how Ruby telling Sierra's parents the truth was what finally helped Sierra. I especially try not to think about my mom. Because even though Sierra didn't say it exactly, I get what she was telling me.

  My telling the truth might help my mom.

  But . . .

  I'm trying not to think about that. There are too many what-ifs and the what-ifs make my stomach churn.

  I lean back in the chair on the deck and close my eyes. I open the box in my mind and shuffle through my words. But as I visualize my words, I see new words in my box. Words I didn't put there. They're not even hard words.

  hon·est—adjective 1. free of deceit and untruthfulness.

  frank—adjective 1. open, honest, and direct in speech or writing, esp. when dealing with unpalatable matters.

  sin·cere—adjective 1. free from pretense or deceit.

  I mentally slam the box shut, open my eyes, and stand up. I stand up so fast that Van, who's lying at my feet, stands up fast too. His legs are wobbly underneath him. Then he looks at me. His sleepy eyes seem wide with concern.

  "Let's go!" I tell him, and he follows me into the kitchen, down the hall, and into my room. I shut the door, plop down on my bed, stare at the ceiling, and think more about not thinking. I get back up before Van even has a chance to settle on the floor.

  "C'mon."

  He follows me to the living room where I, without even asking, turn on the TV. Sierra says watching TV stunts creativity. Even with the volume up, I can hear Sierra's flip-flops slapping the hardwood in the hallway. She stops at the end of the hall and looks at me. I look back. She just stands there looking at me for a minute and then turns and heads back to her room.

  I guess stunting my creativity is okay for today.

  I lie on the sofa and watch reruns of old shows that make me laugh. Van sleeps on the floor next to me. I hang my arm over the edge of the sofa and rest my hand in the fur around his neck. We stay like that for the rest of the afternoon. Sierra comes and goes and even brings me dinner on a tray and watches a show with me.

  But at bedtime she tells me to turn off the TV.

  "But . . ."

  "Kaylee, turn it off. It's time." She smiles at me. "Come on, I'll read you a story after you brush your teeth."

  Later, long after the lights are out, I remember that the only way to really stop thinking about something is to actually think about it and get it over with.

  So . . . I do.

  What surprises me is that when I finally let myself think about telling the truth, I don't think about telling the truth at all. Instead I remember what Sierra said about Jesus being the truth and the one who will set me free. And I remember the words to the song Grammy taught me: Jesus loves me this I know . . .

  I pull the covers up over my head and curl into the dark pocket of space between the sheets. My breath warms the trapped air and I feel like a caterpillar in a cocoon. There I talk to Jesus. I tell Him I remember Him from before—from before Grammy died and before my mom left. I tell Him I know He is true and that I want Him to live in my heart just like He lived in Sierra's heart when she was little.

  "And Jesus"—I whisper into the dark—"please help me."

  After I talk to Jesus, I stay under the covers for a long time and I think. But it isn't as scary anymore. I think about the real things—about how my mom was and how she left me. I think about the drugs and how they changed her. I think about the lie I heard her tell Sierra. And I know, deep in my heart, that even though telling the truth might make her mad at me and make her never want to see me again, it is the only way I might help her get better.

  So I make my decision.

  I throw the covers back and climb out of bed. I tiptoe into Sierra's room and stand by her bed. She rolls over, lifts her head to look at the clock, then lies back down and closes her eyes again. I put my hand on her shoulder. "Sierra? Are you awake?"

  She doesn't move.

  "Sierra . . ."

  Finally she rolls back over and opens her eyes. "Hey . . . little one . . ." She looks back at the clock. "It's only . . . 4:46." She pats the other side of the bed. "Climb in."

  I shake my head. "No."

  "No?" She sits up, leaning back on her elbows, and looks at me like she's trying to focus. Then she reaches over and switches on the lamp on her nightstand. "You okay?"

  "I . . . I want to tell you something."

  "Now?"

  I nod. "Now."

  "Okay." She sits up and puts another pillow behind her and leans back. "Here, sit down." She yawns and then scoots her legs out of my way, and I sit down on the side of the bed. "What's up?"

  I reach for the comb on her nightstand and hand it to her. "Would you . . . would you comb my hair?"

  "Oh, little one, I'd love to. I've missed combing your hair."

  She begins running the comb through my hair. "I want to . . . I want to tell you something. I wasn't . . . my mom . . . she said . . . she said I was kidnapped. I . . . heard her. But . . . I wasn't."

  Sierra stops combing and rests her hands on my shoulders. She doesn't say anything.

  "She . . . she . . . she . . ." I gulp.

  "Take a deep breath." Sierra's steady hands are comforting on my shoulders and then she turns me toward her. "Move over here, sweetie, so I can see you."

  I turn around and sit in front of her. "She . . . left. And she never . . . came back. She . . . she left me there with . . . with . . ." My eyes burn and my chest gets heavy. Each breath gets harder to take.

  Sierra leans forward and reaches for my hand. "You're doing great, Kaylee. You're doing great."

  I take another breath and ask the question that's weighed on me for weeks. "Will she get in trouble?"

  Sierra doesn't say anything. Finally I ask again. "Will she?"

  "Kaylee, she was supposed to take care of you, to protect you. She didn't do that. By not doing that, she broke the law and she'll have to pay the consequences for that. But, little one, she'll also get the help she needs to be healthy."

  "Like when . . . like when Ruby told your parents about you?"

  She reaches over and puts her palm on the side of my face. "Yes. Just like that."

  I stare at the floor thinking about what Sierra said.

  "Kaylee, is there anything else you want to tell me?"

  I look at her and shrug.

  Then I nod.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Sierra

  On a crisp fall morning, with the leaves outside my bedroom window relinquishing their hold on summer, I sit on my bed with Kaylee and listen to her words as she finally relinquishes the secrets that have held her captive.

  Each word is a struggle, pulled from the depths of her soul. At first, when she begins talking about her mom, she sits with her back to me as she talks. But I need to see her face, or perhaps more important, I need her to see mine as she speaks. I place my hands on her shoulders and gently turn her to face me. I reach for her face and hold it between my hands for a moment before leaning in and kissing her on the forehead. "Keep going, little one. You're doing great."

  Oh, Lord, help her. Give her strength.

  As she unfolds her story, I hold my anger close, not wanting her to misinterpret what I'm feeling, to think my anger is directed at her.

  Then this courageous little girl dares to share the unthinkable.

  I realize, as I listen, that this
child with myriad words in her vocabulary doesn't know the words for what she's suffered. Nor should she.

  My anger swells and releases in waves of tears—tears shed for the agony Kaylee suffered at the hands of a very sick man. I cry with her and for her. I cry for all she's lost.

  Kaylee cries, too, as she speaks. But as I study her sweet face, I realize hers are tears of shame. At first I'm angry. At him. At what she's feeling because of him. And then I'm determined. She will not feel that one second longer.

  Over and over I encourage her and whisper to her. "It wasn't your fault, sweetie. It wasn't your fault."

  We pass a box of tissues back and forth.

  When Kaylee's words are finally spent, I pull her close and spread the down comforter over us. Holding her tight, I feel her tears subside and her breathing steady.

  "Kaylee . . . you are the bravest person I've ever known. I love you, Kaylee Wren, and I always will." I feel the slight nod of her head just before her breathing signals she's fallen asleep. I pray it is a sleep of deep peace.

  As I hold her in my arms, my own tears flow again. But this time they are tears of hope and joy. Tears for a lifetime still ahead of Kaylee.

  A lifetime of freedom.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Kaylee

  At first I have to push each word I speak out of my mouth. I start and stop and start. But I keep pushing. When I finish telling Sierra the truth about my mom, I think I'm done. And I know Jesus helped me say the truth. But then Sierra asks me if there's anything else I want to tell her.

  I hesitate.

  I can't tell her the rest.

  But . . .

  But then I tell her the thing I thought I could never tell anyone. I don't decide to tell her exactly, I just start telling. Jesus helps me with this too. I think He makes the decision for me so I don't have to. And when I start talking about . . . about him, I can't stop.

  I feel my face burning as I try to explain things . . . things he did to me. I don't even know how to explain it, but I try. I can't look at Sierra when I talk—I can't look at her eyes. But she stops me several times and puts her hands on the sides of my face, like she does, and holds my face until I look at her. Her hands feel cool on my hot skin.

  When my eyes finally meet hers, I see she's crying and she says, "It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault, sweetie." She says it over and over until I almost believe her. She tells me other things too. She kisses me on the forehead and tells me she loves me. And she says, "Kaylee, you are so lovable. Do you know that?" Then she says again, "It wasn't your fault, sweetie. It wasn't your fault."

  We both blow our noses and then I start talking again.

  I can't stop telling until I'm done.

  I have to be done.

  When I am done, I know. I've said all there is to say.

  I sit still and wait. I wait for the scream to start in my head, but . . . it never does. It's quiet in my head. And in my heart.

  I'm not afraid any more. I can talk. I can tell the truth.

  Sierra knows now.

  And Jesus always knew.

  Sierra pulls the comforter over us and pulls me close to her. With her arm around my shoulders and my head resting on her, I sigh and close my eyes. I feel so . . . different. I've been in a dark and silent place for so long. And now . . .

  Now I'm not. Now it's light.

  I stretch, yawn, and then snuggle in closer to Sierra. Maybe . . .

  Maybe this is what a butterfly feels like after it comes out of its cocoon. Maybe, I think just before falling asleep, this is what free feels like.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Sierra

  Kaylee's rhythmic breathing speaks of repeated patterns. Consistency. Something to count on. Those thoughts inform my prayers for this child who's become so much a part of my life—a part of me. As I hold her close, I pray that I can offer her the consistent love she so deserves. But I recognize, again, that I can't do it alone. Only Jesus' love, through me, will offer Kaylee the stability she needs.

  The trauma Kaylee suffered—the horrors she dared to share with me tonight—are a chaotic backdrop to my prayers. As I pray for Kaylee, I hold my emotions at bay. But when I finally quiet before God, the images planted in my mind spring forth and anger roils to the surface with hurricane force.

  How could this happen? To this child? Why?

  Just before my emotions pull me under, a voice whispers into the storm: Peace be with you . . .

  I pull the last tissue from the box and wipe my eyes and nose, trying not to disrupt Kaylee's sleep. My heartbeat begins to slow and a sense of peace that belies the circumstances settles over me. I am reminded, in that moment, that God's love for Kaylee so far exceeds my own. What anger must He feel when one of His children is so horribly abused? My skin prickles with the thought.

  The peace He offers comes with the assurance that my anger and grief are the appropriate responses for what Kaylee suffered. I recall Pete's words from Matthew regarding Jesus' anger when one of His little ones is harmed. But what I do with these emotions . . . that's important.

  I want revenge. Vindication for Kaylee. Yet God says vindication is His. Instead, I must leave it all in His hands.

  In those moments before I, too, succumb to sleep, I surrender my emotions to God. There, under the down comforter, with Kaylee's warmth pressed against me, the fierceness of God's love ignites my soul. And I am finally free to rest in all He's done and will do for me.

  And for Kaylee.

  My final thought before drifting off is how much I long to share these realizations with Pete.

  And?

  I smile at the inner question. It sounds like Ruby, but I know it's my own heart asking. And I know the answer, which I let out on a breath as I give in to sleep.

  You're right. I long to share something more with Pete.

  My heart.

  I pick up the towel lying on the kitchen counter and wipe frosting off my hands, then reach for the phone. "Hello . . ."

  "Hi. How are the preparations coming?"

  "Good. I just finished frosting the cake for tonight and cupcakes for tomorrow. Oh, Pete, I'm so excited! I don't know if Kaylee's ever had a real birthday party. Tomorrow five girls who will be in her class this spring are coming for a slumber party! Can you believe it?"

  "She's doing great, Sierra. What's that in the background? 'Jingle Bells'?"

  "Yeah, we've had Christmas music playing all day. 'Jingle Bells' is one of her favorites. So, what's up?"

  "I wanted to check with you and see if you'd have time before the party to meet for a few minutes. I need to talk to you and would like to do it sooner rather than later. Could I come by early—say thirty minutes or so before everyone else arrives?"

  My shoulders stiffen. "Is everything okay?"

  "Everything's fine. Just some new developments you should know about."

  "Can't you tell me now?"

  "What? And miss the opportunity to see your reaction—the fire flashing in those beautiful gray eyes of yours?"

  "Okay, so I react sometimes . . ." Like now as my pulse races at Pete's reference to my eyes.

  I hear his familiar chuckle. "Sometimes?"

  "Hey! Can I help it if I have a dozen years worth of emotions stored up? It's about time they came out. Enough said! Come early. I'll be here. You can help . . ."

  I hear the smile in his voice. "Great. See you soon."

  I finish washing up the dishes and then wander to the living room to check the table one last time. I rented a round table and chairs, and moved the living room furniture against the walls to make room for the table. It's covered in a cherry-red tablecloth—Kaylee's favorite color. So appropriate for the season. The table is set with my china and crystal. I let Kaylee set the table. I smile as I
see everything perfectly placed.

  Emily Post would be proud.

  In the center of the table is Ruby's gift to Kaylee. She brought it over this morning. It's a small sculpture of Kaylee sitting with her arm around Van, her face nuzzled into the fur on his neck. I've seen this pose so often in the past months—as has Ruby, obviously. The sculpture seems to depict both Kaylee's need and her great capacity for love. I glance down at my sweatshirt covered in flour and frosting and realize I'd better get myself ready. Pete will arrive in a few minutes, and the others within the hour.

  I head down the hallway and tap on Kaylee's door and then open it. "Hey, kiddo, what're you doing?"

  "Making place cards for the table."

  "Place cards? Oh, of course. When you're finished, you better change."

  "I will."

  Though it's been months now since I heard her first spoken words, I still warm to her voice. "Pete's coming early to talk through a few things. If you need anything, feel free to interrupt."

  "Okay." Engrossed in her project, she never even looks up. She is content, enjoying this day. Actually I'm not sure which of us is enjoying it more.

  Just as I touch some gloss to my lips, I hear Pete's knock on the front door. I try to ignore the flutter in my stomach as I steal a last glance in the mirror. I let my eyes linger on my reflection for just a moment. Pete knocks again and the flutter moves from my stomach to my chest. Patience, Dr. Langstrom, I'm coming.