Words (14 page)

I catch my breath and whisper, "Thank You for this. For . . . everything."

Then unexpected words are spoken straight to my heart.
I love you.

I pull into my usual spot near the clearing and turn to Van, "Okay, boy, let's find her." He wiggles in his seat, anxious for me to open the door.

I grab my backpack and we head straight for the clearing. I poke my head into the opening of the tree and am disappointed to see that it's empty. She's not here. I bend, walk inside, then stand to my full height inside the ring of pinecones. Van sits next to me, tail bumping pinecones in all directions. I take a deep breath and am again comforted by the warm scent of burnt wood.

I turn and look for the glass jar I saw that first day. There in the darkest spot, I see the shape of it. I reach for it and unscrew the lid. I notice she's added something. There's another piece of paper—brown like the one she wrote my note on. I pull it from the jar and read an obscure paragraph. At the bottom of the paper, in small print, she's written:
Mandy—by Julie Edwards.
Something she copied from a book maybe? I read the paragraph again and am struck by the sadness of it. I pull out the paper I read the first day and reread it. Sad. Must be from another book. I'll have to ask Ruby if she remembers an Aunt Sponge.

Why these paragraphs?

I dump the rest of the contents into my hand and pull out the locket to make sure I've reported the right last initial.
K. W.
That's it.

I replace the items in the jar and then reach into my backpack for my sketchbook. I jot a quick note, tear it from the notebook, and place it under the jar. I set two granola bars next to the jar. Then, just as I'm ready to shoo Van out of the tree, I notice something else hiding in the shadows. It looks like a paper bag. I look inside. Huh. She's definitely been here recently. I shoo Van out and put the pinecones back in place.

That done. Van and I head in the direction of the stream.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kaylee

I stand on my tiptoes so I can see myself in the small mirror above the sink. The mirror is hung high so I can only see the top half of my face. I strain a little, standing as tall as I'm able and finally see what I feel. A red, purple, and yellow bruise surrounds my eye and the top of my cheek. And there are streaks of blood in my eye. From my angle, staring up at the mirror, my reflection ripples across the glass and looks nothing like me. I wonder who the monster is staring back at me?

When I walk back from the bathroom to the kitchen—every bruise on my body screams its presence.

Last night was different.

Worse.

Afterward I threw up.

"I better not get a flu bug from you. Get this cleaned up."

I wiped it up the best I could. There wasn't much.

This morning he left early. So I took a shower. There was only a sliver of soap and I used it up. I don't even care if he gets mad. The water in the shower never gets warm and there are cobwebs and spiders in the top corners of the stall. But I had to wash, to get clean, to get rid of him.

After my shower, I laid down on my mattress. I tried to think about my words, but I could only focus on one. It's an
R
word. I found it when I was reading through the dictionary for the first time. It's one of those times when reading one word, led to another word, which led to another. It seems to work that way, like all the words are related. First, I came to the word
abuse.
The fourth meaning in the list of definitions said, "to commit sexual assault upon." So then I looked up
assault.

as·sault—noun
1. a sudden, violent attack; onslaught. 2. an unlawful physical attack upon another. 3. the stage of close combat in an attack. 4. rape.

Then I looked up the word
rape.

Even though I've tried to forget the definition of
rape,
it's one I'll always remember. It's hard to forget the words you've lived.

I pull my knees to my chest and curl up tight. I lie on my side and put my thumb in my mouth, just like I used to when I was little. And then I listen to the scream. It plays like a loud rock song in my head. Over and over. This time I don't even try to make it stop. I just let it go on and on and on.

Eventually I must fall asleep. When I wake up, I try to stretch out, but my whole body aches. I move slow and finally get to my feet. I hobble over to the window and look out through the cracks in the boards. I squint my eyes against the glare of the sun and then decide to go out and sit in a patch of sunlight on the stoop and try to figure out what to do. I step out onto the porch and bend to brush pine needles off the top step. Then I sit, carefully, letting just one side of my back end rest against the wood of the deck while trying to keep pressure off the worst bruises. With elbows on my knees and my chin resting in my hands, I think about Sierra.

I need to go to my tree and see if she's there.

But it feels like such a long way today.

And what if she sees my face, the bruise, then what?

Maybe I can hide and just watch for her—just to see if she comes back. Today, more than ever, I want to see her, to be with her, to tell her . . .

What would I tell her?

My sigh breaks the silence.

I can't tell her anything.

I sit for a while longer listening to squirrels chattering overhead and two blue jays bickering over something nearby. I feel my body begin to relax in the warmth of the sun.

Finally I make my decision. I'll just go and look for her. If she's there, I'll hide and watch, just like I did that first day. That's good enough. And good enough is all a person needs. I stand up, go back into the cabin, and look at my books still scattered on the floor. He must have seen them last night. I can't leave them here anymore—now that he knows they're here, he'll take them for sure. I go to the kitchen and take the last brown paper bag. I put the books in the bag and walk back out the door and head for the stream, putting one foot in front of the other, lugging the heavy bag with me. Today it's a slow walk.

Every aching step is a reminder of him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Sierra

I let Van lead the way. Nose to the ground, he approaches the stream. Just like last night, I see nowhere to cross easily. "C'mon, let's head upstream a ways." I tug at the leash and Van follows. Just a few hundred feet from where I stopped last night, the stream makes a sharp S turn. I follow the first bend and see what I've been looking for—a log fallen across the stream.

Just as I'm ready to brave crawling across the slender log, something draws my attention to the woods on the opposite side of the stream. I see a flash of color—yellow—then nothing. I stand perfectly still and watch. What did I see?

After a moment, between the trees, I see it again—yellow. A yellow T-shirt. It's her. I reach to cup my mouth with my hands and call her name. But something stops me and I watch for a moment more.

Her gait is slow—careful. Her head is hung low. Her back is to me, she's walking away from me and I can see that her shoulders are slumped. She reminds me of one of Ruby's sculptures—an old homeless woman Ruby encountered in downtown Santa Cruz. Ruby was drawn to her because she said the language of her body spoke her plight. Ruby paid her to sit for her for several weeks.

Now I watch what I know is a little girl, but I see a hopeless old woman.

"Kaylee . . ."

She doesn't hear me over the babble of the stream.

"Kaylee!"

She looks my way and stops. She turns back the way she was going then stops again. She turns back toward me. I see her hesitation—her indecision. Finally she turns away and begins walking faster to wherever she's going.

I reach down and unfasten Van's leash. "Go get her, boy."

Van dashes across the log and catches her before I even reach the other side of the stream. Van dances circles around her, keeping her in one place. I run the distance between us. I'm breathless by the time I reach her. "Hey . . . wait. Don't leave. I have something for you."

She doesn't look at me or acknowledge me. Instead, she keeps her head down, hair hanging in her face. The only move she makes is for Van. She buries her hand in the fur around his neck.

"Kaylee?"

I notice a slight nod of her head—an acknowledgment of sorts, I guess.

"Thanks for the note. I found it yesterday afternoon. I came by after . . . after work. I was hoping I'd see you."

She still doesn't look at me.

I move closer, within reach of her. "Hey, I made lunch—peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I thought maybe we could have a picnic. You know, if I saw you, I thought maybe . . ."

At the mention of peanut butter and jelly, she turns toward me.

"Would you like a sandwich?"

Still looking at the ground, she nods her head up and down.

"Hey, Kaylee . . ." I reach for her. I put my hand under her chin and gently lift her face up. She still refuses to look at me. And now I know why.

"Oh, little one, who did this to you?" I lift my fingers to her cheek and barely brush them against the bruise. I push her hair off her face and see what damage has been done. "Kaylee, look at me. Let me look at your eye." I try to keep the emotion I'm feeling out of my voice. I will myself to remain calm—to feel what I'm seeing later.

She raises her eyes from the spot on the ground she's been staring at. Her gaze meets mine for just a moment—then she looks past me. But in that moment, I see myself. I see what I've felt for so many years. I see a shroud of shame—that's what Ruby calls it—covering her little face.

"It's okay. You're okay. You haven't done anything wrong. I just want to take a look and make sure you're—you know—I just need to look." The lump in my throat burns—anger and tears push their way to the surface. But I swallow them back. I take a deep breath and collect myself.
I will feel this later. Not now.

I sigh and take a step away from her. I take off my sweatshirt and place it on the ground. "Here, have a seat. Want a sandwich?" Without waiting for a response, I reach into my backpack and pull out the plastic baggies I packed at home.

"Here you go . . . two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for you. Hope you like peanut butter. Some chips. A banana. And chocolate chip cookies—they're just store bought. I don't bake much. Hope you don't mind. Oh, and here's a soda."

I lay everything on the sweatshirt in front of her—then I sit down across from her. I reach into my backpack for my sandwich and watch as she devours the first of hers.

We eat in silence. After I've finished half of my sandwich, I decide I can't wait any longer to find out what I need to know. "So, Kaylee, do you live around here?" I reach for a chip trying to appear casual, like I'm just making small talk.

She nods. Yes.

"Where?" I put the chip in my mouth although I'm not sure I can swallow it.

She shrugs her shoulders.

"Is it very far?"

She shakes her head. No.

"Do you live with your parents?"

At this, she looks at me. I see a wave of emotions cross her face but I don't know why.

"Hey, little one, will you talk to me? Tell me a few things—you know, where you live, what you like to do, your last name maybe? Whatever. Whatever you'd like to talk about is fine. I'd just like to get to know you."

Again, emotions flutter across her face. I think I see desire, shame, embarrassment; but, I'm not sure. Then she shakes her head. No. She won't talk to me.

"Why?" As I ask, it occurs to me. "Kaylee,
can
you talk?"

Tears swim to the surface and she swallows hard. Her face flushes. She lowers her head again and stares at her bag of chips. Then comes her answer—a slow shake of her head—first to the right, then the left, then back to the right.

No? She can't talk?
Oh. I feel another fissure form in my heart. "Hey, that's okay. Don't worry about it."

We sit in silence another minute until an idea comes to me. I reach for my backpack again and pull out my sketchbook and a pencil.

"I know you can write, so let's start over. Kaylee, I'm Sierra Dawn Bickford." I write my name at the top of a page. "And you're Kaylee . . . ?" I hand her the notebook and pen.

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.