Words (22 page)

Once she's finished I take the note she holds out to me and read:
Redwoods are resilient.

I look at her, my mouth likely hanging open. "Exactly . . ."

She reaches for one of the books on redwoods and looks at me, eyebrows raised again. "You want to look at it? Sure, here, take it. Are you finished eating?" I take a napkin off the tray and dip it in a glass of water. I notice her watching my every move. "I'm going to wipe the milk off your face." I move toward her slow, cautious—as though she's a bird about to take flight. I've noticed she startles easily. I dab at her face just above her mouth and try to read her expression. But as soon as I touched her, she lowered her eyes and now they're veiled by her thick lashes. Once I'm finished, I move the tray away from her bed.

"May I look at that one?" I point to
James and the Giant Peach.
"I've never read it." I'd prefer to read
Mandy
. . . to find out why it's clutched close to her heart. But I don't want to take it from her. I sit in the chair next to her bed and we read in companionable silence. I yawn, once, then twice, and wonder what it is she likes about James and his evil aunts? Maybe she relates to James and the abuse he endures.

What a horrible thought.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Kaylee

I love the weight of the books on my lap. I like the way they feel and smell and I love all the words. So many words! I can't believe she brought me books—and my favorites! How did she know? I read a sentence and then, without moving my head, I look at her out of the corner of my eye to make sure she's still there. I don't want her to leave. I keep looking over to make sure she's there.

She keeps yawning and her head is bobbing up and down.

When I see her mouth drop open a little and her breathing becomes steady, I set down the book I'm holding and study her. I don't stare, exactly, because Emily Post would say that's rude. Instead, I just notice things about her. First, I notice her hands. They're resting on top of the book that's open on her lap. Her nails are short and it looks like there's something on a few of them—something shiny, but it doesn't look like polish. I see the same shine in patches on her hands and wrists too. It looks like glue that's dried on her skin. I remember that she's an artist—maybe she uses glue. Her right hand twitches. The backs of her hands are dotted with freckles and I can see veins through her skin. They look like strong hands, hands that can take care of things.

There's a smattering of freckles on her face too, just across her nose. That means there's just a few here and there. She's pretty. Her lashes are long and darker than her hair. When her eyes are open, they're blue, sort of. Sometimes they're green. Sometimes gray. They change. And when she looks at me, I see things in her eyes, like maybe she's worried about me or maybe even like . . . like maybe she could even love me someday.

I want her to love me.

I look at her hair, the way it hangs over her shoulders and back. I remember how heavy it was when I braided it.

I decide I'll remember every little thing about her. Just in case . . .

Please don't go away. Please. I want you to love me. Please love me.
I think these things while I look at her. I repeat the words in my mind over and over. Maybe, somehow, she'll understand. Maybe if I try hard enough, I can transfer my thoughts to her mind—like a Vulcan mind meld. I saw that on a rerun of
Star Trek
once when we lived with Brent.

But then I feel my face get warm and breathing gets hard again. I look from Sierra back to the book in my lap—the words, through my tears, seem to swim across the page.

Why would she love me? Or want me?

And what about my mom?

Thinking about my mom again makes me feel the same way I felt the time I snuck into Grammy's kitchen and took a cookie before dinner even though she'd told me I had to wait.

"Hey, missy, why the long face?"

I jump, even though he just whispers. I didn't know he was here. I wonder how long he's been leaning against the wall by the door.

"Looks like someone had a long night. I'll try not to wake her. You looked pretty deep in thought. Everything okay?" Pete walks around to the other side of my bed.

I shrug. Things are sort of okay.

Then he motions to the book I was looking at. "May I?" I nod. "Redwoods? Doing some research, Miss Kaylee?" His whisper is raspy and makes me smile. I point to Sierra. "Ah . . . so she likes redwoods, huh?" I shrug again.

"And what are you reading?" I reach for the books Sierra brought for me and show them to him. "
Mmm
. . . good choices." He puts the books down and looks at me. "At least it looks like you slept well last night. More than we can say for our friend snoring in the chair."

Sierra's head jerks up and her eyes open for a second, but then they close again and her head bounces a couple of times and finally rests on her left shoulder. Pete and I look at each other and laugh. I feel my laugh in my chest, but I keep all the sound inside me.

"Wow. She'll have a kink in her neck when she wakes up, won't she? We better not leave her like that for too long."

Just then Sierra's head bobs again and she lets out a loud snorting sound. The sound must wake her up because her eyes open and stay open this time. She looks at us for a minute, and then I notice her cheeks turn a deep pink.

"Good morning." Pete stops and looks at his watch. "Actually it's almost afternoon. You look like you could use a cup of coffee."

Sierra runs her hands through her long hair. "Um . . . coffee . . . yes. How . . . how long have you been watching me sleep?"

"Oh . . ." Pete looks at his watch again. "Not more than an hour or so—"

"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."