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I think of the day ahead. Breakfast first, then Kaylee's appointment with Dr. Beth—Bethany Petrovoski, the child psychiatrist appointed by CWS. She has the "kids," as she refers to her patients, call her Dr. Beth rather than having them struggle with her last name. "They have enough to struggle with as it is," she explained when we first met just over two weeks ago.

That first meeting. That was . . . interesting.

With damp palms gripping the steering wheel, I'd pulled into Dr. Beth's office parking lot. A dozen questions raced through my mind.
What will she ask me? How much of my background will she want to cover? Will she approve of Kaylee living with me?
And on and on . . .

I took a deep breath, shook my head a bit hoping to clear my mind, and then put the Jeep into Park. "How bad can it be, Sierra?" I gave myself a little pep talk as I walked toward her office until it occurred to me that I'd look crazy talking to myself! I peered toward the suite with her name on the door and prayed she wasn't looking out the window.

But my concerns were unfounded. Dr. Beth was warm, welcoming, and accepting. When I left her office that afternoon, she stopped me at the door and put her hand on my arm. "Sierra, from everything you've told me and from Pete's reports, it's evident to me that Kaylee feels safe with you. It's that sense of safety that will promote her healing."

"Hey, girls . . . Good morning!"

Ruby's greeting interrupts my reverie. She lets herself in and calls to us as she breezes through the living room to the kitchen, her ankle-length gauze skirt flowing with her. She stops in front of the kitchen table and stares. "Wow! Who did this?" She looks from me to Kaylee and puts her arm around Kaylee's shoulders and gives her a quick squeeze. "Hey you, good to see you again."

I look at the table. "Wow . . . Kaylee . . ." The setting looks like something from a magazine or a fine restaurant. While I was lost in my thoughts and breakfast preparations, she dug out my only matching place mats and cloth napkins. The napkins are folded in triangles that look like sails from a boat and are set atop each plate. But that's not all.

A stemmed water goblet is situated just above the knife on the right, along with a juice glass at each setting and teacups with saucers placed to the right above the fork. There are regular knives, forks and spoons, all appropriately placed, along with—

"What are these?" I pick up a spoon with a serrated tip. "Grapefruit spoons? Where'd you find these? I didn't know I had these." There's also a butter knife at each setting and a vase with cut roses in the middle of the table. "Little one, who taught you how to do this?" I look down at Kaylee, who smiles that sweet, shy smile of hers again.

"Let me guess, you used to work in a restaurant? Caterer? Servant to the rich and famous?" Ruby teases. "Too bad Margaret's not here to see this." Ruby turns to me and winks. "Your mother is a woman who appreciates a little culture."

I watch Kaylee. She takes a deep breath, stands a little straighter, and opens her mouth . . . but says nothing. Instead, she turns and scampers out of the kitchen and down the hallway. She's back in a matter of seconds holding a large blue book out to Ruby.

"Emily Post's Etiquette?"
Ruby flips open the cover. "Copyright 1955." She laughs and wraps Kaylee in a hug. As she holds her, she looks over Kaylee's head at me. "Sierra hasn't read this book." I watch Ruby's face change—tears brim in her eyes, and then she says, as much to me as to Kaylee, "It's a good thing she has you!"

I nod at Ruby, my own emotions welling. "Yes. It sure is a good thing." I put my arms around both Ruby and Kaylee. "Group hug!" I give them both a squeeze and then, fearing we might squish Kaylee, I step back.

"
Etiquette
is one of the books Kaylee brought from . . . one she brought with her. Right?" I look at Kaylee and she nods.

Kaylee nods her way through breakfast.

Later, after I drop Kaylee off for her appointment with Dr. Beth, I think again of her encouragement the day we met. "Kaylee feels safe with you, Sierra . . ."

I think of Kaylee's tree—the warm scent of charred wood, the embrace of the small space. I'm drawn back there, to that place of safety for Kaylee. I need, for some reason, to see it again. I check my watch. Fifty-five minutes until the end of Kaylee's session. Can I make it?

I pull onto Ocean Street and head for Highway 17. The winding route through the redwoods will take too long. I speed up the highway to the Mt. Hermon Road exit, then crawl through the Scotts Valley traffic. I check my watch again. I won't have time to linger once there.

As I twist my way up Empire Grade, I roll down my window and the spicy scents of eucalyptus and pine fills the Jeep. The crisp air speaks of fall as do the oak leaves twirling to the ground. I turn onto the now-familiar dirt road that leads to the clearing.

The last time I was here, almost a month ago, was the morning of the day Kaylee came to live with me. I returned to get her jar. But now everything is different. A month feels like a lifetime, and Kaylee is no longer unknown to me. She is known, loved, and an inextricable part of my life. To place her here, hiding in a tree, seems unfathomable. Yet, she found shelter here—she created a safe place in her tumultuous world.

Kaylee's tree, the largest of the five in the circle, faces the clearing, which must account for the fire-ravaged trunk—the other trees appear unscathed. I hold out my arm, and run my hand across the trunk of each tree as I walk around the circle—
a family circle.
This, I realize, is why I've come today. To see with eyes of understanding what I didn't know before. Redwood "sprouts," or young trees, grow from the roots of a parent tree—they grow in a circular pattern around the parent tree.

The other fact I learned is that redwoods, being fire resistant, thrive after a fire has ravaged the forest around them. The burnt debris from other plants enriches the soil, thus supplying nutrients, which encourage the growth of both the trees and new seeds.

I remember Kaylee's written words:
Redwoods are resilient.

Yes, little one, they are resilient, just like you. You, too, have survived the ravages of fire—yours came in the form of abuse. And you, too, will thrive. I know this as surely as these redwoods stand in front of me.

Kaylee is a survivor. But more than survive, she will thrive.

"Thank You . . ." I whisper my prayer of gratitude to a God, who, I'm learning, speaks. Today He speaks to me through the grandeur of His creation.

And I am learning to listen.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Kathryn

She coughs as she exhales. She waves her hand, fanning the cloud of smoke hanging in front of her face and blocking her view. She peers at the young girl, taking in her features.

It can't be . . .

But looking at the girl is like looking into a mirror—which she doesn't do anymore. She can't handle seeing her daughter's dark hair hanging on her shoulders or her eyes staring back at her from the mirror. So she just doesn't look. The girl is a little taller and thinner, but it's her. She'd know her anywhere. No matter how hard she's tried to forget her.

She convinced herself the girl was better off without her.

She is better off without me. She is. Better off without me.
The thoughts race through her mind.

She watches the girl as she walks. She's with a woman who has her arm around her. She looks fine.
She's okay.
As the thought runs through her mind, she exhales years' worth of guilt.
She's okay.
She takes another deep drag from her cigarette, turns her head, and blows the smoke over her shoulder.

The woman and Kaylee—
her Kaylee
—walk into the ice cream shop next door. She leans against the wall behind her and slowly slides to the ground, crushes her cigarette into the sidewalk, and wraps her arms around her knees. She determines she'll sit and wait. She will see her as they walk out—see her one more time.

She is better off without me.

As she waits, she thinks back to that last day.

A quick trip . . .

That's what she told herself when she left. But it turned into one trip after another. As she drove away from the cabin that afternoon, she argued with herself.
Just go to the grocery store, Kat. Just go. Drive into the parking lot. Get out of the car. Walk the aisles. Get milk, cereal, pork chops, a pack of bubble gum for Kaylee. Give the cashier the money. Give it to the cashier, Kat. Don't be an idiot.

But who was she kidding? She knew where she was going. Her need was stronger than her sense, as usual, and she never made it to the store. Instead, she ended up at an apartment—a friend of Jack's. She balled her fist and pounded on his door. "Randall, open up!" He had to be here—had to . . .

When the door finally opened, Randall stood there, wearing boxers and a T-shirt. He said nothing, just opened the door wider and motioned for her to come in. The apartment was stuffy and smelled of bacon grease. He watched her for a minute then put his hand out, palm up. "How much do you have?"

She opened her purse and took the bills from her wallet and gave him all of it.

He counted and then smirked. "That'll do. Have a seat."

She sat on his threadbare sofa and studied a poster of Kiss hanging on the wall across from her—the ghoulish faces of the band glared at her. Her hands shook and her skin crawled. She tried to ignore the pit of dread in the bottom of her stomach.

I need it. That's all. I just need it. I can't help it . . .

But then, she thought of her again—her little girl. The pit in her stomach lurched. Would Kaylee be okay? "Hey! I don't have all day!" she yelled over her shoulder.

Within a few minutes he was sitting next to her tying a rubber strap around her arm. The needle digging for a vein was pure relief. Soon the arguments and the justifications would stop. Everything would stop. And that's all that mattered. And maybe, maybe this time would be like the first time—that elusive first high that she'd been searching for ever since.

When Randall was done, she returned the favor. She searched his arm for just the right spot and inserted the needle, smooth as silk, into one of his veins.

As she did, she could feel the meth burning its way into her system. She coughed—a choking cough—then began to relax.
This is all I need—ever. This is it. With this, I can do anything.
Her mind began to race.
I'll leave here, go get Kaylee, and we'll start fresh. Of course! Why didn't I figure this out before?

"Hey, you know what I'm going to do?" She paced back and forth in front of the sofa, sometimes taking laps around it. She looked at Randall, still on the sofa, lighting a joint. "You know what I'm going to do? I'm going back to school. Yeah. I'll get my degree. That's it! I'll go get Kaylee, get us set up in an apartment near the campus, and I'll go back. I'll have to work too. Right?"

She didn't wait for a response. Instead she followed the thread of energy and jabbered on. "Yeah, I'll work and I'll get my degree. Like, um, I don't know, maybe nursing or something. You know? I could be a nurse, right? I know how to give shots, right?" At this, she laughs—a deep, satisfying laugh straight from the gut. She laughs until tears roll down her cheeks. "Get it?" She gasps. "Get it? I can give shots—I'm good at that. It's perfect. It's the perfect plan!"

"Yeah, babe, sounds perfect. Want a hit?"

She sits back on the sofa and reaches for the joint. She inhales deeply and then swallows the smoke. "Yeah, it's perfect." She can see the plan in her head—the apartment she'll get . . . she sees every detail. The moss-green carpet lit by rays of sunlight coming in through the sliding glass door that leads to a little balcony. And plants—lots of plants everywhere. "Yeah, it's perfect." She leans her head back and lets the ideas swirl.

But when that trip ended—when the euphoria of escape began to wane—she was still there, with Randall. Euphoria was replaced by anxiety and the shame of what she'd done.

Again.

She had to have more—had to find that energy again. Just a little more. Randall consoled and assured her he had more. But the grocery money was gone.

"There are other ways to pay for what you want . . ."

His stale breath was hot against her ear and his suggestion was clear.

Why not? Huh? Why not . . .

She finally gave in to the nagging justification:
She's better off without me.
So she gave him what he wanted and he gave her what she needed.

When he finally tired of her—it was weeks, maybe months later, she didn't know for sure—he kicked her out. Her car was gone. He'd sold it. She had nothing and nowhere to go. She couldn't go back to the cabin, to her, not now. She couldn't even think about what might have become of her. Couldn't go there. Wouldn't go there. She walked the streets until nightfall, until she found someone else willing to make the same trade. It was easy as long as she didn't think. She thought only of her own need.

Besides . . . Kaylee was better off without her.

When she couldn't get what she needed, she took anything. Alcohol, pot, heroin, whatever. Because when she went without, when she couldn't find what she needed, she'd begin the agonizing withdrawal. Shaking, skin crawling, vomiting, and—worst of all . . . the very worst of all—the flashing pictures of before. Of who she'd been before.

She'd see her father leaving when she was four—see his back walking out the door, leaving not only her and her mom but leaving a gaping hole in her heart. A hole she'd tried to fill over and over and over again.

Or she'd see Lee—the guy who, at nineteen, held all her dreams in the palm of his hand. She named Kaylee after herself and Lee, symbolic of their shared union. Of course, he was already gone by then, but she thought he'd come back. Kaylee was her claim on Lee, her assurance that he'd be back. So she'd thought. But she was wrong. Kaylee wasn't enough.

She
wasn't enough.

But that's life, right? So what? She learned how to take care of herself.

Stupid. Stupid to think of the past. It was over.