Words (13 page)

"What have I done? Hey, you're not wet, are you?" I walk over and run my hand across Van's dry back. "Good. You stayed out of the rain. Sorry I was gone so long, boy."

I cup my hands around his furry face, and he opens his eyes.

"Tomorrow you go with me, Van."

I'm sure his expression says, loud and clear, "Of course I do."

With a smile, I scratch his head, then get ready for bed. We'll both need a good night's sleep to be ready for tomorrow.

To find Kaylee.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Kaylee

It's a dark night—no moon. Earlier the wind was blowing and then it started to rain. It felt more like winter than summer. It's times like these, when the cabin creaks and branches scrape against the roof and windows, that I hate being all by myself.

a·lone—adjective
1. apart from anything or anyone else. 2. without any other person.

That word's not in my box. It just describes me, so I remembered the exact definition. When he's here, I feel the most alone, which doesn't really make sense, I guess.

I turned the lights off right after it got dark just in case he comes back tonight. If everything is dark and quiet, maybe he'll forget I'm here. I lie on my mattress and stare at nothing.

Just as my eyes are feeling heavy and like I can't keep them open any longer, I see lights flash through the window, across the ceiling, and onto the other wall. Then I hear his truck.

I pull the scratchy wool blanket up over my face and hope that he either won't see me or that he'll ignore me. I wait as I hear his steps on the gravel, then on the stoop. The front door squeaks as it opens and the light comes on. It shines through the thin blanket covering my face and startles me. I jump. Then I lie perfectly still hoping he didn't notice. I take shallow breaths hoping not to rustle the blanket at all.

He stands for a long time. Then I hear him walk right past me—like he's going into the kitchen. I hear a cupboard door open and bang shut, then the refrigerator door opens and shuts. Then I hear his steps coming back my way—he stops right by me. He lifts the blanket with his foot and kicks it off me.

"What you doin'? Try'n to hide?" He laughs at me. "C'mon, Kaylee, ain't you happy to see me? I came home just for you."

I can tell by the look in his eyes that he did come home for me. And I know why. I pull my knees to my chest and curl into a tight ball. I want to hide. I want him to go away. I can't do this.

I can't.

"C'mon. Get up. You look like a baby all curled up like that. Get up." He pushes me with his foot. "Get up!"

I know how this goes. If I don't get up, he'll make me get up. I'm better off just doing it myself. But I don't know if I can. I feel like I'm frozen. I finally let go of my legs and slowly straighten them out, then I sit up. I pull my knees to my chest and lean my back against the wall.

"That's more like it. Now I can see your pretty little face." He walks back to the kitchen and grabs one of the wood chairs from in there and carries it out and sits it backwards in front of me. Then he straddles it and sits facing me. "What'd you do today?"

I don't react.

"I asked you a question. What'd you do today?"

I feel myself starting to shake—it starts deep inside—like in the bottom of my stomach, then works its way out.

"You too good to talk to me? That it? You ain't as good as you think. Stand up."

My legs feel wobbly as I get up. I keep my back against the wall—as far away from him as I can get.

"That's it. You just stand there and let me have a look at you."

I know what's coming.

I close my eyes and see letters in my mind—faint yellow words against the dark background of my closed eyes. They aren't in any order. Just a bunch of words.

Lackadaisical.

Cosmology.

Bazooka.

Platypus.

I feel him standing in front of me—then leaning against me—pressing me into the wall. I sidestep and it causes him to get off-balance. I run to the other wall, near the bookshelf.

The words come faster.

Marsupial, quaver, jacquard.

Then he pushes me, hard, against the shelf and the top shelf and my books go flying.

Oh no! Please don't let him take my books . . .

Then my head snaps to one side. I feel heat first, then pain. A sharp pain shoots from my jaw up to my eye. He slapped me. Hard.

He laughs again. "Open your eyes. This is too good to miss. You pay me some attention." Then he leans into me again and I feel his lips on my face where he just slapped me. "Feel better?"

I close my eyes again and see one word. Just one.

Flee.

flee—verb
1. to run away or escape from danger, pursuit, unpleasantness, etc. 2. to pass away suddenly; disappear; vanish.

Then, like he knows what I'm thinking, he whispers in my ear. "Your mamma might decide she wants you back—she might come lookin' for you someday. You gotta stay right here and wait for her. You can't go runnin' off. We'll just keep each other company 'til then."

With him still leaning against me, I feel him reach for his belt and take it off.

I hear the scream—no, I
feel
the scream—first in my chest, then my throat. But instead of coming out my mouth, it moves to my head where I hear it.

And hear it.

And hear it.

The last thing I remember is the scream.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sierra

3:28 a.m.

5:28 a.m. in Texas. I reach for the lamp by my bed and pull the chain, then squint against the light shining in my eyes. If I call now, I might catch Daddy before he heads out for the day.

I pick up the phone and dial.

"Good morning, Bickford Ranch, Ben here."

"Hi, Daddy."

"Pumpkin, you're up before the sun. Everything all right?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. I just wanted to talk to you. I . . . there's this . . . I'm . . ." I don't know where to begin.

"What's on your mind, Sierra?"

"Do you have a few minutes?"

I hear a scraping noise through the phone line and picture my daddy pulling a chair out from the kitchen table and taking a seat. "I have all the time in the world. What's up?"

"Well, it's kind of a long story. Did Mother tell you we talked last week?"

"Yes, she said you weren't too receptive to her suggestions. That you were still planning on going to the cemetery. Did you go?"

"Yeah, I did. But . . . Daddy, Mother was right. It's time for me to let go of this . . . this anger and guilt I've had since Annie died. I . . . I just didn't know how. I couldn't figure it all out, you know?"

"I know, pumpkin."

"Anyway, after I went to the cemetery that day, the strangest thing happened. I went for a hike and I thought I saw a little girl. She was all by herself. At first I didn't think she was real . . . I thought I was just seeing things. But then, I went back and . . ."

I tell my daddy the whole story. I tell him about Kaylee. I tell him how I feel like I'm supposed to do something. I tell him about the beach and finally accepting God's forgiveness and knowing that if I am supposed to do something, I can't do it alone. I tell him everything—I talk more than I've talked in years.

"What do you think I should do?"

My daddy is quiet—thoughtful—then, his voice thick with emotion, says, "Honey, you're on the right track. You've taken a step of faith. Now take another. Then another. You pray your way through each step and let God lead. But Sierra, you'll have moments of doubt. Anytime one of God's children turns back to Him, the enemy puts up a fight. You're going to second-guess your choices and you're going to want to turn back to what feels familiar. But don't you do that. You stay in close touch—you call us—you call Ruby. You keep close, you hear?"

"I hear you. I will."

"And about this child, Michael's right. You make a call this morning. You report what you've found. Then go back and try to find her again. Mother said you got a dog?"

I laugh and reach for Van. "Yes, sir, I got myself a dog. He's quite the guy."

"Well good. Take him with you when you go looking for her. Dogs have a sense about these things. He'll help you find her. And you be careful. If you figure out where she lives, report it to the authorities. Don't confront anyone by yourself."

"Okay. You're right—I'll just get an address that I can report. And I will take Van today. He was with me the day I met her and she seemed to like him."

"Good. Sierra, I love you. You know we're here if you need anything."

"I know, Daddy. Thanks. Will you tell Mother what's going on?"

"You know I will. And we'll be praying for you—and for this little girl."

"I'll keep in touch."

"You do that." He clears his throat. "Bye, pumpkin."

After I hang up, I lie in bed for awhile and consider our conversation and feel the warmth of my daddy's love . . . and God's love for me too. I glance at the clock again. It's almost 5:00. I think about getting up, but there's a chill in the air and I realize I'm exhausted—the emotions of yesterday have taken a toll. I roll toward the middle of the bed and snuggle my back against Van who's still asleep on top of the comforter. I pull the soft down around my shoulders and languish in the warmth radiating from my dog.

As I lay there, I think about my daddy's words:
You've taken a step of faith. Now take another. Then another. You'll have moments of doubt. Keep close. Find her . . .

Then a quiet voice in my head, or heart, or soul—somewhere inside me, says:
Trust me.

"Okay." I mumble before succumbing to a deep sleep.

I wake, sit straight up, and put one hand over my pounding chest. Where am I? I look around and realize I'm at home, but light fills my room. What time is it? The digital numbers on my clock don't register. 11:17? 11:17 a.m.? Then I hear barking and recognize it as the sound that pulled me from sleep. I take a deep breath and remember that I laid back down after talking to my daddy. I stretch, drag myself out of bed, and stagger toward the sound of Van's barks.

Van sits at the kitchen door, nose to glass. When he hears me, he turns and gives me a look of . . . desperation, I think. "Oh my goodness, I bet you do need to go out. Good boy." Before the door is fully open, Van squeezes through and makes a dash for the lawn.

I look at the teapot on the stove and decide I need something stronger. I set a pot of coffee to brew and head for the shower.

As Van and I make the now familiar trek to Bonny Doon, questions fill my mind. Will she talk to me today? What if she's not at the tree? What if she came this morning while I was sleeping? Sleeping? Good grief. How will I find where she lives? Who would neglect a child like that? What do I do with her if I find her? Take her home with me? What? That's not part of the plan, right? Right?!

I called the county just before I left. I spoke with Bonnie—convenient. "Like Bonny of Bonny Doon?"

"No, like B-o-n-n-i-e. You called to report a case of possible child neglect?"

Bonnie sounded like she'd heard it all and wasn't too interested in hearing more. But by the time I finished telling her what I knew, I realized I'd read her wrong.

"Poor little thing. It just irritates me to no end to think of a child going hungry. I'll file an initial report under the name Kaylee, last initial
W,
you think?"

"I think so."

"Fine. If you find out more, call again and ask for me. If you come up with an address or a more specific location, then we'll send a case worker to investigate."

"What happens then?"

"If there's evidence of neglect or abuse, then the child will be taken into the custody of the county and placed either in a children's home or in foster care, depending on the circumstances."

"Could I—could she be placed with me? In my home?" My question catches me off guard—one of those moments when my mouth seems to jump ahead of my brain. "I mean . . . I'm not saying . . . I'm just wondering if that's an option?"

"Maybe. Are you licensed?"

"Uh, licensed?"

"For foster care. A license. You need a license. If you're interested, you need to fill out an application, go through a background check, have your home inspected, do some training. It's a process. Again, it will depend on the needs of the child. She may need more intensive care—medical, psychological. Just depends."

"Okay, thanks. I'll get back to you when I find out more." I hang up and say, "Taking her home with me isn't part of Your plan, right?"

Van turns and looks at me, but offers nothing. "You're a big help."

The questions continue as I drive to Bonny Doon. My heart rate accelerates . . . as does the Jeep. "Okay, so I said I'd follow Your plan, but that's a little extreme, don't You think? I mean, a child? I just got a dog. I'm not ready for a child. So . . . if that's the plan, I'd like to know now so I can get ready."

My questions, both spoken and silent, go unanswered. I receive no sense, no feeling, no words running through my mind. Nothing. The questions just hang in the air.

"Gee, thanks. Following Your plan might be easier if You let me in on a little of it."

Great. I'm already telling God what to do. Can you say Control Freak? But then I remember something I've heard my daddy say more than once through the years: "God wants us just as we are—no pretense. He can handle our emotions and our doubts. He wants a real relationship."

Is it really that simple? My hands loosen a bit on the steering wheel and I relax against the seat. It's been so long since I've had a
real
relationship with anyone. "Do you really want me . . . just . . . just like this? I mean"—I clear my throat and wipe at my damp cheeks—"really?"

I round one of the many curves in the road and am awed by what I see. I've climbed out of the fog into dense forest. Regal redwoods stand guard, their branches a canopy of protection. A shadowed coverlet of intricate lacework blankets the road ahead as sunlight dances and dapples through the trees. Yesterday's rain left the air clean, crisp—and the colors—they're nothing I could ever imagine—nothing I could ever mix on my palette. Vivid hues of blue peek through the branches overhead and every variation of green grows around me.