Authors: Ginny L Yttrup
I follow her to my front door, hand her the key, and follow her into my kitchen where she washes her hands and sets the teapot to boil.
"How long are you staying? Where are your bags?"
"They're in the boot. We'll get them shortly. I'm staying as long as you want or need me."
"How . . . how did you know? I mean, how did you know I needed you? I didn't even know until I saw you."
"Teacups?"
"Top shelf, behind the plates. I don't use them much. There are mugs on the bottom shelf."
She turns on her heel and searches my face. "A mug? Without a saucer?"
"Mother . . . ?"
"Oh yes, how did I know? I spoke to Ruby, of course."
So much for ESP or some mystical connection between mother and daughter.
"She told me about the child. That there was a possibility she'd come here to live." She falters. "Sierra, are you . . ."
She is so seldom unsure. Her squared shoulders relax, droop even. In that moment I realize the burden she's borne for me, her child, all these years.
"Am I ready for this?"
The whispered words fall between us.
Not since Annie's death have I delved beneath the surface with my mother. I take a breath and dive deep. "I don't know if I'm ready. But I know I'm not who I was two weeks ago." I take a step closer to my mother. "I'm . . . I'm changing. Something happened when I met her. Something in me . . . changed. She needs me. She needs someone to take care of her, someone to . . . love her. Mother . . . I can't imagine what . . . what she's been through. You and Daddy would never have let those things happen to me."
My mother closes the distance between us. She reaches up and holds my face in her hands and wipes the tears from my cheeks. Then she embraces me and I'm five years old all over again, crying in my mother's arms, only this time it isn't a skinned knee or bruised elbow that draws my tears.
Today I cry for Kaylee's wounds.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Kaylee
I still can't believe it's true, but Pete nods his head.
"It's true," he says like he can read my mind. "The county has decided to place you with Sierra. That means you'll live with her for now. Is that okay with you?"
I reach for my pad of paper fast and scribble my answer:
Yes!
Pete laughs and shakes his head. "All righty, Sierra it is, then." He pulls a chair next to my bed and sits down. "Kaylee, we'll keep looking for your mom, but in the meantime it's important that you have someone who will take care of you, someone you're comfortable with. I know you haven't known Sierra long, but I see a connection between the two of you."
I scribble another word on my pad and hand it to Pete.
Rapport.
He looks at me and raises one eyebrow. "Yes, missy, you and Sierra share a close rapport." He smiles and shakes his head. He seems to think about something for a minute and then he says. "I think Sierra will be a sagacious caregiver."
I reach for my notebook and he hands it back to me. I smile at him and then write:
She's perspicacious.
I hold it up and watch his face as he reads it. He throws his head back and laughs and laughs.
Just then, Charlene pokes her head in the door. "Hey you two, keep it down in here. We got people tryin' to sleep." She winks at me before she walks back down the hallway.
Pete wipes his eyes. "Oh, Miss Kaylee, you're something else. I can't wait to hear those big words come out of your mouth."
This is where you'll stay. It's your room." Sierra pats me on the back. "You can go in, Kaylee. It's okay. It's yours."
I look back at Pete, who barely fits in the small hallway, and at Mrs. Bickford, Sierra's mom. Van's tail thumps against my leg.
Pete winks at me and smiles. "You better take a look, Miss Kaylee. Make sure it meets your standards."
My own room? I take a few steps in. I can't believe how pretty it is. Light shines in through the open window over the bed and white curtains sway in the breeze. The bed is covered with bright colored pillows shaped like flowers. Sitting on the bed, in the middle of all the pillows, is a big stuffed bear. The bedspread is white, like the curtains. Next to the bed is a round table with a flowered cloth and a lamp on it, and something else . . . My jar! I walk to the table and pick up the jar and look back at Sierra, who's standing in the doorway.
"I thought you might want it. I went up and got it this morning after Mother and Ruby and I fixed up your room."
Glittering at the bottom of the jar is my mom's locket with her initials on it: K. W. I unscrew the lid and dump the contents into my hand, pulling the locket out of the little pile. Then I put everything else back in the jar. I run a finger over the initials engraved on the little heart.
"Would you like to wear it? I'll put it on for you." Sierra, who is standing next to me now, holds out her hand. I give her the necklace and she reaches around my neck and fastens the clasp.
"It has your initials on it."
They're not my initials. They're my mom's initials. Our initials are the same, but this was her necklace. I haven't thought of my mom since I walked into Sierra's house. The little heart hanging around my neck is cold against my skin and a chill runs through me.
What if she comes back now? Of course, I still want her to come back. I do. I just haven't thought about it as much lately with everything else that's going on.
I turn and look at the rest of the bedroom. On the wall next to the bed is a low bookshelf made out of wood that matches the bed. I look at the books and the shelf and can hardly believe my eyes! There on the shelf are my books—my dictionary and the other two books sit on the top shelf, held up by two bookends that look like fat, funny mice. The two lower shelves are filled with books—most of them look old. I turn and look at Sierra.
"I found those books in your tree too. I thought you'd want them. The other books were mine—I had a box of books in my garage from when I was a child." Sierra bends and pulls one of the books off the shelf. "Nancy Drew was my favorite."
There are about ten of the Nancy Drew books all lined up, each book has a number on it. I can't believe my books are here—and that I have new books to read too.
In one corner of the room is a rocking chair. On the chair is a blue backpack—it's just like Sierra's. I walk to the chair and pick it up and look at Sierra again.
"It's for you. I thought you could keep your notebook and pen in it, and whatever else you want."
I wonder if I can keep it—forever. Or will I have to give it back when my mom comes? Will I have to give everything back? I look around again. The room is amazing. Beyond amazing. It's marvelous. It's stupendous! I can't believe it's mine.
"You put this together in record time." Pete leans into the room as he talks to Sierra. Then he says to me. "Pretty nice digs, missy. What do you think?" Pete looks at me, eyebrows raised.
I nod and smile. I can't believe I get to live here, in my own room, in Sierra's house. I bend down and put my arms around Van's neck and bury my face in his fur.
I don't want them to see me cry. With my face still buried in Van's fur, I feel a hand on my shoulder.
"Kaylee, how about some dinner? Do you like macaroni and cheese?"
I look up at Sierra and my stomach rumbles in response. Sierra, Pete, and Mrs. Bickford all laugh when they hear it.
"I think that's your answer, Sierra." Pete bends down and takes my elbow in one of his hands and helps me to my feet. "You're in good hands, missy. I'll check back in with you tomorrow."
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sierra
Professionally I'm known as a layerist. Though Ruby, in her frustration, says my art defines me—"deep, impenetrable layers"—I hope that's not true. Or at least is less true today than it was a few months ago. But there is something self-defining in the layering process that intrigues me. The process speaks to the hidden nuances, quirks, and even darkness in each of us. Often, when searching for the perfect words to incorporate into the collage I'm working on, I'll find just the opposite of what I want. Say "hate" versus "love"—I'll cut the word from the page where I've found it and glue it onto the canvas. Then, I layer over it, hiding the paradoxical truth.
My soul, I know, is made up of such paradoxes.
But now, with Kaylee, I'm learning to reverse the process. Instead of building layer upon layer, I'm gently peeling away the layers and exposing the truth underneath. I see this process taking place in both myself and Kaylee.
Emotions I'd long kept hidden are now exposed and the exposure leaves me feeling raw, vulnerable. I tell myself that as I shed each self-protective layer, growth is taking place and it is good, even when it hurts. But to watch it in Kaylee is harder. She's already gone through so much. At a stage in her life when she should feel secure in her trust of loving parents, she finds herself in the home of a stranger. Self-protection seems appropriate, and yet it keeps her from speaking. Oh, how I long to know what she's thinking and feeling. And slowly, as the layers fall away, even without words, I'm learning.
Most of our "conversations" take place on a pad of paper. Everything I know about her, beyond what I observe, I'm learning through her written words. But conversations without intonation and inflection often become a puzzle—a puzzle I must work with because it holds the very essence of life. Kaylee's life. So I watch for intonation, inflection. I'm learning it's there in the slump of her shoulders as she writes or in the jab of the pen when she adds an angry period to an otherwise innocuous sentence. I see it in the veil that drops over her eyes and face when I ask a question that's too deep, too painful for her to consider. Those questions stop all conversation, and I watch as she walks away from her pad of paper—sometimes with her little hands covering her ears.
I'm learning what to ask and what not to ask.
Although I long to hear Kaylee's voice, to know she's healing under my care, I'm also growing accustomed to the companionable silence we share. To some extent the silence suits me. It gives me the space I need to ponder the thoughts and feelings growing within since Kaylee's come to live with me. Thoughts left dormant too long. Thoughts of motherhood. I think of Kaylee's first night with me—of having her stand on a chair in front of the kitchen sink while I washed her hair, unabashed tears streaking my face and dripping into the sink as I gently massaged shampoo through the dark mass. All the while my mother looked on and shed her own tears. Then later, the tears Kaylee shed as I combed her wet hair. Tears she tried to hide.
I think of the nights I've tucked her into bed, covered her with sheet and blanket and then bent to brush a kiss across her forehead. The warmth of her breath against my cheek as I lean in thaws my soul. Those first nights I stood in the hallway outside her room, arms crossed over my chest trying to hold my own trembling body, so shaken was I by the simple acts of nurturing, of loving a child. Fulfilling a role snatched from me so early—one I thought I'd never know again.
Those nights, standing in her doorway, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, the house as still as a breezeless afternoon, I wondered what knowledge she held. What pain silenced her? As I watched her sleep I thought of what was torn from her. Her innocence, certainly, and so much more. Never will she know the wonder of giving the gift of her virginity to her husband on her wedding night. Instead, will she be plagued by haunting memories? I pray not.
Of course, then it occurred to me, neither will I know that wonder. But I gave myself away by choice. Kaylee had no choices, except perhaps the choice she made to disappear by no longer speaking.
I long to get to know Kaylee, to hear the melody of her voice, to have her put words to the expressions I see flutter across her face. Will my presence, my care for her, be enough? Can I provide the stability, security, and safety she needs to dare speaking again? This is my hope, my prayer. But as each day passes, my doubt grows—an invading cancer eating away at my fledgling faith.
I respect her silence but desire so much more for her.
At the end of each day, I sit with my mother who's brewed a pot of tea while I've tucked Kaylee in, and I share my yearnings for Kaylee and my fears that I'll fail her. I ask for my mother's opinions and advice based on what she's observed during the day. I unwind the day's events and emotions with her.
Our first days with Kaylee began early as she woke with the sun. I'd feel her presence more than hear her as she stood at my open bedroom door watching me sleep. I'd stir and even before opening my eyes, I'd know she was there. I'd sit up, focus, and see her little frame in the doorway. The first morning she turned away as though by watching me she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't. "Kaylee . . ." I whispered. "It's okay. Come back." I sat up and patted the edge of my bed. "Come sit with me a minute."
She turned back and took a couple of steps toward me, then hesitated.
"It's okay. C'mon." I patted the bed again.
She came and leaned against the side of the bed, her eyes lowered, focused on the floor.
"Did you sleep okay, little one?"
Her nod affirmed that she'd slept.
I glanced at my clock radio: 5:15 a.m. Good thing I was raised on a farm. I can keep farmers' hours, which are evidently the hours Kaylee keeps. "Are you ready to get up now?"
Another nod.
"Hey, kiddo—look at me." I waited for her to respond. When she finally turned her face toward me, it felt as though my heart skipped a beat—so touched was I by the vulnerability I saw on her face. One layer stripped away. I reached for her and placed my hand on her back and gently rubbed up and down. I felt her shoulders and back relax as I chattered about whatever came to mind. After a few minutes, she moved, reaching for something on the nightstand. She handed me the comb I'd laid there the night before, and I sat up and took a clump of her long hair in my hand and began stroking it with the comb.
This is how we began that day in her tree.
This became our morning routine.