I flop over onto my back. I don't know why I think she'll come back. I've been telling myself since yesterday that it's silly to think I'll see her again. But I have this feeling that I can't get rid of—like I'm supposed to go back and look for her. It's probably dumb, but it's the first time since my mom left that I feel like I have something I'm supposed to do—something to look forward to. My tummy flutters. That fluttery feeling is called having butterflies in your tummy. Another word for it is an·tic·i·pa·tion. The dictionary uses a bunch of big words to define it—expectation, foreknowledge, presentiment. But all it really means is that you're looking forward to something or you're excited about something.
After awhile, I turn and look at the wall again and notice that the whole bottom half of the wall is now covered in light. Usually, by the time the light reaches the middle of the wall, he's up and getting ready to leave for work. As I lay there and watch the light inch its way toward the ceiling, the butterflies in my tummy flutter away.
Maybe his schedule changed.
Maybe he got fired again.
Maybe he's too hungover to go to work.
Whatever the reason, it looks like he's staying here.
I feel like someone's taken one of the cinder blocks from the shelves and laid it on my chest, making breathing hard. A tear slides down my cheek. I remind myself that crying is for babies. What's wrong with me? She probably won't be there anyway.
It was a stupid plan.
The more I think about it, the worse I feel. Finally I decide that I need to think about something else—just like I do when thinking about my mom makes me feel too sad. I decide to play a game to keep my mind off my worries. I'll think of words I know that describe him. I'll pick one word for each letter of the alphabet.
The first A word that comes to mind is one I'm not allowed to say. I can't even think it, because for me that's like saying it. But it's another word for donkey. I smile.
For B, I choose Birdbrain. That's in the dictionary. It's slang for stupid. This is a good game.
Creep.
Dork.
E is harder. It takes me longer to come up with something, but finally I remember a word from the dictionary. Erroneous. That means he smells bad, I think.
Freak.
Gross.
Hateful.
Idiot.
Jerk.
K stumps me.
I roll over on my stomach and rest my head on my crossed arms while I think. I hear the springs squeak as he turns over in bed. After a minute, I hear him call me.
"Kaylee, come here."
I don't move.
"Kaylee, get in here!"
I get up and tiptoe to his room and stand in the doorway.
"Cat got your tongue?" He laughs like he always does when he asks me that. "Fix me some breakfast. I bought some eggs and bread last night. They're out in the truck. Scramble a few. You can have one too—just don't eat 'em all. And don't burn the toast."
I back out of the room, keeping an eye on him, then turn and run to the truck. Sure enough, there's a brown paper bag on the front seat. I find the eggs and bread in the bag along with two cans of tuna, a jar of mayonnaise, and some sweet pickles. I hate sweet pickles, but my mouth waters all the same. I might get breakfast and lunch today.
I carry the bag back to the kitchen and take the frying pan off the shelf under the counter. I put the pan on the stove, crack four eggs into it, and then beat them up with a fork, just like my mom showed me. I don't have any milk to add to them, but I sprinkle in some salt and a little pepper. Then I reach to turn on the front burner, but nothing happens. I turn it off and then on again. Still nothing. Then I remember—the power is off. We don't have any electricity. I can't cook the eggs or toast the bread.
I stand there not knowing what to do.
Pretty soon I hear him get out of bed and head for the kitchen. His bare feet slap the concrete floor with each step. He comes up behind me and stands so close that I can feel the hair on his arms tickling my arms. He bends down and whispers in my ear, "What's the holdup, sweetheart?"
His breath is putrid. That's my P word for him. Everything about him is putrid.
He reaches around me and tries to turn on the burner. He clicks it once, twice. I feel his body tense against mine. And then he slams his fist against the stove top, the electrical coils rattle and one of the knobs cracks in two. This so startles me that I jump and find myself pressed hard against him. I immediately try to move forward, but there's nowhere to go.
I'm trapped.
I feel like I might throw up. But instead of doing what I expect him to do, he shoves me aside and walks back to his room and slams the door.
After a few minutes, he comes back out. He's put on his jeans, a T-shirt, and boots. He grabs the Windbreaker that he threw over the kitchen chair last night and heads out the front door. I hear the truck start and then gravel sprays the cabin as his tires spin in the driveway. The truck clunks into gear and he drives away.
He's gone.
I slump over the stove and concentrate on breathing.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Hands shaking, I dump the egg mess into the sink and rinse the pan. Then I take two pieces of the bread and spread mayonnaise on them. I put them together like a sandwich and eat it. I take small bites and chew really slow, hoping to make my breakfast last. The first bite is hard to swallow—hard to get past the lump in my throat. But each bite is easier and finally I feel normal again.
After I eat, I put on the K-Mart jeans and smooth down my hair. I open the drawer in the bathroom and find his toothpaste and then brush my teeth with my finger. I'm careful to put the toothpaste back just like it was.
Once all of that is done, I stand by the front window and look through the cracks in the boards. I wonder if she's there, in the clearing. I wonder what she's doing. Again, I feel like I'm supposed to go there, but I can't take that chance. I can't risk having him come back and find me gone.
I pace back and forth and finally decide I'll try to pass the time reading. I go to the bookshelf, kneel down, lift the board, and pull out the large blue book: Etiquette—The Blue Book of Social Usage—by Emily Post. It's a book that tells you how to do everything in just the right way. It was my Grammy's. It's really old. The date in the front of the book is 1955! I'm careful when I open it because I know there are two cards tucked inside the pages—Christmas cards from Grammy's friends, I guess. The postmarks on the cards are December 4, 1966 and December 7, 1966. I love reading the cards and looking at the Christmas scenes on the front, but today I want to read something I remember seeing in the book.
I flip to the contents and scan the page until I find what I want. It's in chapter two.
Introducing Oneself
If there is good reason for knowing someone, it is quite proper to introduce yourself. For instance, you would say, "Mrs. Worldly, aren't you a friend of my mother's? I am Mrs. John Smith's daughter." Mrs. Worldly says, "Yes, indeed, I am. I am so glad you spoke to me."
But what if the person you want to introduce yourself to isn't a friend of your mother's? I keep reading.
Obviously it would be in very bad taste to introduce yourself to Mrs. Worldly if your mother knew her only slightly . . .
Oh. I skip down a couple of paragraphs.
Introduction by Letter
An introduction by letter is far more binding than any spoken introduction which does not commit you to anything. See chapter 42.
I take the book and crawl back over to my mattress and sit with my back against the wall. I turn to chapter 42 and begin reading. I read until my eyes get heavy. I set the book down and reach for the ceiling stretching and yawning. I stand up and walk to the front window and peer through the cracks in the boards
again. The blue sky beckons me.
That means it lures me, which means I really want to go.
But I can't go.
He could come back any time.
I pace back and forth. I play an imaginary game of hopscotch. I read some more, but my eyes keep moving from the page to the door of the cabin. I spend most of the day just standing at the window wondering and waiting.
I waste the whole day just because I'm afraid he'll come back.
CHAPTER SIX
Sierra
I struggle to get comfortable and end up wrestling with tangled sheets. My back aches from my fall with Van, and a dying fly buzzes frenetically in the nearby window frame. I get up, take a couple of aspirin, and put the fly out of its misery. I climb back into bed, wide awake. When I finally fall into a restless sleep, my dreams are filled with a series of chaotic mishaps.
In the final dream I'm frantic. I can't find Annie anywhere. I rush to look for her, but leaden legs slow me. One moment I'm in the hospital trying to get to her incubator, the next moment I'm in the clearing standing before an ominous redwood. It's the tree I saw earlier in the day—and yet it's not the same tree at all. I call out, "Annie, are you here?" Silence answers back. Again I try to yell her name, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I look around hoping to see Ruby or my parents but find no one. Then I see a dim light coming from the hollowed bottom of the tree. I stoop down, crawl inside the cavernous interior, and there, with a single candle flickering in the dark, I see Annie in her tiny coffin.
And I know, all over again, that she is dead.
I awake drenched in sweat. It's been years since I've had a nightmare about her. Not wanting to risk another, I flip on the bedside lamp and climb out of bed. I shower, brew a strong pot of coffee, and dig through a stack of canvases in my studio, searching for one I've already primed. My studio, otherwise known as the spare bedroom, has an eastern exposure, which is why I chose it as my workspace over other areas in the house. I prefer working in the morning light. But tonight I drag my easel to the kitchen where the artificial light is the brightest. I punish myself with the bitter coffee and stare at the blank canvas. Soon an image begins to form in my mind. I traipse back to the studio and gather supplies: matte medium, a 4-inch brush, and oil pastels. Then I roll a set of plastic drawers, each drawer filled with torn bits of magazine pages, categorized by color, to the kitchen.
I open the top drawer and sift the bits of paper through my fingers. Varying shades of green float from my fingers back into the drawer. If there's anything that still connects me to God, it's color. I've yet to find a man-made color that wasn't first displayed in creation. From the deep fuchsia of a bougainvillea to the shocking chartreuse of the moss that clings to the rocks and trees in the damp coastal mountain range, all are unique to God's imagination. I've seen starfish donning brilliant neon orange and regal purple and wildflowers in every hue of the color wheel. We cannot out create Him.
I now fully understand my daddy's love of farming, of cocreating with the Creator. While I emote on canvas and create what I dare not say, it's when I'm choosing colors, and maybe only then, that I'm at peace with God.
I open the second drawer and pull out a handful of the paper shreds in hues of russet and brown. Tiny typeface on the backs of some of the pieces tell partial stories. Every once in awhile, a word will catch my attention, and I'll set that bit of paper aside to possibly use later.
Often, on nights like tonight, when sleep eludes me, I pull a stack of magazines off the pile in my studio and tear pages. I choose a page based on color, pictures, or words. For instance, I might choose a photo of a flower garden and tear out individual flowers, or I might haphazardly tear the photo because of the colors represented. The tactile process of tearing and shredding has become an outlet for my emotions. When I'm angry, the process is less decisive—more visceral.
I open the gallon jug of matte medium, pour some into an old ceramic bowl, and set it on the kitchen table next to the small pile of papers. I choose the first bit of paper, a deep rust shade, and then dip the brush into the matte medium. I smear the goo over the shred of paper, thoroughly coating both sides. Then, using my fingers, I adhere the paper to the canvas. I do this over and over—choosing each bit of paper with care. The end result is a collage of color and words that form a scene of my choosing.
I step back to study the effect and wonder at the pall casting faint shadows in my kitchen. I've been so engrossed in my work that I didn't notice the sun rising behind a dense bank of coastal fog. I walk to the glass door that leads to the deck and observe my yard through a shroud of gray and notice for the first time this morning the distant wailing of a foghorn in the bay.
I dump the long-cold coffee and fill the tea kettle. While I wait for it to boil, I again study this first layer of work. I'm satisfied. After it dries, I'll add another layer—and then another and another and another. Each layer builds upon the previous adding dimension to the work. A finished piece often contains as many as fifty layers. After I've achieved the depth and texture I desire, I may add some of the words I've torn from pages—the words may be whimsical in nature or may "speak" a deeper meaning—all depending on the piece. Finally, I'll use the oil pastels to enhance the textures.
I began using this layering technique during my second year at SFAI, and it has become what I'm known for as an artist. Not long ago Ruby said the technique defines me—deep, impenetrable layers.
This particular piece, upon first glance, will look like nothing more than a grooved, rust-and-green abstract. But upon closer inspection, the astute will see redwood bark with all its intricate mapping and shading with sprigs of green foliage. It is the tree of my nightmare last night—or perhaps what you would see of the tree if you were standing with your nose against the trunk. My arrogance is that I believe only those who have "eyes that see" understand my work. But I don't do it so people will get it or interpret it. I do it to survive.
I set the canvas aside to dry. Then I shower again and scrub the matte medium from beneath my nails. I feed Van. Vacuum. Make a grocery list. Balance my checkbook. And clean out the refrigerator. When I can think of nothing else to fill the time, I concede, grab the keys to my Jeep, Van's leash, and we head out. Today I need Van. After my nightmare last night, I'm not looking forward to returning to the clearing and the redwood, and I'm certainly not going alone.
I take the back road that winds through the redwoods and then through Felton. By the time I reach Felton, the fog is dissipating. I head toward Bonny Doon where the sky is vibrant and the air heavy with the scent of mulching earth and pine. Van sits next to me in the passenger seat, tongue lolling and eyes squinting against the sun.
Again I drive to the area rather than hike. No need to waste time today. I'm here for only one reason, and it shouldn't take long. If this girl is real, what's the chance of me finding her in the exact same spot?
I park a hundred yards or so from the clearing just in case. If she is there, there's no need to alert her to my presence. I let Van out, attach the leash, and we make our way through a thicket of redwoods and pines. Van, rather than leading as he did last night, must sense my mood and walks quietly by my side as we enter the open space. I stop where I parked yesterday and survey the clearing. It's much the same as it was with the exception of the placement of sunlight and shadows. It's later in the afternoon and the sun is lower. While it was sunny in this spot yesterday, now it's shaded and the sunlight rests on the giant redwood across the way. I see now that it's one of five redwoods that make up a circle of trees.
I stare at the tree and see Annie in her coffin. I close my eyes, willing the image to disappear. I open my eyes and watch for a few minutes. A squirrel scampers up a nearby trunk and a blue jay swoops low beneath a redwood bough. Beyond that, all is still.
Van makes the first move and, nose to the ground, wanders toward the middle of the clearing—
he goes as far as the leash allows then he turns back and looks at me.
"I'm coming." I follow his lead until we reach the group of trees.
Once there, I reach out and run my hand over the bark of the largest tree. I feel the charred edge of the opening. The words of a poem come to mind—something I had to memorize in high school no doubt. One tree, by being deeply wounded, has been impressed as Witness Tree.
"So what have you witnessed?" I whisper.
I've tightened the leash so Van will stay by my side, but he's pressing forward, anxious to explore the cavern inside the tree. I hold him firm and stoop, just as I did in my dream. I take a deep breath and begin to crawl inside. Then I stop and do something I haven't done in years. I pray:
Help me.
I hesitate before admitting the truth to a God that I don't trust. I'm scared.
With that, I crawl in until I reach a point where I realize I can stand.
What strikes me first, before my eyes adjust to the dark space, is the smell. Like winter, like wood burning in a fireplace or like a campfire. I feel the beat of my heart slow.
And then I know . . . I just know. Before I see anything, I know she is real and that this is her place. Maybe it's intuition. Or maybe something more, something I don't understand. Whatever it is, I know I'm supposed to be here.
As my eyes adjust, I see that Van is sitting in what appears to be a circle. I bend down and touch the perimeter. Pinecones—in a perfect circle.
I step over the pinecones and join Van in the middle. I sit next to him. He nuzzles my shoulder and I lean into him. "Who is she, boy? Why does she come here? Why are we here?" He has no answers for me, but I'm glad he's with me all the same.
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