We sit for several minutes before Van spies a squirrel and darts out of the tree. I rise to follow him, but something catches my eye. In the farthest corner of this cavelike room, a shaft of sunlight coming through an opening higher up reflects off something. It appears to be some sort of glass. Careful not to disturb the pinecones, I step over them and reach for what looks like a mayonnaise jar.
I carry it out of the tree so I can see it in full light. The jar is filled with odds and ends. A smooth stone, a penny, a broken pencil, a few slips of paper, and what looks like a gold chain. I unscrew the lid and empty the contents into my hand.
There's a paragraph printed in tiny letters on one of the scraps of paper: Their names were Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker, and I am sorry to say that they were both really horrible people. They were selfish and lazy and cruel, and right from the beginning they started beating poor James for almost no reason at all.
James? How horrible. Who's James?
I pull the chain out of the clutter and see a small heart-shaped pendant hanging from it. Engraved in the middle of the heart are the initials K. W. I close my hand around the necklace and hold it tight.
Who are you? I remember her eyes. And why are you afraid?
I drop all of the items back into the jar, screw the lid on, and put it back just where I found it. I make sure all the pinecones are in place. And then I leave.
I find Van dozing in a patch of sunlight.
"Come on, boy. Let's go home."
He wags his tail and follows me to the Jeep.
As I drive home, my mind wanders back to Annie. I tell myself that thinking about her now is ridiculous. Yesterday was my day for memories. Yet, she feels closer than she has in years. Perhaps it was the clarity of the nightmare last night, seeing her small body nestled in the casket, or maybe the events of yesterday and today, seeing this unknown child, has taken me back.
I try to put the thoughts out of my mind. I flip on the radio set to a Bay Area news station and try to concentrate on a debate between two members of congress. Their arguing annoys rather than distracts.
I turn the radio off and think about the week ahead and realize I have little scheduled. I have one appointment with clients, but I left the rest of the week open so I can work. I have two commissioned pieces to complete for a couple from Sausalito. They saw my work in one of the galleries in Carmel and wanted something more specific to the decor of their waterfront home. I don't enjoy working to someone else's specifications, but it pays the mortgage.
I think again about the piece I began last night. While I know it's the tree from my nightmare, I also know it's the tree in the clearing. They are not the same exactly, but my subconscious, in the depths of slumber, has somehow linked the two. One represents death. One represents survival. The two seem intrinsically entwined. Why?
Again, the haunted eyes of the child I saw yesterday come to mind. What has she survived that her young eyes reflect fear rather than the playful innocence one might expect to see from a child hiding in a tree? And why am I compelled to find out? Isn't it possible that I just startled her yesterday? But my instinct tells me there's something more.
Instinct? Intuition? These are senses I haven't considered in years—senses I've tried to shut down, I suppose. Because where they lead, I usually don't want to go. They are senses that require a knowledge and trust of oneself. I must trust myself in order to trust my instinct. And I don't trust myself. That's the crux of it.
I reach for the radio knob again and twist it on. I punch buttons until I hear a familiar beat. I turn up the volume until the pulsating music fills the Jeep . . . and my mind.
It was in the months following Annie's death that I began to realize what I'd lost. The magnitude of the loss crashed against me, drowning me in shame and sorrow.
A few weeks before her birth, I was finally coming out of my stupor. I began eating without having Mom or Ruby force-feed me, I showered daily of my own accord, a relief to them I'm sure. Most significant to me was that I began noticing the baby growing within me. I felt the nudges and kicks inside my womb and began to feel a sense of awe at what was transpiring inside my body. I put thoughts of how this child was conceived aside, and I claimed one of my mother's favorite promises: "God causes all things to work together for good . . ."
Mother had spent hours at my side the last two months talking and quoting Scripture. Even when she thought I was asleep or not listening, she talked. Mostly she imparted God's grace as she understood it and lived it. She assured me over and over that God had already forgiven me, loved me, and loved this baby. She reminded me that nothing could separate me from the love of God. She insisted that He had a plan for my life.
Some of that sank in—or at least I thought it did. I began to feel hope—hope for my own life and the life of my unborn child.
We hadn't talked about what I would do once the baby was born. Putting it up for adoption seemed like the logical choice. But each time I considered giving the baby away, the purpose I was trying to find in my pain slipped from my grasp. If I gave her up—I was sure the baby was a girl—then why would I have gone through all of this in the first place?
If I kept her, I could teach her everything I was learning. I could give her the same love and stability my parents had given me plus the insight I'd gained through my own mistakes.
My mistakes . . .
There'd been so many. Guilt, that familiar intruder, hissed his accusations as each sin came to mind. And now, he reminded me, you bear one of those consequences in your womb.
But maybe, just maybe, I could turn this consequence around. It was this desire, along with the years of guilt I'd struggled with, that I finally shared with my mother two weeks before Annie was born. I remember the stunned look on her face and then her tears as she internalized my pain. After wiping away her tears, she held my face in her hands and looked me in the eyes, "You must always remember that guilt is not from God, Shannon. There is no condemnation for those in Jesus Christ. Don't ever let guilt make your choices for you. There's nothing God can't forgive. When you've sinned, the Holy Spirit will convict you, but His convictions are gentle. He doesn't accuse or condemn."
We cried together that afternoon. I told her that I wanted to keep my baby—that I'd love her and teach her and keep her from making the same mistakes I'd made. I think my mom wanted the same. She wanted this grandchild.
The next two weeks were better. Even good. My body still craved the drugs, but my mind and soul had found a new purpose. And drugs didn't fit with that purpose. My mother, daddy, and Ruby had made the first choice for me by forcing me to stay away from the drugs. The next choice was my own, which was the only choice that would ultimately make a real difference. I knew I was going to raise this baby and I would do it to the best of my ability. If that meant attending NA and working the twelve steps, then that's what I would do.
By August the doctor figured I was in the beginning of my last trimester and he warned me again of the risks to the baby because of my drug abuse. His litany included miscarriage, poor fetal growth, placental abruption, premature rupture of membranes, premature delivery, and stillbirth. All were just meaningless words to me. I wasn't worried. I knew God's plan and was willing to cooperate. I'd turn my life around and raise this baby, and He'd work all things together for good and ensure that she was healthy.
I began anticipating the baby's arrival. In the evenings I'd lie in bed with my hands over my mound of a belly and whisper my dreams to my daughter. I told her that I loved her, that I was sorry for putting her in danger. I told her about her grandma and grandpa, her uncle Jeff and Ruby. I even told her about Jesus and how much He loved us.
My first doubts about God's plan came the morning I awoke with a searing pain in my back. When I got out of bed, I felt fluid trickling down my leg followed by a gush that splattered the floor.
"Mot
her. Mother!" I didn't move. I bent over to ease the pain in my back and waited. She would know what to do.
She must have heard the fear in my voice because I could hear her quick steps from the kitchen to the bedroom. "Shannon, what's—"
She saw the puddle on the floor and the pain on my face and knew I was in trouble. She helped me back into bed and ran for the phone.
I heard her murmured conversation with the nurse from the doctor's office and then heard her dial another number. Within a few minutes she was back at my side.
"Darling, I've called for an ambulance. The nurse says we need to get you to the hospital immediately."
"Can't Dad take us?"
"There's no time, Shannon. Dad's gone to run a few errands and we can't wait for him to get back. We need to go now. Your water's broken. We need to go now—for the baby. It's too soon."
I felt the first shudder of fear. "She'll be fine though, right?"
"Shannon, where's your backpack? I'll pack a few things. Your toothbrush, a bathrobe, and . . ."
"Mother, what about the baby?"
"Let's not worry. Just pray. I'm sure everything will be fine."
I tried to believe her, but the next contraction shredded my waning certainty.
Within an hour of the first pain in my back that woke me, my baby was born. There was no stopping her. She was so tiny that she seemed to slip from my body of her own accord. As the doctor caught her in his hands, she let out a cry so small it sounded like the mew of a kitten.
The doctor brought her to me for just a moment. While he held her, I reached out and caressed her head. She was so small, so fragile. Then she was gone. The doctor handed her to a nurse who rushed her to the intensive care nursery.
For the next nine days I was at the hospital around the clock. When I wasn't sitting by Annie's incubator, I was in the hospital chapel. I begged God's forgiveness and I bargained with Him. If He'd save my daughter, I'd serve Him. I talked myself into believing that God had allowed Annie's premature birth as a test of my renewed commitment. And I planned on passing that test. Never before or after did I pray like I did during those nine days. I was sure God would see that my commitment was real and then He'd restore Annie. She'd continue to develop and strengthen until the day I'd finally take her home.
Again, I'd figured out God's plan and was willing to work with it.
But then early on the ninth day, the doctor told us we were losing her. Her little lungs weren't developing and she was growing weaker each day. I sat with her in the predawn hours with the knowledge that God would betray me. I would lose her and all the dreams I'd dreamed for the two of us in the preceding weeks—all would be gone. I grieved Annie's loss, but perhaps more than that, I grieved losing what I'd hoped we'd share as mother and daughter.
I grieved my dreams.
My memories of the days, weeks, and months that followed are dark. I recall few details. Instead, I remember an impression—a hardening of sorts. I didn't relapse as my parents and Ruby feared. I wouldn't grant myself that sort of reprieve. Instead, I would suffer with the knowledge of what I'd done. I'd pay the price.
With steely determination, I set about putting my life in order. I put the past behind me. I disciplined myself. I took control of my life. I saw grief as weakness and strove to become a mountain of strength. It was then that I changed my name.
Sierra Dawn—strength for a new day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kaylee
A free belly dancing clinic on Capitola Beach this evening at 6:00 p.m. That's your community update. Monday, August 17. Now let's check the weather . . ."
I jump when the radio and lights come on.
He paid the bill.
What does that mean? Yesterday was Sunday, so he must have paid the bill this morning sometime. He didn't come back after he left yesterday. He's not following the schedule I found in his truck, so now I don't know what to do except wait.
I hate waiting.
I tried reading this morning, but I couldn't concentrate on the words in the dictionary. Now I'm trying to read the third book that holds up the shelf—a book of poems by Robert Frost. I used to like poems. My teacher in third grade, Mrs. Stanford, taught me how to write haiku. That's a kind of poetry from Japan. Mrs. Stanford said they don't teach that in school until the fifth grade. But she taught me because she said I was smart. I was the best reader in the class. Mrs. Stanford knew I wasn't good at math though so she made a deal with me. She'd teach me to write haiku if I'd practice adding and subtracting numbers with four digits, like 2,348 minus 1,262. So I stayed in at recess that day and worked on problems she wrote on the board for me. Then the next day, during lunch recess, she taught me how to write haiku poems. She taught me about syllables and how to count the beats. You have to know what syllables are to write haiku.
I put the Robert Frost book down and get up and go into his room and take a pen off his nightstand. Then I go to the kitchen and rip a piece off one of the grocery bags I've saved. I take them back to my mattress and lay down on my stomach. I put the paper on the floor in front of me and as I think about the first line, I tap out the syllables on the mattress.
I hide in the dark
The wind howls outside my door
He always finds me
Satisfied, I fold up the piece of paper as small as I can and then tuck it into the hole in the mattress.
By the time I got to the fifth grade I already knew all about poetry. But the Robert Frost book is hard to understand. I pick it up again and flip through the pages. Most of the poems don't make sense to me, even when I look all the words up in the dictionary. Mr. Frost writes a lot about trees and leaves and the weather, but it seems like the words he uses mean something else.
I can't concentrate on the poems either so I give up and just sit and stare at the walls and think about things.
Mrs. Stanford was tall, like the lady I saw. Maybe that lady's a teacher too. Or she could be a ranger. Maybe that's why she was up here. Rangers drive Jeeps, I think. But they wear uniforms. She wasn't wearing a uniform.
I get up and go to the kitchen to turn the radio off so I can hear him if he comes back. Then I make that scrambled egg he said I could eat yesterday. I'm so hungry that I want to eat the scrambled egg in one bite. Instead, I try to make it last, make it seem like more. I take tiny bites. I feel each bite on my tongue. I chew slow so the flavor reaches my taste buds. I think of a word that I added to my box this week: sa·vor—verb 1. to perceive by taste or smell, esp. with relish. 2. to give oneself to the enjoyment of: to savor the best in life.
I savor each bite of my eggs.
I bet Emily Post likes that word too.
When I'm finished—my stomach is still growling.
I go from the kitchen to the front window and peek through the crack between the boards. I know what I want to do, but what if he comes back and I'm not here? What would he do?
He says I'd be in trouble. But what kind of trouble?
I think of the worst possible thing he could do to me. It's the thing he started doing to me after we moved here. He only did it when my mom was gone or when she was asleep. He told me it was our special secret and that if I told my mom, she wouldn't love me anymore. He said she'd be jealous and then she'd leave.
Sometimes I think maybe that's the real reason she left. She must have known. If that's the reason, then she probably won't come back. She probably won't love me anymore. Ever.
I hate it when he does it.
The scream, a low howling, starts in my head.
I cover my ears and this time, it stops.
Then I wrap my arms around my middle and bend over trying to relieve the ache in my stomach. As I do that, a new thought comes to me: If that's the worst thing he can do, then I might as well do what I want, because he'll do it anyway. He a
lways does. Almost every day now that he doesn't have to hide it from my mom anymore.
He could shoot me too, with his rifle. Maybe that's the worst thing.
No.
The other thing is worse.
I look down at my clothes. I'm still wearing the K-Mart jeans and T-shirt. These are my best clothes, even though they're not my favorites. Emily Post says:
Clothes do more than add to our appearance; they are our appearance. The first impression that we make upon others depends almost entirely upon what we wear and how we wear it.
I brush some dust off the knees of my jeans. This is the best impression I can make, not that I'm actually going to meet her.
I turn and look at the door.
I hesitate.
And then I go.
I walk away from the cabin fast. Then I run. I cross the stream where a fallen tree makes a bridge, arms stretched out to balance myself as I put one foot in front of the other. I jump off the log and sprint to the clearing, jumping over rocks and weaving through the trees. I run all the way to the edge of the clearing. By the time I get there, I'm breathing heavy and my stomach, instead of aching, is full of butterflies again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sierra
I roll over and look at the clock radio: 6:45 a.m. I slept later than usual. I reach for the phone and dial Ruby's number.
"Hello?" and then a groggy, "Sierra, don't you ever sleep?" I can picture Ruby reaching for the eye mask she wears when she sleeps and squinting at the clock radio beside her bed.
"Of course I sleep. And I eat. Where's breakfast? Here or there?"
"Uh . . ." Ruby sighs. "Here, I guess."
"Okay, but no tofu scramble. Promise?"
"Right. I'll slaughter a pig before you get here."
Words Page 6