We follow the trail back to the road and listen as Mackenzie gives instructions. "We know this guy is armed, so let's not take any chances—take both cars. I'd rather have you guys on site with us. Sierra, you stay put. Wait here at your car. I want you out of the way for your own safety."
"What if she's—what if Kaylee's there? I mean—she knows me. Maybe it would help if I'm there."
"We don't know what we're dealing with and we don't need you in the mix at this point. If the child's there, we'll bring her to you. Understood?" Officer Mackenzie puts his hand on my shoulder. "We appreciate your help, but it's our job to keep you safe. Got it?"
"Got it." I don't like it, but I get it. I watch the four men get into the squad cars and drive off. I walk back to my Jeep, open the driver side door, and climb in. I sit for several minutes—as long as I can stand. I hop back out and pace the length of the car—back and forth, back and forth. Finally I stop at the front of the car and look toward the trail I just walked with Jameson.
I need to know what's happening.
I'm content to let God have control, but I don't see how watching will hurt as long as I stay out of the way. I just need to know if Kaylee's there. I head for the trail and make my way to where Officer Jameson and I spotted the truck. Although I can see the truck—and now the squad cars in the driveway—I can't see the front door of the cabin from this vantage point.
I weave through the trees, making sure I keep my distance from the cabin. I want to find the tree where I spent last night. From there I can see, and hopefully hear, everything.
By the time I find the tree and can see the front porch, no one's visible except Officer Newton and his partner standing beside their car in the driveway. The cabin door is open and I don't see Officers Mackenzie or Jameson. They must be inside.
I press my face to the bark of the pine tree and breathe deep. The spicy scent speaks to me of strength, power. "Thank You." I whisper my gratitude to God for His peace. "And please protect Kaylee, wherever she is."
A loud crack shatters the silence and I jump. Oh, no . . .
Then the deafening sound comes again, flushing two quail from the dry grass behind me. They flutter so close that I can feel the breeze of their wings on my face. The sounds echo through the valley.
Who is shooting?
I lean into the tree and watch as Officer Newton and his partner draw their weapons and bound the stairs of the stoop in one seamless move.
"Oh, God, help them. Help them!"
I hear shouting from inside but can't make out the words. Then another shot reverberates through the cabin and into the forest, echoing in the distance.
I step away from the tree. Instinct tells me to run, but something stops me. Rooted, I wait. Then I see movement—a flash of yellow. Kaylee! She runs out the front door of the cabin. She's alone. Her movements frantic, erratic—like she doesn't know where to go. Her hands cover her ears. Her shoulders hunch, her chin presses to her chest. She's bending at the waist, leaning forward as she runs.
"Kaylee!" I shout and run toward her. "Kaylee!" I see her look up briefly—just long enough to see me. She weaves toward me, her steps uncertain.
I race to her and catch her in my arms. I press into her and hold her tight. Her heart pounds against my hip as she leans into me. Her body shakes and heaves, but no sound comes from her beyond the occasional sniffle and hiccup.
I gather her in my arms, lift her up, and carry her back to the safety of the tree. I'm struck by how light she is. "It's okay, Kaylee. It's okay. Oh, little one, you're going to be all right now. I'm here." Still holding her, I lean back and look at her. I push her hair out of her face and place my palm on her cheek. "Kaylee, little one, look at me." Her eyes are squeezed shut. "Open your eyes. Look at me."
Slowly she opens her eyes and focuses on me. She drops her hands from her ears and throws her slender arms around my neck. She nestles into me and although she's light, because of her size, holding her is awkward.
"Kaylee?" I whisper into her ear. "I'm going to put you down. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. But I want to have a look at you—I want to make sure you're okay." I set her down—feet on the ground—and take a step back. I look her up and down. I notice her jeans are unbuttoned and unzipped and I see what look like scratch marks on her abdomen.
I reach for her T-shirt, keeping my eyes on hers. "I'm just going to lift your shirt a little bit. I won't touch you. I just need to look." Her eyes never leave mine. I lift her shirt just above her waist and see five long, bleeding scratches on her lower abdomen—like someone tried to tear her pants off. I drop the shirt and look back at her face. Her eyes are focused on the ground and her face is flushed.
"Oh, sweetie . . . I'm sorry." Emotion chokes me and the words, I know, are barely audible.
Then I look down and notice her feet. She's standing on the outside edges of them and I see what looks like dirt and blood caked on the undersides.
"Kaylee, here—let's zip your pants and button them." I help her do this. "Now, sit a minute, get off your feet." As I help lower her to sit on the ground, I notice the scratches and bruises on her arms—two black and blue handprints encircle her upper arms.
I sit next to her and, with my arm draped across her shoulders, I notice the way her shoulder blades protrude at sharp angles beneath her shirt. There is no fat on her—not an ounce.
Every maternal instinct I've ever felt surfaces. I want to pull her close, pick her up, carry her to the Jeep, and take her home with me. I want to draw a hot bath and let her soak. I'd wash her hair and tend her feet and tuck her beneath clean sheets. I'd make her toast and macaroni and cheese and chocolate pudding and . . . anything and everything she'd want. I'd place it all on a tray and take it to her in bed. I'd sit with her—stay with her—all night if necessary.
My throat aches and I'm vaguely aware of tears on my cheeks, but I don't care. I pull her close and she rests her head on my shoulder. "Kaylee, I'm going to take care of you . . . I'll take care of everything."
"There you are!" Officer Mackenzie, out of breath, comes up behind us. "I . . . I told you to wait at your car!" Gasping for air, he reaches for his radio. "I . . . found them. We'll meet you at the road."
I see the pulse throbbing in the prominent veins on Officer Mackenzie's neck. I can almost see, I imagine, the adrenaline coursing through his system.
"I told you to stay put! You could have been hurt!" He runs his hands through his hair and then bends down. "Kaylee? Are you okay?"
Kaylee turns and gives Mackenzie a slight nod.
He stands and turns back to me. "Let's go. Medical personnel—ambulances—are on the way. We'll meet them at the road." He looks down at Kaylee and I see him eye her feet. "Kaylee, I'm going to carry you to the road."
Upon hearing this, Kaylee pulls her shoulders forward. Her head lowers and her eyes—those telling pools of emotion—widen. Fear, an insidious intruder, pulls her into herself. I watch, helpless.
"Hey, little one, I'll go with you. It'll be okay."
She pulls further away from me and shakes her head—the movement is slow . . . subtle . . . but it speaks both her fear and protest.
Officer Mackenzie squats next to Kaylee again and tries to reason with her. "Kaylee, we can't leave you here alone. You need to go to the hospital. There are nice people who will take good care of you."
I can see Officer Mackenzie's patience is waning. "And I'll stay with you at the hospital, you won't be alone." I look at Officer Mackenzie. "I can do that, right?"
"Yes."
I hope my presence will reassure her, but instead, she lowers her eyes, stares at the ground, and wraps her arms around herself. She's pulled deeper inward.
Pain wraps its tentacles around my heart and squeezes. I don't know how to help her. I realize how little I know about this child. I don't understa
nd her. Yet, I realize, I love her—something I can't explain. I wonder if she'll ever return my love.
But now isn't the time to ponder such thoughts.
I remember Kaylee's notes yesterday. Was it just yesterday? It feels like ages ago. Staying is imperative. The clutch on my heart tightens. "Kaylee told me yesterday that she has to stay here—for some reason, staying here is . . ." Is what? I don't know. I begin again. "Her mom has amnesia."
"Kaylee," Mackenzie bends so he's eye-level with her. "The Sheriff's Department and Social Services—the nice people who will help take care of you—can help look for your mom. We have ways of finding people. We'll start looking right away and we'll let you know if we find her."
Kaylee stares at Mackenzie's face like she's weighing whether or not she can trust him. I pull her close and feel her fear—it trembles beneath the surface.
"She's shaking."
"Shock, probably. She's been through a lot this morning."
Still holding her, I try one last tactic. "You know what, sweetie? Your mom would want you to go to the hospital. She'd want someone to take care of you. I think we need to do this for her."
She shakes her head again. But this time, the shake is almost imperceptible.
Mackenzie bends down in front of her. "Put your arms around my neck, and I'll carry you on my back to the road. Now. We need to go."
Kaylee hesitates a moment longer, then wraps her arms around his neck. He lifts her up and then turns and looks over his shoulder at me. "Let's go."
With that, we make our way through the trees and brush and head back to the road.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Kaylee
Each time he takes a step, my body bounces on his back, and every bounce hurts. I try to hold on tight around his neck but my arms feel rubbery and I can't stop shaking. My head pounds, my legs and stomach cramp, and the bottoms of my feet burn. Sierra's walking next to us and keeps reaching up and putting her hand on my back. I like the feel of her hand on my back. It's the only thing that feels good.
I just want to rest my cheek on the policeman's shoulder and feel Sierra's hand on my back. I want her to keep it there. My eyes feel scratchy—like they need to close and stay closed for a long time. I want to go to sleep with Sierra's hand on my back. If I could talk I'd say, "Please don't move your hand—just leave it there until I wake up."
My face gets hot when I think about that. I'm not a baby. I don't need someone to watch me sleep. But that's what I want. I just want . . . I want . . . someone to stay with me. I don't want to be alone anymore.
What I really want, I tell myself, is my mom. Not Sierra. I want my mom. I do.
But with each painful bounce the picture in my mind of my mom becomes less clear. It's like my brain is an Etch A Sketch—one of those red boxes with a screen and two white knobs that you turn to draw a picture. When you're done with the picture, you shake the box and the screen clears and it's ready for a new picture.
Bounce. The screen shakes and her dark hair becomes just a smudge.
Bounce. Her face erases.
Bounce. Her hands and feet slip away.
I try to hold onto the picture but I can't. Not anymore.
I tried, Mommy—I tried. Tears blur my sight. I tried to wait. I waited as long as I could.
I can't wait anymore.
I'm sorry.
Wherever I am, it's comfortable. I stretch my legs and then roll onto my side.
I feel something drape over me and tuck around me. I didn't know I was cold until the warmth sends a shiver through me. Now I feel snug—tight—like a caterpillar in a cocoon.
I hear voices but can't understand what they're saying. I lift my head up and look around, but the movement sends what feels like nails shooting through my forehead, so I lie back down and close my eyes again.
Then a soft, cool hand touches my forehead. The hand brushes the hair off my face and then gently rubs back and forth. A memory flickers, but it's too hard to pull it up and think about it.
"I'm here, Kaylee, you're doing great."
The voice whispering in my ear is familiar—kind . . . gentle—but I can't place it. I don't even know if it's real. I try to open my eyes, but it's too hard to bother.
"Okay, Kaylee, you'll feel a small prick. It's gonna sting, but just for a minute."
This voice is different. Someone I don't know.
I feel a tapping on my arm and then a sharp poke into my skin. I roll back flat and open my eyes against a bright light. I try to pull my arm away, but someone's holding it down.
"Whoa, girly, you need to hold still. We need to get some fluids in you. You're all dried up, dehydrated. This'll make you feel better. After this, we're taking care of those feet of yours. Gonna soak 'em in some nice warm water."
It takes a minute to come out of the fog of sleep and remember why I'm here. I squint against the light while pictures flash in my mind: The cabin. Him. The police. Shots. Sierra.
I remember the hand on my forehead and turn to see if it's her. Sierra. I squint my eyes against the light and try to focus on her face. Her eyes are different here, inside—more gray than blue. She's serious, concerned or worried maybe?
"Hey, you're waking up. How do you feel?" As she talks to me, her hand continues to smooth my forehead. Her hand is still cool against my skin. Her voice is tender and caring. She still looks worried so I try to smile to reassure her, but my mouth is dry and my lips stick to my teeth. She asks someone if she can give me something to drink.
"Sure thing, honey. There's cups right there by the sink. Give her just a sip or two to start."
Sierra takes her hand off my head and I feel it's not being there almost more than it's being there—like when you take a Band-Aid off a sore before it's all the way healed up and it stings.
When she comes back with the cup of water, she helps me sit up. She stuffs a pillow behind my back then lifts the cup to my lips. A memory flickers to the surface again, but now I'm awake enough to remember it: The soft, cool hand on my forehead, the cup of liquid lifted to my lips. It's from Mandy. It's the part of the story I wrote on the scrap of paper and put in my jar.
I take a drink of the water and then lay back against the pillow. I stare at Sierra. Will my story end like Mandy's? Will Sierra love me and take me home with her . . . forever?
The thought makes me want to pull the blanket over my head and hide in the dark space under it where no one will know what I'm thinking.
I want to go home with Sierra, but . . . what about my mom?
Maybe the police will find my mom and we'll go home together.
I think about home. Is the cabin home? Will he come back too? Or is he dead? Maybe he's dead. Maybe they shot him. I hope he's dead. I don't want to go back to the cabin. Ever.
So where's home?
The question makes me feel the way I felt in the forest last night: lost. But maybe home is more a feeling than a place. When they find my mom, or when she finds me, then I'll be home. Sort of.
But what about Sierra? Would I ever see her again?
I look at her. She's standing at the foot of the bed talking to the nurse. When I look at her, something inside me hurts. I think of a word from the dictionary: de·sid·er·ate. It means you want something really bad. Or miss it really bad. Desiderate isn't in my box. It's a hurting word. But it's a word I remember because I know how it feels.
When she's done talking to the nurse, Sierra comes back to the side of the bed. She rests her hand on my shoulder. I think about the way her hand feels. The way it feels to have someone touch you and take care of you.
It feels like home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sierra
Surrealism was a twentieth-century movement of artists and writers to capture, through the use of fantastic im
ages and incongruous juxtapositions, a representation of unconscious thoughts and dreams.
If I were to capture this moment on canvas, it most certainly would fall into the category of surrealism. It's all incongruous juxtapositions. The first incongruity is me—a single, childless, independent woman, standing on the side of a dirt road, mentally wringing my hands, my heart, my soul, as a child is loaded into an ambulance.
The second incongruity is Kaylee—a motherless, independent "adult" in a child's body. She's taken care of herself until today when she, under duress, surrendered herself to the care of others—right now the paramedics, later the county, then . . . who knows.
Here we are the two of us, side by side. True surrealists would call this a chance effect, but they'd be wrong. Not by chance nor even by choice are we together, but by design. Of this, I am oddly certain.
And as much as I desire to look at this through the critical, detached eyes of an artist, instead I am the subject. These are my dreams, I realize. My yearnings and longings for motherhood are playing out before my eyes.
I try to etch these thoughts, these certainties, this moment of clarity, on the walls of my mind and heart for I sense I'll need them later.
I see Officer Mackenzie pat one of the paramedics on the back and then turn toward me. He motions for me to come over. Once the paramedics arrived, I stepped back to give them room to work.
"Sierra, they're ready to take Kaylee, do you want to ride with her?"
"Is she awake?"
"Nah . . . she's out. The paramedics say she's in shock, dehydrated, and exhausted. They gave her something for pain—her feet are pretty chewed up—so she'll sleep awhile."
"Okay, then I'll follow in my own car. I don't want to have to come back for it later."
Mackenzie nods. "We're done then. We'll be in touch. We'll likely have questions for you when we do our report."
"That's fine. Hey, I saw the other ambulance. What happened in there today? I mean—the shots—did you—did you have to . . ."
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