Words

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  She will likely sleep away the rest of this lazy Indian summer afternoon. As I tuck her in, I make sure the book she's reading is on her night table in case she wakes and wants to read. Rather when she wakes and wants to read. She's making quick work of the Nancy Drew novels. But as far as I can tell, with the exception of the etiquette book, she hasn't touched the books we brought from the cabin. The dictionary, I assume, is the source of her well-developed vocabulary. But the times I've asked if she'd like to read it, she averts her eyes and shakes her head. Maybe they are a reminder of what she left behind.

  I also notice she removed the locket from around her neck and placed it back in the jar. Another reminder, maybe?

  After I see that she's settled, I head to the kitchen where my easel and drawers of shredded papers now stand in one corner. I reach for the jug of matte media I now store in a kitchen cupboard. Standing back, I peruse the canvas and plan the next layer of my work. I've let my art go since Kaylee arrived, but today I feel compelled to finish the picture of the redwood.

  Just as I begin slathering glue on the first bit of paper, I hear a knock at the front door. I'm not expecting anyone and am tempted to ignore it. But then it comes again, more insistent this time. I place the shred of paper on the canvas, then wipe the glue from my hands on an old towel and head for the door.

  I open the door to a woman who seems familiar, though I'm not sure why.

  "Hi . . ." As I wait for her response, the skin on the back of my neck prickles and the muscles in my jaw and shoulders tense. I'm looking into Kaylee's eyes—though the eyes of the woman in front of me seem glazed, tired. Then I remember where I've seen her. Just an hour ago, in the parking lot of Marianne's.

  "You have her, don't you? You have my little girl."

  The woman is small, birdlike. She shifts back and forth from one foot to the other and her hands quiver at her sides. Her complexion is sallow against her dull, dark hair. And her eyes, the deep green of Kaylee's, seem lifeless.

  "Who are you?" The strength of my voice surprises me. I exude a calm I don't feel.

  "Kathryn. Her mother. You have my Kaylee."

  "Excuse me . . ." I step out the door causing her to move back. The smell of cigarette smoke assaults my senses. I close the front door behind me—I don't want Kaylee hearing this exchange. As much as I'm sure Kaylee wants her mother back, something isn't right here. I know it. Intuition?

  Mine is screaming.

  "What makes you think I have her?" I'm stalling. Thinking. Pleading with God. Help me! I realize she must have seen Kaylee and followed us from Marianne's. How stupid of me! So caught up in my thoughts that I didn't notice her following us. I'm supposed to protect Kaylee. What happened to that hyper-vigilance I'd felt?

  "I saw you. I saw you with her—your arm around her like she's yours."

  I notice the frenetic tapping of her left foot, an involuntary movement, it seems. The sense of familiarity grabs me again. Standing in front of my house, looking at the woman who holds the power to wrench Kaylee from my life, I experience an epiphany—a sword that slices my soul in two.

  Like me, the woman standing before me, Kaylee's mother, fell to drugs.

  It's the drugs I see—the nervousness, the involuntary twitches and movements, the pockmarks and scabs on her face. I see her need, so like my own at one time. But I was not the sum of the drugs. She is not the sum of the drugs. For the first time I see myself, through someone else, separate from what the addiction created.

  Acceptance . . . mercy . . . freedom—all are held within this revelation. But there's no time to consider that now.

  The epiphany leads to the recognition of truth: She stands to lose her daughter. She is the victim of her choices. And I, more than anyone, know the agony of the road she walks. Compassion stirs and I want to reach out, to spare this stranger the pain I've known. But that's only half of what I feel.

  The other part of me wants to use this knowledge against her. To take her daughter as my own.

  "Are you just going to stand there staring at me, or do you have something to say?" Agitation marks her words.

  "What do you want?"

  "I want my baby back."

  I speak from what I'm sure is true. "You can't take care of her. You need help."

  "I don't need help. I just need my baby. She's mine!" Her eyes come to life.

  "How will you take care of her? It doesn't look like you're even taking care of yourself." My voice remains calm, caring even. I watch her. She shifts from foot to foot and her eyes dart from me to the ground and back again.

  "You don't know anything about me." She spits her words at me.

  "I know more than you think." I can see I've disarmed her, frightened her.

  "What do you know?"

  Lord, help me. What am I thinking? She's right. I don't know. I look her up and down again—her clothes are rumpled, dirty. Her tennis shoes are worn, a hole in the canvas top of one reveals her sockless feet. And again, I notice the telltale jitters. In the recesses of my mind, I hear my mother's voice: What's the truth, Shannon?

  I speak what I'm sure is truth. "You're an addict. You can't even take care of yourself, let alone Kaylee. You need help." I take a deep breath and go on. "I know—I've been there."

  She looks me in the eyes for the first time, but only briefly. "You don't know what you're talking about."

  I take a step toward her, trying to close the gap between us both physically and emotionally. "I do know." What am I doing? I flinch when I consider the consequences of what I'm about to say. I stand to lose Kaylee. But with a strength I know is not my own, I press on. "I know because I've been there. I was an addict and . . . and I had . . ." I take another breath. "I had a daughter once. Her name was Annie. But . . . I lost her. I was using during my pregnancy, and . . . she . . . she died shortly after she was born."

  For just a moment, our eyes, maybe even our hearts, meet—mother to mother. The veil drops and I see understanding in her eyes.

  "You don't have to lose your daughter. You can get help. Your story can end differently than mine."

  She steps back, her expression veiled again. "I told you, you don't know what you're talking about! I'm . . . I'm fine—except that I did lose my daughter." She falters, fumbles for words. "I . . . I lost her in the grocery store. She was kidnapped. And now you have her. Maybe you're the one who took her!"

  Her accusation stuns me. Could Kaylee have been kidnapped? The story is plausible. It happens. A child is wooed away by a pedophile offering candy or some other enticement and then, the child is gone. Is that what happened to Kaylee?

  No. She's lying. Covering herself. "I don't believe you." There is no accusation in my tone. It's just a statement of fact.

  "I saw the way you held on to her, the way you looked at her. She means something to you and you don't want to give her up."

  I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I have no response. This time she speaks truth. The division widens—I see it in my mind—a gaping chasm plastered on canvas, jagged edges in dark hues depict the image.

  "Are you taking good care of her?" Her voice softens with her question.

  "Yes."

  "Do you love her?"

  I sense she's changing tactics—that she has a plan I haven't yet figured out. I leave the question unanswered.

  "I'll tell you what. I've had some hard times lately. You can imagine, right? Losing my daughter made me a little crazy. I . . . um . . . I lost my job. And now I don't have a place to live. I'm getting one soon though. So maybe . . . maybe for a price . . . you can keep her a little longer."

  "A price?" Indignation rises like bile in my throat.

  "Yeah . . . you know . . ." Her "transaction" is interrupted by the opening of the front door. We both turn to see Kaylee standing in the doorway, her little b
ody trembling like a fall leaf.

  I move toward her, reach for her, "Oh, little one . . ." But she pushes me away. Her gaze is locked on her mother. Her face a puzzle of hope, longing, confusion . . .

  Pain.

  I look at Kathryn and see she wears the same expression. Mother and daughter face to face. But then Kathryn's expression shifts—changes—hardens. She says nothing to Kaylee, instead she looks back at me.

  "You think about what I said. I'll be back." With that, she turns and walks away. By the time she reaches the sidewalk, she's running.

  And Kaylee is running after her! I reach out and grab her as she passes me. I hold her flailing body in my arms, her back pressed against my chest, her tears soaking my arms. She kicks and pulls away, but I hold on tight, every muscle straining against her.

  I can't let her go.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Kathryn

  She runs down the sidewalk in the direction she came. She doesn't look back, but she doesn't really look where she's going either. All is a blur. Kaylee's face and the hope she saw in her daughter's eyes is her only focus.

  When she can't run anymore, when she's gasping for breath, she stops and looks back the way she came to make sure Kaylee didn't follow her. But no one's there. She grabs her side as a sharp pain causes her to double over. Nauseous, she drops to the ground on her hands and knees, sure she'll be sick. She gulps for air and waits until the feeling passes, then turns over and sits on the sidewalk. She rests her head on her knees and, for the first time since walking away from the cabin that day, she cries. Her body shudders as much from her sobs as from her unrelenting need.

  "More. I always need more!" She pounds the cement with her fists. It will never end . . . never. Then she sees Kaylee's face again. Memories attack her. Holding Kaylee's tiny hand as she took her first steps. Her smile as she'd look up with a toothless grin and say, "Ma-ma!" Kaylee's first day of school and the tears she'd shed when left with her kindergarten teacher. She remembers the weight of Kaylee on her lap, the fresh scent of her hair, as she read to her, and how quickly Kaylee picked up the words and was soon the one doing the reading. Life was hard then, Lee was already gone, but she'd had her mom and, with her help, was making it. She was making it. Then she remembers when things began to change . . .

  Oh baby, I'm so sorry.

  The memories are too much.

  She closes her eyes and covers her ears. She shakes her head, hoping to rattle the images. Another wave of nausea hits her and this time her stomach convulses and she's sick. There, sitting on the sidewalk, a block from Ocean Street where traffic whizzes by, she vomits. She knows she should feel shame and embarrassment. She is aware enough to know what she should feel. Instead, her body shudders and the crawling feeling on her legs and arms and neck and face begin again. She reaches for her neck and scratches and scratches. The sensation doesn't stop. She scratches until there's blood under her nails—until her neck is raw.

  It will never end.

  She thinks back to what she told the woman who has Kaylee—that for a price she could keep her daughter a little while longer. She's not selling her daughter. She's not.

  I'm just going to get myself back on my feet. With a little extra money, I can wean myself off the meth. I just need a little—just enough to stop the crawling, the shaking. Then I can think. I can make a plan.

  Just a little more . . . that's all I need.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Kaylee

  Through my tears, the ceiling seems to float overhead. Tears drip into my ears, but I don't care. I roll over and rest my check against the damp pillow. It's cool against my cheek but offers little solace.

  Solace.

  I feel the word in my mouth and imagine the hissing sound of the S and C, but still I find no comfort. I mentally spit the word out. It's useless.

  I search my mind for the right word—the perfect word. It doesn't take long to find it:

  con·found·ed—adjective 1. bewildered; confused; perplexed. 2. damned.

  Damned. That's a word I'm not supposed to say. They say it's a swear word, but all it really means is that I'm doomed, that bad things are just going to keep happening to me for no reason. That's why I'm confounded. Nothing makes sense.

  She came back.

  She found me.

  I thought I was dreaming because I was almost asleep, but then I heard her. I heard her voice. I opened my eyes, looked around, and knew I wasn't asleep. The window above my bed was open and I heard them on the porch outside. I stayed very still and listened, although it was hard to hear over the beating of my heart thumping in my ears. But I heard enough.

  I heard my mom.

  I heard her tell Sierra I was kidnapped. Maybe she still has amnesia. Maybe she doesn't remember everything the right way. She had amnesia. That's why she didn't come back. I know it. Now she only remembers some things. That must be how it works.

  I listened for a few minutes more, then I got up and ran to the door.

  Mom! Mommy! I yelled the words in my head, but they wouldn't come out my mouth. I opened the door and . . . and there she was.

  She found me.

  I wanted to say things to her, to tell her I love her, to ask her where she'd been, to tell her everything's all right now. But I couldn't.

  "Stupid mute."

  He was right.

  Now she probably thinks I don't care. What if she never comes back again? Or . . . what if she does?

  Bewildered. Confused. Perplexed.

  Damned.

  I can hear Pete and Sierra whispering in the kitchen. After my mom left, after she walked away, I tried to follow her. But Sierra grabbed me and carried me into the house and held onto me while she called Pete. She wouldn't let go of me, no matter how hard I fought her. Finally I just gave up. I couldn't fight anymore. I'd cried so many tears I was exhausted. When she finally let go, I curled up on the kitchen floor like a big question mark.

  I didn't understand. I don't understand.

  Sierra sat next to me on the kitchen floor and rubbed my back and told me she was sorry—that I was her responsibility now—that she couldn't let me go with my mom because my mom is sick.

  She must understand about the amnesia too.

  Then Sierra said. "I love you, Kaylee."

  But I don't care.

  I don't.

  It doesn't matter anymore.

  When Pete came, he picked me up in his big arms and carried me to my room. Sierra followed him. Pete laid me on my bed and Sierra covered me with the blanket. Pete sat next to me on the bed, but because he's so big, it made the bed sink down and made me roll toward him. I sat up, scooted way over to the other side, and laid back down with my back to him.

  "Missy, I want you to listen to me for a minute, okay?"

  I didn't nod or anything. I just laid there.

  "I'm not going to try and guess what you're feeling right now. But whatever you're feeling is okay. And it might take some time to make sense of it all. Whether you're sad, or angry, or relieved, or confused, or all of that, it's okay. We'll work it out together when you're ready."

  Then I heard Pete whisper to Sierra. "Get her notebook and pen. I'll leave it here on her table."

  I heard Sierra unzip my backpack, and I could picture her handing the notebook to Pete.

  "Kaylee, I'm putting your notebook here on your table. If you want to write about what you're feeling, or if you have questions, it's right here. Sierra and I are going to sit in the kitchen for awhile and let you rest. But if you want to ask me anything, or if you want Sierra, you just come get us. We're just down the hall, missy."

  Then I felt Pete tuck the blanket in around me. He put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. "You rest, Kaylee."

  Now they probably t
hink I'm asleep, but I'm not.

  I throw the blanket off, get out of bed, go to the bookshelf, and reach for the dictionary. I set it on my bed and climb back in. It's the first time I've read the dictionary since coming here. I decide I'll read whatever page I open it to. Page 279—the Cs—they're my favorites.

  co·ag·u·la·tive

  co·ag·u·la·tor

  co·ag·u·lin

  I don't bother reading the definitions. The words are swimming on the page. I try not to think about the cabin and all the times I read the dictionary there. Instead, I try to remember the times my mom had me look up words.

  Go get the dictionary, Kaylee . . .

  But I can only hear her mean voice in my head. The way she sounded when she was talking to Sierra on the porch, and the way she was at the cabin sometimes.

  She wasn't always mean.

  I skip down.

  co·a·lesce

  co·a·les·cence

  I like the way those words feel in my mouth. I bet they sound pretty when someone says them out loud.

  I hear Sierra's voice get louder in the kitchen. I can't hear what she's saying, but she sounds upset.

  Sierra . . .

  I can't think about Sierra.

  co·a·les·cent

  Does she really love me?

  coal·field

  It doesn't matter anyway, not now that my mom's back.

  coal·fish

  Coalfish? That's a funny word. What's a coalfish? I don't remember that word. I wipe my eyes and read the definition: a dark-colored fish belonging to the cod family: also called black pollack.

  Coal is black—that must be why the fish is called that. Soot comes from coal. Stick straight and dark as soot. That's what my mom used to say about our hair. I run my fingers through my hair. It's clean and feels like silk now. No tangles. I look over to the table by my bed and see the pink comb Sierra combs my hair with every night before I go to sleep. It's sticking out under my notebook. I reach for it and run my thumb over the teeth.