If we didn’t dispose of the chicken, more predators would be drawn by the scent. I didn’t want any of the other chicks to be eaten. As I arranged the wood, a small head poked out from underneath the porch. Its black beady eyes stared at me.
A weasel. How dare it be so cute? I wanted to hate the critter for killing the chick, but Quatie was right. Survival meant finding food. I’d have to kill it so it wouldn’t harm any more of Quatie’s fowl. Or at least tell Quatie, so she could kill it, but its whiskers trembled and my resolve failed. Weasels were fast and smart, and it’d probably get away before I could do anything anyway.
But it couldn’t stay here. It’d probably fit in the squirrel trap Quatie had in the shed.
“Stay put, weasel. I’ll be right back.” I walked to the shed, expecting it to run away when I moved, but it stayed where it was, half hidden behind the post.
When I returned with the trap, I lit the bonfire and sat cross-legged on the side closest to the porch. I set the trap in front of me, with the door open toward the weasel.
“All right, Mr. Weasel, it’s time for you to get in the trap so we can take you into the mountains where you can’t kill our chickens anymore.”
It stretched its head farther out and the whiskers wiggled. It wanted to come to me. I felt it.
Quatie came out of the house and at the creak of the porch, the weasel disappeared.
“Oh, no.” If we didn’t trap it, Quatie would have to kill it.
“What’s wrong, child? And why do you have the squirrel trap out?”
Quatie would think I was crazy. “It’s a weasel trying to kill your chicks.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “Weasels are too smart to get caught in a trap.”
My face got hot. “I was going to coax it into the trap. I don’t want to kill it.”
Quatie pulled on her thick gloves and pulled the dead chicken out of the coop. “I know you don’t want to kill any critter, but if you let a predator live, they kill again.”
“Can’t I at least try? If I can trap it, can we take it far away and release it?” I clasped my hands under my chin and put on my best begging face. “Please?”
Quatie laughed as she put the chicken on the fire and poked the wood to get the blaze higher. “The weasel is probably half a mile down the road by now, but if you want to try, no harm will come from it.”
“Thank you, Quatie.”
A small movement in the dark under the porch told me the weasel was still around.
Quatie Raincrow sat on the rock she used as her bonfire chair. “Go ahead, child. I’m waitin’ to see how you coax a critter, who is known for being a twisty little devil, into a trap.”
I closed my eyes and felt a song well up inside. Opening my mouth, I sang the song as it came to me.
First the nose poked out, followed by the weasel’s whole head, its whiskers going nonstop. I kept singing the song my heart gave me. The words didn’t matter—the feeling did.
The weasel left the protection of the porch and edged toward us. It paused and looked up. A red-tailed hawk circled overhead. Then, as if making a decision, the weasel scampered straight into the trap and the door clicked into place, keeping it safely inside.
“If I hadn’t seen that with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it.” Quatie’s brows rose to be hidden by her headscarf. “I’ve never seen someone who could sing a wild beast calm.”
I pushed off the ground and stood. “I sang snakes calm before.”
“You have a true gift, Atsila.”
Atsila? Daddy had taught me some words in Cherokee, but I didn’t recognize this one. “What did you call me?”
She smiled. “Atsila. You’re my mustard.”
My head drooped. I didn’t want to be called a sandwich spread. “But why did you call me mustard?” I barely mumbled the words. Had I done something wrong?
“Don’t be upset, child. Mustard is a good thing.”
Mustard was yellow goop.
“Mustard is a field of bright yellow flowers, the color of sunshine, amid the sea of green that ripples like the ocean in the merest breeze.”
I tilted my head. Mama used to talk about how beautiful the mustard fields were when we’d pass them.
“Mustard is a spice and will take root and grow anywhere you plant it. The short time you have been here, I have watched you grow roots and blossom and you are the spice in this old lady’s life.”
When she put it like that, mustard wasn’t so bad.
“But the biggest reason is for what I witnessed here today. You demonstrated tremendous faith. And in the book of Matthew, it says, ‘He replied, “Because you have so little faith. Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.”’”
She reached her hands toward me and I gripped them. “When I watched you coax the weasel into the trap, it reminded me of the mustard seed and moving mountains. So, you are my mustard, my Atsila.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Spring 2015 – Melody, age 16
Melody pushed open the door to the waiting room and waved at Lily. After yesterday’s session, her spirit had lifted, and she felt freer than she had in years. And best yet, Mrs. Langdon hadn’t pulled into a parking space but told her she’d be back to pick her up. She’d tell Roger ... it’d brighten his day.
Lily nodded toward the door. “Go ahead. He’s waiting for you.”
She pushed the door open but halted after a few steps. Why was Miss Prescott sitting in front of Roger’s desk?
“Come on in, Melody.” Roger’s smile showed off his straight, white teeth framed by the three-day scruff he always wore. “I asked Miss Prescott to join us today because she has a few things to tell you, and I thought it best we worked through things together.”
A huge lump formed in Melody’s stomach. Work through things didn’t sound good. She scuttled to the couch and perched on the end, arms crossed over her midsection.
Miss Prescott moved the chair next to the couch at an angle facing Melody before sitting. She clasped her hands and leaned forward. “Dr. Kane has been telling me how well you’re doing. No specifics, of course, but how much progress you’ve made. I’m proud of you.”
If her stomach didn’t hurt so much, Miss Prescott’s praise would have made Melody feel good.
Miss Prescott ran a hand through her short, red hair, ruffling it.
Melody bit the inside of her cheek. The hair ruffling was always a sign Miss Prescott wasn’t sure how to break news to her.
“Dr. Kane called me about your current placement and we both agreed a change was in order.”
Another move meant another house, another family that didn’t want her, another school once she could return, another round of not fitting in anywhere. Why bother?
“I told Dr. Kane the difficulty with finding a new placement and he helped me figure out what I hope is a good and permanent home for you.”
Yeah, right. Since when had any of the placements ever been long-term? Not that she wanted to stay with Mrs. Langdon. It would be a relief not to have someone pestering her and making jokes about her every day. The next place wouldn’t be any better. They never had been.
Whatever. Fill the plastic bags and move on. She sighed.
Miss Prescott reached out and took her hand. “It’s not as bad as you think, Melody. At least I hope not.” She gave her fingers a light squeeze. “I have something else important to tell you first. I won’t be your caseworker any longer.”
Melody stiffened and pulled her hand back. Abandoned. The word clanged against her brain like a stone ricocheting against cavern walls, echoing in the wave of emptiness. Miss Prescott had been the one constant in her life for the past seven years. Now she would lose her, too? She blinked twice.
“Hear me out. There’s more to it.”
Melody’s fingers tapped rapid-fire against her leg.
Roger poi
nted to the speakers and raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to share a song?”
The urge to pick a song was overpowering, but she wasn’t ready to sing in front of anyone but Roger yet. She folded her hands to keep them from pulling out the music player and shook her head.
Miss Prescott slid a file out of her tan soft-sided leather briefcase. “We have a couple things to talk about today, but we’ll start with your placement. The reason I won’t be your caseworker is I have filed a petition to have you stay with me. We received the approval today.”
Melody’s head snapped up and she stared straight into Miss Prescott’s hazel eyes. Please God, don’t let this be a joke.
“I remember the first day I saw you, sound asleep on a cot, in a rough, black dress, two sizes too big, exhausted from having been awake all night. You were so sweet, and I wanted to scoop you up and protect you from any further harm.” Tears filled Miss Prescott’s eyes. “I’ve done a poor job of keeping you protected over the years. My heart breaks for all the things you’ve been through and had to endure.”
Roger ripped a couple of tissues from the box and handed them to Miss Prescott.
She dabbed her tears and blew her nose. “Do you remember how Quatie kept after me, when I came for a visit, to make time in my life so I could have a family?”
Melody nodded.
“When Dr. Kane called me and told me he felt it was time to change your placement to something better, I felt an overwhelming need to make you my family.”
A tear rolled down Melody’s cheek. She wanted a permanent home more than anything. And Miss Prescott wasn’t a stranger—they shared a history. Melody grabbed some tissue from the proffered box.
“You’re not allowed to stay with me if you’re part of my caseload. Besides, I’d rather make you part of my family instead. More than anything.” She reached a hand toward Melody. “Do you want to come live with me? I will leave it up to you.”
Melody jumped from the couch and Miss Prescott stood, open-armed, ready to embrace her. Tears streaming down both their faces, they hugged each other in a tight embrace.
When Melody’s tears finally slowed, Miss Prescott stroked her hair.
“You’ve made me very happy. We’ll get your stuff from Mrs. Langdon today and you’ll come home with me.”
She brushed the tears off Melody’s cheeks. “I’m hoping the only tears you have from here on out are happy ones. You’ve had too many driven by sorrow. But I have something else I think will make you smile.” She held her arm toward the couch. “Why don’t you sit?”
Miss Prescott settled in her chair and inhaled deeply. “Dr. Kane brought up something he feels will be beneficial for you and help you feel more comfortable communicating.”
Melody shot him a look and he grinned at her like the Cheshire cat.
“We’d like you to start working with a vocal coach. John Ludloff, the premier vocal coach in the state is willing to give you an audition.”
Anxiety flooded through Melody and she couldn’t stop her knee from bouncing. She couldn’t audition for anyone. She pulled out the music player.
No. She couldn’t play any song. She quickly placed it next to the speakers and leaned against the couch back.
Roger sat up straight. “Do you not want to sing?”
Melody shook her head.
“Why?”
His gaze unnerved her. She didn’t know how to tell him. Burying her face in her hands, she pushed down the urge to reach for the music player. She rocked for a moment, her breath short and shallow. She couldn’t help it. She snatched up the music player and navigated to the song.
Fishing out her headphones, she plugged them in, hooking the bud in her ear.
“Hey. We agreed. You share your music with me.”
She held up her index finger and shook it at him. After pressing play, Melody listened, fast-forwarded, stopped and rechecked. When she had the song queued up, she yanked the earbud out and plugged the speakers in. The haunting notes of Sarah McLachlan’s “Fear” filled the room.
Miss Prescott tilted her head and narrowed her eyes as she listened.
Once the phrase she wanted had played, Melody pressed the pause button and glanced at Roger.
His mouth drooped. “Do you not understand how talented you are? Melody, you are one of the best singers I’ve had the pleasure of listening to. You have so much to give with your music.”
Melody couldn’t look at the disappointed expression on his face. She stared out the window. The sun shining through the leaves looked inviting. She’d rather be out on the green reading a book than inside right now.
Miss Prescott clasped her hand. “When I used to be afraid to do something, or afraid I wasn’t good enough, Quatie Raincrow used to tell me, ‘You will never learn to fly—’”
Melody squeezed Miss Prescott’s hand. “‘... if you let someone else carry your wings.’” Her whisper was swallowed up by the silence in the room.
Miss Prescott’s eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered. “It’s so good to have you talk to me again. Thank you so much.”
Melody wiped her eyes.
“You know Quatie would want you to audition. She loved to listen to you sing. Will you try?”
She nodded, her emotions putting her in a chokehold.
Roger scribbled a few notes on his tablet. “We have one more thing to discuss before we start today’s session. School.”
Melody’s eyebrows rose. What? She had been taken out of school after the incident.
“Don’t look so surprised. I’ve been busy on your behalf.” A smug expression crossed his face. “After talking to Miss Prescott about removing you from Mrs. Langdon’s, I had a nice chat with the judge and convinced him a return to a classroom environment would help you to speak more comfortably with others.”
Her emotions were on a rollercoaster.
Miss Prescott crossed to the couch, sat next to her and threaded her fingers through Melody’s. “You have both Dr. Kane and me on your side. We’ll make sure things don’t get out of control like they did before. Since I’m not your caseworker, I can get involved in a way I couldn’t before.” She patted the back of Melody’s hand. “If you feel too much stress and are having trouble coping, we’ll work through it together.”
Melody closed her eyes for a moment. “Miss ... Miss ...” The saliva in her mouth dried and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.
“Why don’t you call me Rebecca? We’re family now.”
Melody’s chest heaved as she inhaled. Lips parted, she attempted to form the word, but nothing came out. She could do this. Maybe if she whispered it. “Rebecca.”
Rebecca hugged her shoulders. “Thank you. It means the world to me. I promise you, we’ll take things one step at a time. I want the happy girl who lived with Quatie back again. No more sorrow.” She glanced at her watch. “I’d better let you and Dr. Kane get to work.” She stood.
Melody grasped Rebecca’s wrist. She struggled with speaking. It shouldn’t be this hard.
“Sing what you want to say, Melody.”
Relief flooded her. She brought the Gregorian chants to mind and picked a note. “Stay.”
Rebecca glanced at Roger, who nodded. She retook her seat next to Melody.
“We’ve had an emotional time already, so let’s talk about some pleasant things.” Roger crossed his legs, set the tablet on top, and tapped the note-taking app. “Yesterday we talked about Quatie Raincrow. She was obviously a special person in your life.”
Rebecca smiled at Melody and patted her hand again. “Quatie was a unique and special individual and I know we both miss her greatly.”
Roger tapped the stylus against his lips. “How about you sharing your most special memory of Quatie Raincrow with us, Melody. What stands out?”
She threw him a panicked look. He wanted her to tell him her best memory? She wasn’t ready.
Roger held up his hand. “Take it easy. Same as before. Go ahead and pick a song, then say a
few words ... sing them, if you have to.”
Phew. She didn’t have to think, she knew the memory she wanted to share. She queued up “Christmas Is” and pressed play.
Why is this time of year
Such a big deal
Few know the true meaning
How everyone should feel
About the One who was born
A long time ago
Away in a manger
The savior of souls
Melody pressed pause. This would be easier if she took it stanza by stanza. Nothing bad would happen if she spoke. Too bad her heart didn’t believe that, no matter how many times her head said it. She stared at her hands and tried to muster the courage to say the words.
Rebecca took her hand. Somehow it made her feel better. Maybe the world wouldn’t smack her down again. She took a deep breath. She could do it.
Just say the words, Melody.
Pitching her voice above a whisper, Melody couldn’t look at Roger or Rebecca. It would make things too hard. “Quatie loved Christmastime. It was her favorite time of year, but she didn’t like all the trappings. She carried the Christmas spirit in her heart.”
She pressed play on the chorus before anyone could say anything to her.
Christmas is a time
For a blessing of the soul
The reason for the season
Everyone should know
Who needs lights
On the house or the tree
When Christmas is about
Who died for you and me
“She never put lights up because she said God put the stars in the sky and they were all the wise men needed to find the Christ child, so they were good enough for her.” Talking was a little easier this time.
Jesus was born
On a bed full of hay
And that is why we
Should celebrate this day
Not for the gifts
That Santa may bring
But for the One born
The Almighty King
She hadn’t felt the meaning behind this song since she had left Quatie’s house. When she and Quatie celebrated Christmas together, she almost felt the angels. “Every Christmas Eve, we’d go to church and Quatie would recite the Christmas story while we watched it acted out.”
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