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Then I see that she's tall, much taller than my mom. And right now she looks like a statue. She still hasn't moved. She must be thinking really hard about something. She just stands there looking out at the ocean. After awhile she turns away, reaches into the front pocket of her pants, and pulls out a piece of tissue. She wipes her eyes with the tissue and blows her nose. Then she balls it up and throws it on the ground. She throws it hard, like she's mad. Then she bends down and picks it up and shoves it back in her pocket.

She walks back to the Jeep but instead of getting in, she puts one foot on the front bumper and pulls herself up and turns to sit on the hood. She reaches over her head and pulls the band off her ponytail and shakes her hair loose. It shines like silver in the sun. She runs her hands through it and then twists it together into a large knot at the bottom of her neck. She puts the ponytail holder in her pocket, the one with the used tissue.

My legs are cramping under me because of the way I'm stooping to watch her. I ease back and stand up inside the tree and walk to my circle. If I sit back in the middle of the circle, I can still see her.

Once I'm settled, I look at her again and realize she's looking right at my tree. Did she see me? I sit very still. I don't even breathe.

She stares at the trunk of my tree. She looks surprised or something.

Finally she leans her head back and looks up. She shields her eyes with her hand. She's trying to see the top of the tree. She won't be able to see it though. She looks back down at the trunk and then she shakes her head and smiles a little.

She's pretty when she smiles.

After a few minutes, she lies back on the hood of her car with her feet still on the bumper. She puts one arm over her eyes, and rests there. She looks tired. I know how she feels, the sun can put you right to sleep on a day like this.

I decide I better go now while she's not looking. I don't know how long she plans to stay here, but if it's long, I might not have another chance to sneak away without her seeing me.

I start to get up, then sit back down. I don't want to leave. I want to keep watching her. I wonder what it would be like to talk to her. I wonder if she's nice. She looks nice. Maybe I could tell her about my mom. Maybe she could help me find her. Just as I'm thinking this, the scream starts in my head.

I hear a long wailing
No
. . . I put my hands to my head and cover my ears, but it makes no difference. I shake my head trying to make it stop. But it's still there. I bang my fist on the ground until it hurts. The pain makes the scream stop. But I know it will start again.

I'm so stupid! I can't talk to her. I'd open my mouth and nothing would come out. How can I tell her or anyone else about my mom or about anything? This is my fault. If I could tell someone about my mom, then maybe they could find her and help her remember and then she could come back and get me. If I could tell someone about him, maybe they could make him go away.

The scream starts again.

I look at her one more time and make sure she's still asleep. Then I get up, hands still covering my ears, and I sneak out of the tree, and walk, real quiet, to the meadow. Then I run. I run through the meadow, past the stream, and back through the forest. I run as fast as I can. I run until my side aches. But I don't stop until I reach the cabin.

Once there, I can hardly breathe. I sit on the stoop and try to catch my breath. I don't hear the scream anymore, just my heart pounding and wheezing as I gulp for air.

I get up and walk back into the cabin. I look at my mattress and know I can't go to sleep now—not yet. Instead, I pull the dictionary out from under the board and turn to the
R
s and begin my search.

re·sign·ee

re·sile

re·sil·ience

re·sil·ient
That's it, I think. I read the definition:
—adjective
1. springing back; rebounding, returning to the original form, position, etc., after being bent, compressed, or stretched; elasticity. 2. ability to recover readily from illness, depression, adversity or the like; buoyancy.

That's just the long way of saying that some things can take a lot. Like that tree, it bounced back after adversity, the fire was its adversity. I turn to the
A
s to make sure I know what adversity means, and I'm right, it's bad. It's the opposite of what you want to happen. I think again of his bonfire a few days after my mom left. That was just one adverse thing that happened to me that week.

A new thought comes to me. Maybe I'm like that redwood. Maybe I'm resilient too. The thought makes me feel sort of hopeful.

For some reason I think again about the woman I saw in the forest. Then I wonder . . . why she was crying? What was wrong? Was she sad or just mad? Both can make you want to cry, I know that.

She looked resilient—tall and strong—like she'd bounce back—so she's probably okay.

After a few minutes, I try not to think about her, to think of something else instead. But the harder I try to think of something else, the more I think about her. I wonder again what it would be like to talk to her. I wonder what her voice sounds like and I wonder dumb things too, like if her hair smells good like my mom's did. The more I think about her, the more I want to know about her. Where does she live? What does she do? Why was she up here in the woods?

Before I even stop thinking about her, I know what I'll do. I'll go back to my tree tomorrow and see if she comes back. And if she doesn't come tomorrow, I'll go back the next day.

I'll just wait and see if she shows up again. If she does, I'll watch her for a while more.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sierra

The sun in the clearing soothes me, lulls me to sleep. In sleep, I can forget the memories that haunt me today. Instead, with energy I barely possess, I pull myself from the fringes of sleep and sit back up on the hood of the Jeep.

Haunt. An appropriate word for this day. I've seen things here that I can't explain. Perhaps in my grief, my mind played tricks on me.

I put the thought aside. I have no desire to analyze my feelings or the deceits of my mind. I'm afraid to look too closely at what I feel or think. I know this about myself. The abyss is too deep, the grief too dark. The feelings are better kept at bay. I allow myself this one day each year to think about her, to honor her memory, and doing so always leads me to the edge of the abyss. But I won't succumb. I won't tumble over the edge.

Instead, I check my watch. It's later than I thought. I'm supposed to meet Ruby for lunch at the beach at 1:00. She insists we have lunch on this day each year. Today I'm thankful for the standing appointment and for her call yesterday to set the time. If anyone can pull me from this funk, it's Ruby.

I hop off the hood, but before getting back in the Jeep, I take a last look at the redwood across the clearing. Its grandeur awes me. It stands tall, oblivious to its wounds, a sentry guarding the forest below. I wonder what secrets it holds, this ancient keeper of the woods. I offer a silent salute to the old tree before climbing in the car and heading off to lunch.

Ruby. I think of her as I drive. We met at art school. I ended up there after a year of general education courses at the J.C. in San Luis Obispo. I took two art classes during that year—a drawing class and a painting class. My instructor encouraged what she called my "gift" and gave me information about the San Francisco Art Institute.

One visit to the campus and I was hooked. Creativity coursed like currents of energy through the students and faculty I met. I left that week with a rising passion to leave my mark on the world through artistic expression. The idealism of youth, I suppose.

Ruby was my roommate while I was there. We connected through a SFAI list of potential housing situations and roommates. Neither of us came from families who could afford much, but we found a studio apartment a few blocks up from the Presidio, owned by a local patron of the arts who rented the studio to students at rates unheard of in the city. We settled in together for the duration of our college careers.

Although Ruby and I came from different worlds, or maybe because we came from different worlds, we engaged right away. We were fascinated by our differences and spent many evenings that first year sharing our ideals, our beliefs, and the stories of our lives.

As I pull into the restaurant parking lot, I search for Ruby's car, a restored 1968 VW bug, an early fortieth birthday gift from her husband, Michael, a programmer who works over the hill in San Jose.

Looks like she's late as usual, but today I don't mind. I want the time to gather myself emotionally. Ruby knows the rules: we meet every year on this anniversary, but we don't speak of it. This is hard for her, she lives to talk, analyze, and figure things out. But she respects this rule, most of the time. However, if I arrive emotionally undone, she'll crack. I often tell her that she missed her true calling. She should have been a shrink. But she insists there's a lot of psychology in her art, sculpting. That's what I call a "Rubyism," a quirky belief all her own.

I enter the restaurant and ask the hostess for my usual table. Distracted, she hands me a menu and points to the stairs. I reach over the counter and grab a menu for Ruby and then make my way up to the outdoor balcony just off the bar where four of the best tables hide. Only here are the tables exposed to the elements—sun, wind, and surf. The other two outdoor balconies are enclosed to protect against such nuisances. Ruby will know to look for me here.

Crystalline sky, blue sea, and lapping surf fill my view. I try to clear my mind and soak in the healing elements of salt and sun. Instead, the images of the day replay. I see the small gravestone that marks my mourning: Annie Lynn Bickford. My mother chose her name—I was in no shape to do so. She told me that Anne was a strong English name meaning
grace.
Mother knew that a child born into such darkness would need grace.

Then the images from the forest come to mind, the giant redwood and . . .

"Hey, you."

I jump at Ruby's greeting.

"Whoa, you okay? I didn't mean to startle you."

"I'm fine."

Ruby squeezes my shoulder before going around the table and settling in the chair opposite me. And although I know her inside and out, see her frequently, had breakfast with her earlier this week in fact, I can find nothing to say to her. Today is different and we both know it.

She looks at me and I see the questions in her eyes, but she doesn't ask. Instead, she reaches for the linen napkin next to her place setting. "So, new outfit?" Her sarcasm breaks the tension.

"Very funny, Rube."

"Guess I don't remember seeing that particular T-shirt before. I like the streak of taupe across the shoulder. Looks like oil. Not your typical medium."

I rub my hand across the stain and smile. I often feel monochromatic against Ruby's color—fiery auburn hair springing in ten different directions, emerald eyes, and today, a burnt-orange peasant top with a patterned red, gold, orange, and green ankle-length skirt that looks like it's made of scarves. The heavy gold hoops at her ears complete her gypsy ensemble.

I finger the slim silver hoops that never leave my lobes and remind her that the taupe swatch is from my living room, "In fact, if I recall, it was you, Ruby, who was bored with painting walls and took your brush to my shirt."

"Ah yes, a moment of artistic expression, I remember."

We laugh and pick up our menus, though we know the offerings by heart.

She says nothing more for a moment. But the next time she looks at me, I see the questions in her eyes again and can tell she's weighing her words. "You really okay?"

Her question brushes the boundary I've set. I answer too quickly. "Of course, I'm fine."

"Really?" Her prodding, gentle as it is, angers me.

"Ruby, you know the rules."

"Your rules, Sierra, not mine. I'm tired of playing by your rules."

I turn my eyes from hers and look back at the ocean. I reach for my hair and unwind it from its knot and run my fingers through its length. I'm stalling, I know, searching for an answer that will appease her while wondering at the unaccustomed desire I feel to talk.

She takes my hesitation as an invitation. "Sierra, it's time to let go of the pain. It's time to let go of Annie."

Speaking her name breaks all the rules. It hangs in the air between us. The anger I felt just moments before dispels and grief, a dense gray fog, settles in its place.

"Ruby . . ." I stop, not knowing what to say.

"It's time, Sierra. It's time to talk, time to let go, time to accept forgiveness."

I recall my mother's words earlier this morning:
Darling, it's time to let go. It's been twelve years. It's time to grasp grace and move on.

"Have you been talking to my mother?"

"Margaret? No. Formidable woman. Scares me to death. You know that."

I laugh in spite of myself. Only Ruby can navigate life's darkest caverns with a sense of humor.

Ruby loves my mother almost as much as I do, I know this. They share an unspoken bond born of shared love and shared pain. A bond that formed during my pregnancy, during Annie's birth and death, and during the hellish days and months that followed when I hit bottom. They became a team, my mom and Ruby. They nursed me back to the land of the living when I wanted nothing more than to climb into the grave with my daughter.

"Sierra?" She waits for a response from me.

I falter. "Margaret said the same things this morning—but I can't just let go. It's not that easy."

"I never said it would be easy. But if you share the burden, you lighten the load. The more you try to deny the pain, the more strength you give it. I see it, Sierra. It consumes you. It's in your eyes. It's in your art. It haunts you."

Maybe it's the familiarity of the thought—haunting—something I'd been thinking myself just before she arrived. Or maybe she's right, it's just time. Whatever the reason, I take a deep breath and follow her lead.

"I think the pain . . . the memories . . . they're making me . . . crazy."