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
"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
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