“This is a lot easier than I thought it would be,” she says. “I actually kind of like it. I can’t believe he’s following me.”
“When you want him to stop so you can hand the lead rope off to me, stand still and pull a little if he keeps moving,” I say. “But the halter actually puts pressure on his nose and keeps him following your lead.”
As soon as Nari stops, Sam does too. She turns to him, pets his nose, and smiles. When I come up to take the lead rope, she waits an extra second before letting go.
“Wasn’t that bad, huh?” I ask.
Nari shakes her head. “Sam’s really nice.”
In our arena, Nari stands next to me, watching as I bring Sam to a trot. I listen to his hooves beat on dirt and wish everything could be that steady.
“So does your sister want to come back home?” I ask. “Or is she having too much fun with the horses?”
“I’m not sure,” Nari says quietly, “but you know, this isn’t the first time Pia’s had to go to rehab.”
“What?” I look quickly at her, then turn my eyes back to Sam.
“She was at a different place last year,” Nari says. “She seemed okay at first. But then things got hard again.”
The flutter feeling stirs in the pit of my stomach. “What do you mean?” I ask. “The rehab didn’t help at all?”
“I’m not saying that,” Nari explains. “It helped in some ways. My parents really like this new place, though. Pia told them that working with the horses makes her feel better than she has in a long time. Addiction is just hard. I mean, it’s a disease, and there isn’t one clear way to fix it. So it’s not something you can be totally done with.”
“I thought the whole point of rehab was to fix the problem,” I say. Sam slows down, and I make a kissing sound to get him going.
“When you use the word fix, you make it sound like Pia’s a broken motor or something,” Nari says. “People aren’t that simple, you know?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean—” I shake my head, blush. “So, she’ll need to work on staying healthy, like, forever?” I make Sam change directions and watch his strong legs move.
“I guess,” Nari says. “But you say that like it’s a bad thing. Everybody has to work on stuff. Don’t you?”
I think of the sparrows, swooping into every corner of me. The deep breaths I’ve learned to take to send them away, until the next time they appear.
Suddenly I feel tired enough to lie down in the leaves. All along, I’ve hoped that things with Andy could go back to being exactly like they used to be, but I don’t know what that truly was anymore. Did I really know my brother? Do I now? I let Sam slow to a walk and bring him into the center of the circle he made. I stroke his nose.
“There are lots of people who figure out how to deal with addiction,” Nari says. “Like Sharon, remember?”
“Sharon?” My jaw drops.
“You must not have been there when she told us,” Nari says. “Maybe that was before you came. She’s been sober for twenty years or something.”
“But… isn’t our group for people who have family members with that… problem?” I picture Sharon’s calm eyes and jangling silver bracelets.
“I mean, yeah, but Sharon’s mom had the same issue,” Nari says. “So she needed to figure out how to deal with that. From both sides, see? It doesn’t have to be one or the other.”
Clouds sweep across the mountains. The gray feels calm and a little sad as it settles down. It matches my mind, swirling thick with questions I can’t find words for.
I show Nari how to hold the lunge line tight enough so Sam will feel direction from my hand, but loose enough so he can trot in a wide circle.
“Here, try,” I tell her.
Nari shakes her head. “I don’t know,” she says. “Leading him was probably enough.”
“I’ll stand behind you and help,” I say, positioning myself so I can hold the lunge line. “He’ll probably do what you want. But if he doesn’t, that’s when we tighten the pressure. You’ll bump his nose a little with your hand, get him to listen.”
Nari nods, her eyes focused on Sam.
Andy’s the one who taught me that, leaning over my shoulder while I hung on to the line and tried to will Sam into doing what I wanted. Andy said it wasn’t only horses who want to move away from pressure. “People are the same way, Little C. Think about it.”
“As soon as Sam does what we want, we’ll let him go,” I say. Nari turns toward me, confused. “Oh, I don’t mean drop the rope, I just mean—give him more slack.”
“Okay, yeah. I get it now,” she says.
Pressure. Who wants that? Pressure comes when I have to talk to someone loud or new, stand up in a room full of staring people, face a thing that’s not turning out like I thought it would. It stirs the sparrows from somewhere outside me, brings them inside, makes my fingers quiver so I have to squeeze my hands into fists to still them.
But it also makes me move forward.
“I think he’s good,” Nari says, and I realize I haven’t even been watching Sam. I’m looking at the mountains beyond the arena instead, how they rise and rise, pushing past everything else to get where they’re going. Sam’s holding his pace, and I give Nari a thumbs-up.
“So what do you think?” I ask. “Can you see why your sister likes working with horses so much?”
“Actually, yeah,” Nari says. “I’m holding this lunge line and it’s literally the only thing I’m thinking about. Kind of helps me focus. I don’t have much time to feel scared of the horses. Or of other things, actually.”
I tell Nari about my equine therapy plan, and her eyes widen. “Seriously?” she asks. “Pia would be your first customer.”
“Well, we have to see,” I say. “I haven’t told my brother about it yet. And it all depends what he and my parents decide. I can’t do it myself.”
Thinking about what Andy might say fills me with wings and fire and all kinds of feelings I can’t name. Nari’s telling me that what happened with Andy will always be with us, in a way. But also that it’s supposed to be okay. Can be okay.
“Hmmm,” Nari says. “You might want to think about a plan B, in case he doesn’t want to be part of it. Personally, I have no idea what to expect from my sister.”
I picture the paths weaving through our forest, the one leading to Pine Lake. So many to choose—too many, maybe.
I don’t want to think about Andy’s path if it’s not right next to mine.
In my room at night, I line up the materials I need. Paper, envelope, stamp. Everything’s ready to go. Sitting down and touching the smooth stationery feels like running a brush down Sam’s back: easy and steady, something I could do in my sleep.
I might have only one more chance. Andy might not believe me about the wild horses, but if I explain it well enough, he’ll see that equine therapy is perfect for our family. He has to. If he’d been there with Nari, if he’d seen how much better she felt about horses when she left, he’d understand. I pick up my favorite pen, the one that drips smooth blue ink at just the right speed for letter writing.
I write on the envelope first: I know the address by heart. Then I set the blank paper in front of me. The words come easily.
Dear Andy,
Guess what? I have an idea.
You know those meetings Mom and Dad make me go to? At the last one I heard about something kind of cool.
I have to think about how to phrase this next part. I’m sure Andy will like my idea—how could he not? But I don’t want him to think I’m trying to force him to help. He’d probably tear my letter into little pieces. And besides, that’s not it at all. Not really. I know Andy, and he’d be good at this. Really good.
One of my friends at the meeting says her sister went to a place that did something called equine therapy. And it really helped her. They learned how to take care of horses, just normal stuff that you and I do all the time. But there isn’t anything like that around here, so she can’t keep d
oing it when she moves back home. I was thinking, wouldn’t Sunny and Sam be good for that?
I chew my lip, remembering the way Sunny tosses her head sometimes still when I get on her back.
Well, maybe just Sam. Sunny could come around, though. You could train her. I could help.
I’m starting to ramble. I need to tell him my plan—why have the sparrows started fluttering again?
So I think we should start an equine therapy business. Mom could use her accounting experience to manage it, you and she could both train the horses, and I could take care of them. Dad’s such a good teacher, I bet we could get him to figure out the best way of planning lessons or teaching anyone else who wanted to learn more about it.
A whole notebook page gleams blue now, letters scrawled like rivers on every line.
This way Mom could have a job again, and we wouldn’t have to sell Sunny and Sam.
I don’t write the next thing, but it burns in my mind: And you would stop making the kinds of mistakes that got you to Starshine Center in the first place. No more hiding pills or strange phones. You would make your own choices, but this time they’d be the right ones. It would be just like before.
I walk the letter to the mailbox in the dark so it will be ready to make its trip first thing in the morning.
CHAPTER 16
“Is it okay if I invite Mr. Hamilton over?” I ask Mom and Dad on Sunday afternoon. All week my head’s been full of images that don’t have anything to do with one another but are mashed together all the same: light slanting across Mr. Hamilton’s barn, Sam startling at a wisp of tail in trees, Nari and her sister driving away in a pickup, their long hair streaming.
And my equine therapy plan. I keep waiting to hear back from Andy. Getting a yes from him will mean I can tell Mom and Dad all about it.
But Andy hasn’t written back.
Mom looks up from the computer, where she’s been scanning another job board. Dad has his lesson plan book open on his lap, but he’s staring off into space instead of writing his usual notes.
They both shrug and say “Sure” at the same time. Then Mom asks, “Today?” And Dad asks, “Why?”
“Yes,” I say to Mom, “if he can make it.” Then I turn to Dad. “I need to ask him some more questions for my project.”
That’s not the whole reason, though. I’m also hoping I can convince Mr. Hamilton to come into the woods with me. He doesn’t believe Jack’s stories, but maybe seeing the horses will change his mind.
“Well, of course,” Mom says. “Invite him over. I’ll make coffee.”
“I don’t think we’re really going to have enough time for that.” The last thing I need is Mom taking up all of Mr. Hamilton’s conversation time.
Mom snorts. “We don’t need to spend light-years at the table, Claire, but we do need to at least invite the man in.”
She can’t see me roll my eyes as I leave the room to call. And I don’t feel a single flutter when I pick up my phone to dial Mr. Hamilton’s number, or when I invite him over.
“No plans,” Mr. Hamilton says when I ask. “How soon do you want me there?”
“The earlier the better.” I want to leave enough time to find the wild horses.
His rough-sandpaper voice crackles. “I’ll be right over.”
It doesn’t take long. The coffeepot beeps to tell us it’s ready just as Mr. Hamilton’s green pickup rolls down the driveway.
I go out to meet him, wrapping a sweater around my shoulders and slipping my boots on first. The air pierces my skin. Winter isn’t far away anymore.
“Thanks for coming, Mr. Hamilton,” I say as he opens the driver’s-side door.
“My pleasure.” Together, we walk inside.
“Glad to see you again, sir,” Dad says, shaking hands. “Thanks again for helping Claire.”
“I’m happy to,” Mr. Hamilton says. “Good way to keep busy since my grandkids are so far away now. Claire actually reminds me of them.”
“I can see that,” Mom says. “And it’s so nice to finally meet you. I remember Owen from school. Let me take your coat.”
Once we’re all sitting around the table, I explain what I want to find out and press RECORD on my phone’s audio. “I learned so much from visiting you,” I say. “But I’m interested in anything else you might remember about how people used horses on farms. Jack—I mean, your dad—maybe he told you stories?”
“He certainly did.” Mr. Hamilton nods. “He loved talking about the old ways, especially since his parents stopped using horses. It’s kind of funny that he missed them so much, seeing as how he was the one who got in the accident.”
Mr. Hamilton explains that horses were crucial for logging, transporting wood down from mountains. Even though they were slower than the skidders that came later, they could wind around trees without much damage to the landscape. People rode behind on small wagons and attached the logs so they dragged on the ground.
“And sugaring was another matter,” he says. “The horses would pull a large tank that had a little seat for the driver in front. They collected the buckets they’d already hung on the trees and poured sap into the tank.”
“You know,” Mom says, “my dad logged with horses for a while back when I was growing up. I don’t remember it very well, though. Eventually he stopped and bought his wood instead.”
“A lot of people have changed the old ways,” says Mr. Hamilton. “The new ways do go a little faster. But still, horses can do just about anything, if you need them to.”
I stop the recorder. “Would you like to meet ours?”
“Well, sure,” Mr. Hamilton says quietly. “I haven’t been near a horse since—well, since my grandkids left.”
“Ours are really nice. I think you’ll like them.” I can’t look at Mom or Dad, or my voice will crack into pieces.
“We’ll stay behind,” Mom says, nodding toward her computer and Dad’s chair with the lesson-plan book still open. “Claire can show you around the barn easily. She loves spending time there.”
“It’s my favorite place.” I’m relieved that Mom and Dad aren’t coming with us. If they’d both wanted to join, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.
“Our barn was always my favorite too,” Mr. Hamilton says.
The sun’s broken through the clouds and our walk to the barn is cold but bright. As soon as we step inside, Mr. Hamilton takes a deep breath and smiles. “Horses have a sweet smell, don’t they?”
“I love it.” I lead Sam out of his stall and put him in cross-ties so Mr. Hamilton can pet him, but he stands a bit to the side at first while I take out my brushes.
“You must have really liked horses, right?” I ask.
I already know the answer. Anybody who keeps horses has to love them, not just like them. It’s like Dad says: They’re a lot of work. A lot of money too.
Mr. Hamilton steps closer. “Yes. Growing up, I always thought our barn was perfect for horses, that it was a waste not to have them.”
I laugh. “I thought that too, when I visited.”
“I never managed to convince Dad, though,” Mr. Hamilton says. “I guess he never really got over losing his team. He was scared to lose more.”
I swallow hard. “I can kind of understand that. I can’t imagine not having horses, but I also can’t imagine having different ones. And actually… we aren’t going to be able to keep Sunny and Sam.”
“Oh, Claire, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Mr. Hamilton says. “Why?”
My throat burns. Emptiness grows. But I keep my voice as strong as I can. “It’s a lot of things. Mostly money. Horses are expensive, and our barn needs repairs.”
“That’s hard,” Mr. Hamilton says quietly.
I start brushing flecks of hardened mud off Sam’s coat. It’s time to change the subject. “How did you get to be so good with horses if you didn’t have them when you were growing up?”
“I hung around a lot with a friend down the road who kept them. Eventually I learned how to t
rain and ended up getting the hang of it.” Mr. Hamilton reaches out to stroke Sam’s neck. “Ah. There’s just something about being around them, isn’t there? They always make me feel better.”
“That’s how Sunny and Sam help me,” I say. “Sometimes I get this—feeling. In my chest. It’s kind of like birds swoop in there and flutter around. It happens when I get nervous. But I never feel it when I’m working in the barn or riding.”
“I know what you mean,” Mr. Hamilton says. “And it doesn’t surprise me at all that being with your horses helps.”
Mr. Hamilton leads Sam back into his stall. The way he smiles gives me courage and I ask him what I really want to know: if he’ll hike into the woods with me to find the wild horses, the ones I think are linked to Jack. I thought about riding, but I don’t want Sunny to run away like she did before.
“I’m always glad to go hiking, but I hope I didn’t get you too excited about my dad’s stories,” Mr. Hamilton says. “He was so confused about that time in his life.”
“The thing is, I think he was right,” I say. “I’ve seen two wild horses already in the woods, and there’s no way to explain where they came from.”
“Wild horses?” Mr. Hamilton says, his voice a little less calm. “That’s—interesting.”
“Not everybody sees them,” I say. “And I can tell that’s not the only thing that’s different about them. It feels like they’re connected to Jack.”
Mr. Hamilton raises his eyebrows. “Dad’s horses couldn’t still be alive. Even if they survived the fall into the water—which, remember, would be impossible—they’d have died long ago.”
“I don’t think they’re the same horses. I just think they ended up there because of Jack somehow,” I say. “It started with his horses, then whole generations grew up hiding in the forest. I’ve only seen two, but who knows how many there could be.”
Mr. Hamilton pulls a cap out of his coat pocket and clears his throat. “You know what, I’m interested. I’d like to see these wild horses.”
The Wild Path Page 11