by Orly Konig
My phone chimes with a meeting reminder.
The lines around Rena’s mouth release their tight hold. “You have someplace to be. Take care of the business you came here to address, Emma.”
Voices from the other end of the barn roll through the empty aisle: “Man it stinks in here.” “I don’t wanna be here. Horses are dumb anyway.” “Just give it a chance.” “You can’t make me.”
“My next lesson is here. Good luck, Emma.” She walks in the direction of the voices, her steps far less commanding than the Rena in my memories.
I give Jack a final hug and leave his stall.
Simon is standing two stalls away, arms crossed, his features drooping. “She doesn’t really mean it, you know that.”
“Mean what?”
“That you shouldn’t be here.”
“She sounded pretty convincing to me.”
He exhales and closes the distance between us, then tilts his head for me to walk with him. “It hasn’t been an easy time for her either. After the accident—after you left—aging—” His voice clips each aborted phrase.
“I need to go help her, Emma. Please come back. More needs to be said.” He reaches for my hand and gives me a squeeze.
Since when has Rena needed help with her lessons?
I trail Simon to the indoor arena. In the center is a small cluster of people and ponies.
Rena is crouching next to a young boy who’s clawing at his adult companion. “Come on, Tyrone, give it a chance. I put you on the sweetest horse in the barn. His name is Oreo because he kind of looks like an Oreo cookie. Do you like those?”
She takes his hand and gives him a gentle tug forward. Tyrone wails and flaps his arms, gyrating until neither Rena nor his chaperone can hold on without the risk of hurting him. The moment their hands release him, the boy crumples into the soft footing of the arena. He grabs a fistful and hurls it in the direction of the remaining group of people.
A black pony with a wide, white blaze tosses his head but doesn’t move. A chestnut pony to his right, however, shies, knocking into the pony on her other side.
Rena bends to Tyrone’s level. “It’s okay to be a bit afraid, Tyrone. I won’t push you to do anything you don’t want to. But can I ask you to do something for me?” The boy shrugs and Rena takes that as enough encouragement to continue. “Next time, will you let me at least introduce you to the horse? I think once you see how soft and lovely he is, you’ll feel better.”
The boy appears to shrink into himself but doesn’t cry or fight.
Rena touches his arm. “It’s okay, really.” She stands and addresses the woman who’d attempted to contain poor Tyrone earlier. “Mrs. Ellison, maybe you and Tyrone can wait in the lounge. I think you’ll be more comfortable in there while the lesson is going on.”
Mrs. Ellison nods although she seems far from pleased. With a hand under Tyrone’s armpit, she lifts him out of the arena footing and guides him to the door.
The alarm on my phone chimes a second warning. I’ll have to rush to get to my father’s condo in time for the meeting with the realtor.
* * *
T.J., it turns out, is a feisty five-foot-two-inch platinum blonde with dark roots and dark streaks. She arrives at the apartment building a few minutes after I do. She has a surprisingly authoritative handshake for someone who looks like she should still be carrying a backpack, and rocking Uggs and college-logo sweatpants.
She leans in and whispers, “Don’t worry, I’m old enough to go drink champagne with you after we sell this place.” And by her choice of attire and accessories, she’s quite capable of getting healthy commissions.
While she scrutinizes the condo, I perch on one of the barstools and check my messages. My fingers fly in response to Howard’s six missed texts and Bruce’s twelve e-mails. With each tap at the Send button, my pulse picks up speed.
T.J. click-clicks back to the kitchen and perches on the barstool next to me. “What’s your time frame?”
I look up, thumbs at attention waiting to finish the e-mail. “Tomorrow?”
Her throaty chuckle reminds me of the old Hollywood starlets. The only thing missing is the cigarette and big hair.
I raise my hand, as if the phone explains everything, then add, “I have to get back to work.”
She waves, giving me permission to continue typing. I’d meant go back to Chicago but she’s already moving around the living room behind me. I take the opportunity to finish a response to Bruce.
“What about the furniture?”
“Sorry?” I frown at the phone and look at T.J. Multitasking is not working well for me at the moment. Out of the office for a few days and I’m losing my skills.
“Are you taking the furniture? Do you want to donate any of it? Sell any of it?” She sweeps long fingers to make her point in case I’m still confused.
“I’m not taking anything.” I cringe at the sting in my tone. T.J. doesn’t care about my personal attachments or lack of. She just cares about the commission. “Whatever you think is best for attracting buyers.”
She assesses me the way she assessed the couch and floor-to-ceiling curtains. “He had very elegant taste. The apartment will sell better with the furniture. I’ll offer it with or without. What doesn’t sell can then be sold separately.”
I mumble, “Fine.” Did Thomas tell her whose condo she’s selling? He must have. She’d said “he” and there’s nothing feminine in this place to indicate it could be mine.
I compare my father’s designer-inspired decorating with my anything-goes approach. Maybe I should keep a few of his pieces after all. Except that my apartment is too small to stuff one more thing in and nothing here is waving the pick-me flag.
An hour later, we have a plan. I leave T.J. in the lobby, phone glued to her ear. I have a fleeting thought to ask her if she’d like a job. She could give Howard a lesson or six in efficiency. Not to mention tact.
On the drive back to the Mountain Inn, I’m kept company by half of the Washington, DC, population. My father enjoyed complaining about the sardine rush hours in this area. It’s why he bought a condo within walking distance to his practice and a Metro station.
I’m not one to poke. My apartment is a couple of blocks from the office. The only traffic jam I have to negotiate on the way to work is the Starbucks order and pickup line. People aren’t always friendly waiting for their caffeine fix.
I look at my reflection in the rearview mirror and mutter, “Like you’re any better?”
The cars inch forward. My neighbors look bored or annoyed, tired or frazzled. Some talk to hidden microphones in their cars, some sing along with lyrics audible only in their cocoons, some curse at fellow commuters and mistimed traffic lights.
By the time I pull off the main roads onto the country roads leading to my destination, I’m ready for a drink.
A sign for a winery points in the opposite direction of the Mountain Inn. I flick the blinker and follow the promise of wine from the pouring bottle on the sign.
I find it nestled in the Maryland hills, the neat rows of vines dipping and rolling with the terrain. A wood A-frame structure perches at the top of a hill, the late-afternoon sun bouncing off the wall of windows. A wraparound porch overlooks the rows of vines and an almost empty parking lot.
I pick a table in the corner of the deck and order a cheese plate and a glass of cabernet franc, one of the most ordered, I’m told by a young lady wearing an apron with a picture of smiley-faced grapes and the words “pick me, squeeze me, make me wine.”
My father tried to educate me about the subtleties of wine. I’d failed him there, too. Gin and tonic has always been my favored drink.
I take another sip of wine and look at the picturesque view spreading to the corners of my imagination. Did you ever come here, Dad? It’s beautiful though not nearly as fancy as that vineyard in France he took me to.
The fall of my senior year in college, he’d invited me to join him on a trip to France. We’d stayed at
a chateau and toured several nearby wineries. It was hard to tell if he’d suggested the trip as an attempt to connect with his daughter or as an attempt to educate his daughter. Either way, the trip had been less than a success.
Was there ever a time we were a warm, happy family? The photograph in my father’s condo blinks through the fractured memory of my childhood.
There’s not the slightest hiccup of a memory for that lake house. Or Mom with long hair. No matter how hard I sift through my past, I simply cannot capture any hint of that life. The life I remember is Mom in a pixie cut, her brown hair limp and lifeless. Her face gaunt, her upper body folding in, sheltering the secrets she was protecting.
I pull the stack of letters from my bag and slide the off-white paper out of the top envelope.
November 1996
Dear Edward,
I have to agree, the holidays always come upon us with such force. I’m not sure what the trick is for being prepared.
I’m not a fan of surprises either. But kids love them and I’m delighted that you’re thinking ahead for Emma.
My suggestion—stick to something related to horses. You can’t go wrong.
Yours,
R.
That was the year I got the new saddle.
That saddle was exactly the one I had been eyeing in the catalog. Right size with the stirrups and leathers I’d dog-eared.
Mom always had me write out a wish list, and every year I’d get a couple of things from it. One thing for Hanukkah, one or two for Christmas. Mom had been equal opportunity with the holidays.
The year after she died, I’d made a list. My father hadn’t asked and I hadn’t gotten anything that was on it. Granted, my top item was having my mom back. Second was a horse of my own. I’d gotten a sweater with a horse embroidered on it, a pink diary with puffy hearts on the cover and a small lock to keep those puffy thoughts secret, and a large stuffed horse.
The sweater and diary were shoved into the closet but the horse stayed on my bed. I guess in a way I did get my own horse.
The following year he’d asked in passing if there was anything special I wanted. I’d shrugged and answered, “Nothing special.” The magic of the holiday wish list had been broken.
He’d turned to another holiday elf for help. Hanukkah was forgotten and Christmas had become a minitree already decorated by the florist. Gift ideas were obviously coming from Rena.
Because there’s no question R is Rena. Using an initial is either familiar or coy. She’d played it off that they weren’t on friendly terms. That I believe. I don’t think my father was on friendly terms with many—any?—people.
So that leaves being mysterious as the other option. And that makes no sense.
January 1997
Dear Edward,
Thank you. Your letter couldn’t have been better timed. I desperately needed a good laugh. I think you’re right about that colleague of yours—the toupee won’t solve his dating problems.
Remind me when your next trip is? I’ll be looking forward to hearing how he fared.
Yours,
R.
I reread the letter, stopping at the word “laugh.” I’d never thought of my father as someone with a sense of humor. He’d always been so dry.
I flip through a few envelopes looking for a postscript shortly after, hoping for the next clue to my father’s sense of humor. A stab of hurt pierces my gut. It was supposed to have been me and him. But it never was.
And it never will be.
March 1997
Dear Edward,
For once, I have to disagree with you. Okay, it’s not the first time and I’m sure it won’t be the last. But I disagree.
March is absolutely the worst month. It’s cold and rainy and muddy and gray. I dislike everything about it.
I know April is painful for you and Emma, but for me, it’s the most cheerful of months. Even the rain and mud have a more optimistic feel. The world stops smelling moldy and starts smelling like rebirth.
You can disagree with me—although you know I’m always right—but I think you need to find a new, positive spring tradition for you and your daughter. It’s time to look forward, my friend.
Yours,
R.
“My friend.” More pretense? It makes absolutely no sense that she would hide their friendship from me. Did they think it would upset me? Would it have? The stable was my escape. Would knowing my father had more of a connection have tainted it for me? Maybe not when I was younger, not in those first couple of years. But later, if I’m completely honest with myself, then yes, it probably would have.
June 1993
Dear Edward,
Your last letter broke me to bits. I wish I had the words to make sense of what’s happening or the words to help the healing. I don’t.
You, my friend, have the words for your patients. But you cannot expect to heal yourself with the same words.
I beg of you to reconsider talking to someone—a therapist maybe? Me?
Yours,
R.
A drop falls on the letter and I swipe at my cheek before any others follow the same trajectory.
That was two months before my mom died. No, before she committed suicide.
He’d known it was coming. He’d seen it coming and he’d shared his pain with someone else. He wouldn’t have told me, I was too young, I suppose. It’s not like I didn’t know something bad was happening. I just didn’t know what. I needed him to tell me something, anything. Instead, he chose to talk to someone he barely knew.
The silence in the house during those months had been deafening. She’d looked hollowed out, her body unable to produce more than a whisper, her eyeballs too heavy to see beyond her feet.
For Valentine’s Day, I’d made her a ceramic heart paperweight. While other kids in art class made bowls and mugs, I’d molded and remolded my chunk of clay. My mom’s heart may not have been perfect but I was determined to give her a perfect one.
She’d smiled and said it was the loveliest gift she’d ever received. When my father arrived home, I ran to show him the perfect new heart I’d made for my mom and now she’d have to get better.
He’d said it didn’t work that way.
The words on the letter in front of me blur.
No, Dad, it didn’t work that way. My perfect heart couldn’t fix her any more than your perfect words did. I guess we both failed.
14
May 1992
Emma clutches her backpack over her head and sprints up the driveway, jumping the puddles and squinting through the rain pelting her face. She’d asked Mom where the umbrella was before leaving for school but Mom had waved her out of the house and said the rain wouldn’t dare ruin her plans for the day.
Guess Mom doesn’t have as much influence on Mother Nature as she thought.
The back door is unlocked. She keeps telling her mom to lock the door, but her mom keeps forgetting. Father always has the house locked tight when he’s home and fusses at her mom, who then reminds him that they no longer live in the big, scary city.
Emma drops her backpack by the door and toes out of her wet tennis shoes, then speed-walks upstairs. Running isn’t permitted in the house. Her riding clothes are folded on the desk chair, the bag containing her riding boots propped up next to it. She has the shirt over her head and jeans unbuttoned before she enters her bedroom. She has a riding lesson in an hour and knows Pogo well enough to expect him in a full-body mudpack.
It’s been a couple of months since the trail ride with Jilli. They’d laughed and had fun together. They’d almost been friends.
Jillian is at least acknowledging her on the school bus now even though she pretends Emma is invisible at school. But she’s been hanging around a bit more when Emma is at the stable. Not exactly friends. Not exactly unfriends.
Emma’s dropped trying to be aloof. It wasn’t working and she’s tired of pretending.
She looks at her desk and the white stationery with the purple hor
se on it. The beginning of a letter to Kathy stares back at her. The only words she’s been able to write are “Why aren’t you writing back anymore?”
She crumples the paper. She isn’t going to waste time—or precious stationery—on anyone who doesn’t want to be her friend. Kathy. Jillian. Whatever. She doesn’t need anyone.
Especially now that she has Pogo.
“Mom?”
She stands in the middle of her room, riding breeches pulled up over one leg, and listens. Nothing.
She really doesn’t want to go through the woods today, not with the rain, and was counting on her mom to drive her.
“Mom?” Her voice drops to a loud whisper.
For the last few weeks, she’s come home to find her mom either in the kitchen baking or in the sunroom reading. Maybe her father had been right about moving here after all. Mom has been spending less time in the bedroom, she’s smiling more, engaging more. Even her father seems a bit less starched.
She grabs the brown paddock boots Simon gave her to wear. Jillian had kicked up a fuss, claiming the rich girl’s parents should buy her new ones, but then shrugged, flipped her braid across her shoulder, and walked off with a parting, “Whatever.”
Emma rubs the scuffed toes of the boots. She’d asked for a new pair as a birthday gift.
Dad had said absolutely not. He was already spending far too much money on this horse nonsense. Her mom had found her sitting on the steps to the backyard, cleaning the hand-me-down boots, her tears mixing with the brown shoe polish.
“Does it really mean that much to you, Em?” She’d sat on the top step, their shoulders and knees touching. Mom fingered the zipper on the boots.
Emma had nodded, the words stoppered under a cotton ball of emotion. Why didn’t her parents understand? The horses were her only friends. They didn’t judge her, didn’t look down on her, didn’t look through her.
She’d heard her parents talking that night. It was a week before her birthday. For her birthday she’d gotten a couple of books, a stylish pair of jeans her mom insisted would make her the envy of all the girls—jeans that never left the closet—and a white T-shirt with a pink horse head on it—Emma hated pink. No riding boots.