by Orly Konig
“Tell that to my muscles. Nothing works the way it should.”
Ben chuckles. “You can’t expect to get on a horse after that long and have it be perfect.”
I shrug.
“You don’t know how to do something if it’s not perfect, do you?”
Another shrug. He’s right, of course. And that makes me more uncomfortable than the chaps biting into my thighs.
If I was perfect, I’d be in the office right now. I’d know what the all-hands meeting was about. I’d be making damn sure I wasn’t on that list HR would be contacting.
If I was perfect, I would have had a closer relationship with my father.
Ben leads the way from the ring. “Come on, time to relax a bit.”
I wonder if he means me or the horses. Both, most likely.
The horses stretch their necks and settle into a steady, comfortable walk. My body sways with the motion of Wally’s long stride, the movement familiar, soothing.
The path winds away from the barn, across the field, around a pond, and into the woods. How many times had I ridden this very trail? I look to the right, where wood planks create a jump between the two properties.
We’d canter through the field, break into a trot through this patch of woods, then take the path to the right, over the jump and canter up the hill. Jack hated that coop. Every time we’d break into the woods, he’d arch his neck and snort a warning to the boogieman he was convinced resided in the woods. But he never spooked and never refused.
“That coop scares the crap out of me.”
I look to my left, surprised to find Ben next to me.
“I always loved it. There’s such a feeling of freedom coming out of the dark of the woods, pushing the horse forward for the last two strides, and flying into the open field.”
“Simon said you lacked the fear gene.”
“I wish that were true.”
“What are you afraid of, Emma Metz?”
“Making the wrong decision.” The words come out without my realizing they were there. They fall, heavy and out of place among the swishing of the leaves and the delicate trill of the birds around us.
“You don’t seem the type to make bad decisions. Or doubt yourself.”
“It’s all an illusion. Years of perfecting the Edward Metz approach to success.”
“That’s your dad?”
“Was.”
Ben nods but I’m not sure if it’s in acknowledgment or an understanding of what I didn’t say.
We arrive at a fork, and Ben turns Lulu to the left. I don’t recognize the path but both horses continue quietly and I manage to relax under the playful light of the sun playing peek-a-boo through the leaves.
“Where does this trail go?”
“It’s the long way back.” Ben grins at me.
Instinctively I glance at my watch and Ben barks a laugh.
“Were you always this uptight? Or is that what being in the corporate world does to you?”
I bristle despite the easy lilt of his voice and wide smile. “I’m not uptight.” His smile broadens and I add a grumbled, “Okay, maybe a little.”
“Oh relax. You’re stressing the Wall-man.”
He’s right. Wally’s head has come up and his strides have gotten bouncier. I take three long, steady breaths and wiggle my fingers to release the tension. I focus on the dappled light and silently count the four beats of the walk, allowing my body to sync with the sway of Wally’s body.
The horses scramble up a dry riverbank and I’m surprised when the barn appears ahead of us.
“I can’t believe we’re back already.”
Ben pulls Lulu to a stop and hops off. I reach down to pat Wally’s neck, delaying the moment I have to dismount.
“We were out for over two hours.”
“Seriously?” I practically give myself whiplash looking at my watch. When was the last time that happened?
At the yarn barn a few days ago.
Maybe Emmitsville has something going for it after all.
Sure it does. Horses and heartbreak.
16
November 1992
“Hey Ems, you’re coming for Thanksgiving dinner, right?”
“I don’t know,” she mumbles into Pogo’s side, pushing her shoulder into him so he lifts his leg. Picking hooves is one job she hates.
“Why?” Jillian is now standing behind her.
“You know my father, he’s not big on tradition. And Mom hasn’t been feeling well.”
“Even more reason to come, then she doesn’t have to cook. I’ll tell Grandma to talk to her.”
“I don’t know.” She doesn’t bother to tell Jilli that her mom doesn’t cook anyway. Holiday meals come from the gourmet market in town.
Her mom has been more encouraging of her time at the barn since Simon and Jillian came after she broke her arm. She thinks it’s sweet that Emma is making friends. Even her father has been less grumpy about her boots in the entry or the pages and pages of horse doodles on the legal notepads from his office. He’s even complimented one of her drawings. She immediately tacked that one on the wall in her bedroom.
“Don’t you two have homework?” Simon’s voice carries down the barn aisle.
“Yes, Grandpa. We’re almost done,” Jilli hollers back and grins at Emma. “We should get going before he sends Grandma after us.”
They get the winter blankets onto the horses and sneak an extra flake of hay into each stall. Huddled together under a fleece cooler that had been hanging on Pogo’s stall door, they trudge through the slush left over from the previous night’s surprise snow.
“Do you want hot cocoa?” Jilli asks the moment they’re inside the house. She pulls two mugs from the cabinet without waiting for Emma to respond.
“Okay, thanks.” Emma pulls school books and homework from her backpack and arranges them on the kitchen table. She feels the prickle of being watched. She turns, self-conscious. “What?”
“Nothing. Why?” Jillian hands her a mug of cocoa with tiny marshmallows bobbing in it.
“You were staring.”
“I was not. Okay, I was.”
“So? What?”
“Why don’t you ever want your parents here?”
Emma pokes at a marshmallow, then sticks her finger in her mouth. It’s not that she doesn’t want them here. She does. Except she kinda likes that this place is hers without their interfering. “I don’t know.”
“Yes you do.”
Emma blows on her mug, sending the mini white lumps scattering. “I did, do, want them to come. Sometimes. But now, I don’t know. It’s just that my family isn’t like yours. They don’t fit here. And I like fitting in here. I guess I sorta feel like I wouldn’t anymore if they were around.”
“That’s stupid. Your parents aren’t you, you know. Jeez, if that was the case, I’d be a goner.” She rolls her eyes dramatically and launches into a chair at the kitchen table.
“Your family is perfect.” Emma sits in front of her stacks and repositions a couple of books that Jilli bumped during her descent.
Jilli laughs. But to Emma, it sounds fake. She’s heard that laugh before but usually from adults who want you to think they find something funny but really don’t.
Emma takes a verbal tiptoe into a topic that’s been mostly off-limits with Jilli. She feels bolder since Jilli started the discussion. “Will your mom be here for Thanksgiving?”
Jilli gulps her cocoa with loud swallows and fishes out a last stubborn marshmallow. “Nah, not after the fight she had with Grandma last time she was home.”
Jilli takes both mugs and puts them in the sink. She returns to the table and grabs her school bag. Out come books, pencils, composition notebooks, and random loose-leaf pages. From inside one of the black-and-white composition notebooks she removes an orange envelope and hands it to Emma. “Read.”
Emma slips out a card with a puppy wearing heart-shaped sunglasses on the front and, barely holding on to the edges, lets it fa
ll open. She’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to read it but she’s dying to know what’s inside. She’s only seen Jillian’s mom a couple of times and no one talks about her when she’s not here.
My dear Jilli,
Isn’t that puppy adorable? I wish I could send you a real one instead. I wish I could be with you for the holidays but I’ve got a great new gig that’s going to make enough cash that I’ll be able to send for you. Think about it—winter break on the beach. Just you and me, kiddo. Won’t that be awesome?
Be good for your grandparents and don’t believe everything you hear about me.
You’re my babydoll!!!
Love,
Mom
Emma chews the inside of her lip as she tries to make sense of the note. She’s not much closer to really understanding the inner workings of Jilli’s family but she’s oddly comforted to know she doesn’t have the only screwed-up family. She slips the card back into the envelope and hands it to Jillian. She tries to think of what to say, what to ask, but all she can come up with is, “The beach would be so amazing. You’re lucky.”
It takes a couple of long minutes before Jilli answers. Emma is sure she’s messed everything up and they won’t be invited to Thanksgiving now.
“There won’t be a beach trip. There never is. She always has some brilliant plan but none ever work out. More likely, Grandpa will end up flying to wherever she is to bail her out.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“Yup.” Jilli stiffens and shoves the card into her backpack. “We have homework. Grandma will be PO’ed if she comes home and we’re not done.”
“At least she cares, Jilli. My parents only pay attention when report cards come home.”
They’re quiet for a while, except for papers rustling and pencils tapping the table. They both look up when Simon walks into the kitchen, bringing with him a gust of cold air through the back door.
“It’s bloody cold out there. I’ll drive you home when you’re ready, Toad. Too cold for you to walk.” He stamps his feet on the inside mat, sending mud and snow spattering across the floor.
The muddy pattern mesmerizes Emma. Simon takes a large step to avoid a newly formed puddle, then with one foot he pushes a towel that’s been sitting on the floor by the door. Emma pictures herself walking into her own house and doing that. Nope. Boots would be removed before entering. And there would never be a towel left like that on the floor.
She closes her writing notebook and files it under Math and Spelling, then takes her social-science notebook and slips it into place ahead of Spelling.
Jilli laughs, a real one this time. “You’re such a goon.”
“Hey.” Emma laughs and flicks Jilli’s notebook shut. “You could learn a few things from me about being organized.”
“And you could learn a few things from me about being spontaneous.” They toss a discarded assignment-turned-ball at each other.
“Spontaneous.” The word sounds exotic in Simon’s accent. “Big word, Skinny Breeches.” A large hand reaches between them and plucks the crumpled paper ball in midflight.
“It’s the word of the day on my calendar. Give me a break.” Jilli pulls a pout that sends both girls into giggles.
Simon shakes his head, his smile growing with each sideways pass. “I’m going to warm up the truck. Don’t be long.”
“I’ll talk to my parents about Thanksgiving. It would be nice to spend it here with you.” Emma tucks her head into the scarf she’s been wrapping and rewrapping around her neck. She hopes Jilli doesn’t notice the flush of her cheeks. Even though they’ve been friends for seven months, since Emma’s broken arm, she still feels shy.
Their friendship is different from the one she had with Kathy, who hasn’t written since the get-better-soon card that she’d only signed, not one additional word of encouragement or friendship in her flowery handwriting. Her friendship with Jilli feels more grown-up.
“Come on, I’m going with.” Jilli hops to her side, shoving her arms into one of Rena’s coats at the same time. She looks like a kangaroo. “Hey, Ems, I’m glad you moved next door. You’re the sister I always wished I had.”
Emma feels warm inside her winter coat and scarf. Warm and happy. “I’m glad we moved next door, too.”
Jilli sticks her pinky out and wraps it around Emma’s. “Horse-and-heart sisters. Way better than blood relatives. We’ll never hurt each other.”
17
I wake to the cheerful chirping outside my window. Damn birds are up too early. They don’t get up this early in Chicago.
I hug a pillow to my chest and will the dream to return. Five more minutes of fantasizing about Wally and Ben. No, Wally. I’m not fantasizing about Ben. Well, maybe a little. But only about riding with him.
Last night after cooling the horses off, Ben invited me to stay and eat with him. Nothing fancy, he’d said. Not a date, he’d insisted.
The “nothing fancy” had turned out to be chips, a bowl of homemade guacamole, and a couple of cold Dos Equis.
The “not a date” turned into a fun evening discussing horses. I’ve been telling myself I didn’t miss that world, that I didn’t need it. It’s all been a lie. I did miss it. It felt so easy being there. Not to mention being around someone who wasn’t expecting anything from me. I didn’t have to be perfect. Didn’t have to measure every word. Didn’t even have to wonder if we’d end up in bed.
Not that ending up in bed with him would be a bad thing under different circumstances.
I stretch and wince. No, no need to worry about the awkward morning after. Only a sore one.
For someone who tackles spin classes like a rabid hamster, I’m amazed at how cranky my muscles are this morning. Then again, a spin bike isn’t shaped like a barrel.
Maybe Ben’s right: I do need to start riding again. I’m sure I can find a good stable back home.
In the meantime, I have a few more days here. I could probably fit in another ride or two. Maybe even a lesson. I squeeze my eyes shut while my toes flex and curl in an imaginary canter. It would be pretty amazing to jump again.
Except that’s not why I’m here. I groan and flop back into the softness of the bed.
T.J. hasn’t contacted me yet about the condo. Radio silence from Thomas about signing the rest of the legal papers. Those are the reasons I’m in Emmitsville.
At the office I’m the deadline queen. When there’s a project to complete, I’m the one who pushes all the boulders to the finish line. I even followed our corporate lawyer into the men’s room once to get his sign-off on a press release.
I don’t sit around and wait. So why am I waiting now?
I sit up and reach for my phone. I call Thomas Adler and get his voice mail. Same result with T.J. The clock on the bedside table reminds me that it’s not even 8 A.M. yet. That’s no excuse. Okay, maybe a small one.
I fire up the laptop and scan through my inbox. After the diarrhea of urgent messages the first couple of days, we’ve gone to hard-core e-mail constipation.
Nothing from Bruce or Howard. Even Anita has disappeared into the black hole of in-the-know.
And I am clearly out-of-the-know.
How the hell did I let that happen?
I grab the notepad with the to-do list I’d started. Underneath it is my father’s drawing pad. Like a suicidal moth, I open the notebook and turn the pages, my fingers barely grazing the paper. Though most of the faces he drew are strangers’, there’s something familiar in each one.
I scribble a note to call his office at a more worker-friendly hour. His office manager may be able to shed some light on whether these people were clients.
The intricacy of his sketches makes the faces come alive. Some look at me, others past me. Some have a secret they can’t wait to share, others implore me to turn the page and leave them alone.
“Why didn’t you draw me? Or Mom?” I hover at one drawing, the face more familiar than the others.
The computer beeps with a meeting remind
er. The weekly senior-leadership staff meeting. I dial the standing conference-call number. An automated voice tells me that the number has been changed. I text Bruce and fight down a growing sense of unease as the seconds tick by without a response. When I can’t hold my breath any longer, I call Sue, Bruce’s assistant.
“Hi, Emma,” she greets me after the second ring.
“Hey, Sue. I can’t dial in to the staff call. Can you please transfer me in?”
Through the distance of several states, I hear her muffled response to someone in the office. I should be there. Not here. I should be the one standing in front of her desk. Not breathing into a cell phone waiting for a response.
“I’m sorry, Emma. It’s a closed meeting this time. You’re back next week though, right?”
“Yes. But come on, Sue, you know this is torture for me.”
She mumbles a thank-you to someone.
“Sue?”
“Yes, sorry. It’s just really busy right now.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. I should be in that blender of activity. “I gathered that. What was with the all-hands meeting?”
“I really can’t get into that right now. I need to go, Emma. We’ll see you on Monday.”
“I can’t wait until Monday. I’ll lose my mind by then.”
She chuckles but it’s tight and humorless. “Put that angst toward that lawyer of your dad’s.”
“Can you just tell me if it’s bad news?”
The hesitation sends the caterpillars in my stomach on a stampede and I slap my hand over my mouth to stop the sudden urge to wretch.
“It’s going to work out, Emma. Right now, you need to focus on yourself. You’ve had a huge loss and you need this time to heal. We’ll see you on Monday.”
She doesn’t give me the chance to argue that I need to focus on work, not healing. The line goes silent and I’m left with the echo of her words: It’s going to work out.
* * *
The barn appears deserted when I arrive. But there are a few cars in the parking lot and at least one wash stall has evidence of recent use.
I walk down the aisle and peek into the stalls standing open. Sawdust bedding evenly spread, fluffy and inviting. A single flake of hay, loosened just enough for easy munching. Brass nameplates nailed on the sliding doors gleam in the soft light of the barn.