by Orly Konig
“He let me show one of his mares, Izzy. She was a stunner. Seventeen-hand dapple gray Selle Français. Perfect in every way. When he decided it was time to sell her, I was crushed. He offered her to me at a hell of a price, she would have easily sold for sixty or seventy K. But I was a poor grad student, there was no way I could afford even half that. Not to mention board, and vet, and you know the sob story. So he offered me a full-time job. Board and everything else would be part of the salary.”
“Wow. Nice.”
“Right? Except now I had a dilemma. A highly competitive job in astrophysics or a highly competitive life in the equestrian world. When it came time to pack, I realized I couldn’t stomach the idea of spending my days in a lab staring at computer screens. I turned down the position at Brown and signed my life over to Izzy.”
“Where is she now?” I catch my breath, afraid I’ve opened a sad can of nostalgia.
Ben grins. “She’s retired. Enjoying life as a granddam at a friend’s farm. He’s bred her a few times. Wally is her baby.” He beams like a proud papa.
“And your dad never approved?”
Ben tosses his head from side to side. “Dad’s a space buff. He wanted to brag that his son was doing breakthrough research. He didn’t approve but he didn’t disapprove. Does that make sense?”
I nod.
Ben unlatches the clasp holding the metal gate closed, then lifts the gate enough to swing it past a mound of dirt. I step through and wait for him to close it behind us. The horses we’re after are at the far end of the field and clearly unimpressed with our effort to get them.
I fall back into step next to Ben.
“My parents schlepped all over the U.S. to watch me show. They even went to Germany to cheer me on. Although between us, I think Dad was more drawn to Germany by the beer than the horse show.”
“My father came to three horse shows. My mom didn’t come to any.”
He tries not to look surprised but I can tell he is. The in-gates are always crowded with horse-show moms holding ponies, a towel over their shoulder for that last boot wipe before their babies trot into the ring. Simon and Rena had been there for me. And Jilli, at least at the beginning.
“All three of the shows were within driving distance. Well, within an hour drive. And he brought colleagues. Once it was the dean of the GW medical school whose daughter wanted to ride. Another time it was an editor of one psychology journal or another whose wife was an avid rider. I don’t remember who he brought the third time. I just remember that he’d been sitting in the stands talking to someone when I walked the course. By the time I finished my ride they were gone.”
“Why didn’t your mom ever go? Was she afraid of horses?”
I bite the inside of my lip. “She was sick. She died when I was ten.”
“I’m sorry.”
I nod. It’s the least, and the most, I can do.
The truth is a secret I’m not sure I have the right to uncork.
24
July 1995
It was another hair-melting-hot day. Emma and Jillian spent the day at the stable as usual, helping with the horses and “little kid” lessons. Emma even managed to wiggle herself into helping with a therapeutic session.
“I’m starving. Are you ready to get out of here?” Jillian shifts from one leg to the other and fans herself with a piece of cardboard. “I can’t stand it in here one more minute.”
“We’re not done yet.” Emma scans the chore list Rena had written on the whiteboard earlier. This was their summer “camp”—barn chores for extra riding lessons. And once a week, a long trail ride. They still have to check that the fans in the occupied stalls are turned on and that each horse has fresh water and a salt block. “You do the left side, I’ll do the right. It’ll be faster that way.”
Jillian huffs but moves to the first stall. Soon they’re giggling and trying to outpace each other in and out of stalls. By the time they finish, both are out of breath, dripping with sweat, and laughing.
“Race you to the house.” Jilli bounds out of the barn.
From somewhere behind they hear Simon’s “no running in the barn,” but they’re already halfway across the parking lot to the Winn house. They reach the house and bend over to catch their breath.
Jillian links arms with her as they skip over the paving stones leading to the mudroom. “You know what we should do? Fix sandwiches and eat them in the baby pools. Seriously, I’m so hot. I think I could just sit in cold water all night.”
Emma grins. “I call the seahorse one.”
Jillian pretend glares but can’t hold the look for long. “Oh fine. You’re spending the night, right?”
“I have to ask.”
While Jillian bustles around the kitchen, Emma calls her dad. “Hey, Dad, can I…” She bites her lip and listens, then starts over, “Hello, Dad. May I stay with Jilli tonight?” She scrunches her face at Jillian, who’s pretending to have a conversation with a head of lettuce.
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. But … Of course. Yes. Thank you.” She unravels the phone cord from around her finger and replaces the receiver on its base. She feels the question before she turns and looks at Jilli’s arched eyebrows. “He said yes. But I have to go home after morning barn chores.”
Jillian’s brows and mouth drop. “But tomorrow we’re trail riding.”
“I’ll be back in time.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“What if he doesn’t let you?”
“He will. I just have to work on the essay. Believe me, he doesn’t want me in the house all day. If I’m here, he’s free to go to his office.”
“Okay, good.”
They change into swimsuits and take their dinner outside, balancing sandwiches and chips on plates on top of soda cans. The two baby pools don’t take long to fill and it takes even less time for them to splash in.
Jillian squirms in the shallow water, then sends a spray of water with her foot onto Emma. “I wish we had a pool. A real pool. One you can swim in, not just soak your butt in.”
“Hey, my sandwich.” Emma shifts to protect her dinner. “What did you put in this anyway?”
Jillian beams. “Great, isn’t it? It’s a lasagna sandwich. I added lettuce so that Grandma won’t complain we’re not getting our greens.”
Emma chews slowly. She wouldn’t call this great but it’s not bad. Different. Interesting. Unique. She takes another bite, then licks a glob of cold pasta sauce from her finger. Okay, it’s kinda great. But she’s not sure how much of the great is the actual sandwich and how much of it is eating in the baby pool as the stars fill up the sky above them.
Rena steps out of the house an hour later. “Girls, it’s time to come in.” The screen door slaps shut behind her, startling Romeo, the Winns’ mastiff, who’s finally settled down after splashing through the baby pools and helping himself to sandwich and chip leftovers. He’s wedged between the two baby pools, one paw on the edge of Emma’s pool so that with each move, more water drains out. The smell of wet dog overpowers the potted night jasmine at the edge of the patio.
“Do we have to?” they chorus.
“It’s not like we have to get up early for school tomorrow,” Jilli adds for good measure.
“Yes, you have to. Now up. And drain the water out of those pools. I don’t want to find any animals bobbing around in there tomorrow morning.”
Emma gets up and Romeo takes the opportunity to army crawl into the baby pool.
Rena scrunches her nose. “Dry him off before you let him in the house, please. Bad enough he drools on my pillow, I don’t need wet-dog smell next to me all night.”
“He could sleep with us.” Emma hugs Romeo and he smiles at her, the twisted jowls and exposed canines giving him a goofy, and not entirely friendly, expression.
“No way.” Jillian pushes at his backend. “He snores. And he farts.”
“Because you don’t?” Emma curls her lips and squints, mimicking Romeo’s smile
.
“I hate you.” Jilli kicks a stream of water at her and mock growls in a poodle-ish rather than a mastiff-ish way.
“Okay, okay. Bring it inside.” Rena wraps a towel around each of them, then picks up the plates and empty soda cans.
Jilli takes the first turn in the shower. By the time Emma gets in there, the room is steamed and the hot water is mostly gone. But the water pressure feels good on the top of her head and her shoulders and she ends up standing there, leaning forward and to each side until the water gets cold.
She opens the door of the bathroom, clutching the towel around her. Checking that the coast is clear, she darts for Jillian’s bedroom, pushing the door shut behind her with a relieved whoosh.
Jilli is sitting cross-legged on her bed, her hair freshly braided, her pink boxers and tank horse-print pajamas a striking contrast to the sophisticated Vogue in her lap. She looks up and frowns. “What’s your problem?”
“I thought I heard Simon.”
“So?”
“I’m in a towel?” She grabs tighter as one end slips.
“So?” Jilli repeats with a “duh” shrug-and-head-shake combo.
“He doesn’t need to see me like this.” She bites her lip. Simon has seen her in towels before, in a swimsuit, even a hospital gown. But lately she’s started noticing small changes in her body.
Jilli is a year older but probably three ahead in development. Emma still marvels at the bumps and curves that are taking over her friend. She’s both anxious and terrified to see what nature has in store for her. She wants to ask Jilli about it but she wishes Jilli would start the conversation. This is one of those times she really, really misses her mom.
“Can I borrow a big T-shirt to sleep in?” She moves to the dresser and waits for permission to open the drawer.
Jilli shrugs and flips another page in the magazine. “You never ask. Why are you being so weird?”
“I’m not.” She slips a large shirt over her head, tightening her grip on the towel with her free hand, then letting it slide as the T-shirt drops over her butt. She feels Jilli’s eyes on her, then the heat of a flush.
“Jeez you’re a spaz. Sit, I want to show you something.” She scoots over to make room for Emma, shoves the open magazine in her lap, and taps at a picture. “Look at that. Isn’t it perfect? Someday I’m going to wear a dress like that.”
Emma looks at the picture and murmurs that it is beautiful but it’s not barn attire. Jilli huffs at her lack of fashion sense.
“Look at how it shows off her boobs. And that slit up her leg.” Jillian stretches her left leg and points her toes, making the muscles in her calf and thigh stand out.
“You don’t have boobs like that.”
“I will.” She cups the small mounds and pushes them together. “I will, you’ll see.”
Emma rounds her back to create more space between her mini-bumps and the fabric of the shirt.
Footsteps announce Simon’s arrival. “Bedtime, girls. Lights out and Chat buttons to the Off position.”
They crawl under the summer blankets. The beds are at a right angle to each other, Jilli’s is under the window with the big tree in front of the house, and what everyone refers to as Emma’s bed is under the window that faces the barn. She likes sitting up in the morning and looking at the barn first thing. Sometimes at night when she can’t sleep but Jilli can, she takes comfort in the nearness of the barn.
The house settles around them. They hear a muffled discussion across the hall, then footsteps as someone—Rena by the sound of it—goes downstairs, then comes back up. More discussion and Rena’s laughter.
“What’s wrong?” Jilli’s voice is a whisper, barely louder than the hiss of the air-conditioning.
“Nothing.” She pulls in a sniffle, hoping to mask it under a loud, fake yawn.
“Don’t BS me, Toad.” Jilli only calls her that when she’s trying to channel Simon’s authority.
Emma releases air through clenched teeth. “It’s just hearing your grandparents. There’s never muffled talking in my house. Or laughing. You get used to the silence. Most of the time it doesn’t bother me.” She nibbles on the fatty part of the ring finger on her left hand to stop the rest of the thought from pouring out.
A hand reaches from the dark and tugs at Emma’s. “Don’t do that.”
“Sorry.”
“Why do you do it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t mean to.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
“No. Yes. Sometimes.”
“Is that why you do it?”
“No.” The answer is quick and sharp and stings Emma’s mouth coming out. She never really thinks about it. It’s just something she started doing at some point.
It wasn’t really “at some point.” She knows exactly when she started. It was the night her mom had been taken to the hospital that first time, when they still lived in Baltimore. She’d been so scared. She’d wanted to cry, scream, but she couldn’t. Her father had told her to be strong. So every time the urge to cry or scream built inside, she chewed the skin at the edge of her nail. Just that one finger, just that little fatty part, just enough to distract her.
The fact that it drove her dad crazy became a bonus.
“Do you think you could stop?”
She’d intended to stop. Even thought she had stopped. But then she’d get upset or nervous or scared and snip, rip, there went the skin.
“Probably. Not.”
“You’re such a spaz.”
They dissolve into laughter that gets louder when a loud “Girls!” barrels down the hallway. They change the subject, talking about horses and school and plans for the rest of the summer. They talk about the essay Emma has to write, her father’s idea to keep her mind engaged during the summer break.
The quiet time between topics gets longer and longer. Her eyes are heavy and she’s tired from the effort of talking.
“Hey, Em.”
“Mmm…”
“You know you’re not alone, right? You have me now. All of us actually. Maybe that’ll be enough to help you stop?”
“Mmm…” She releases herself to the comfort of the family she adopted. And sleep.
25
Tiger cat escorts me down the front path of the Mountain Inn. I set the suitcase down and kneel to pet him. He arches his back and rubs on my leg, tail high in the air.
“So today you decide I’m okay? Or are you here just to make sure I’m really leaving?”
He turns and gives a small hop, rubbing against my other leg.
“Silly cat. I’m actually going to miss you.” I rub behind his ears. “You behave. Keep Lucy in line, will ya?” He bumps me, then, tail twitching, saunters off. I’ve been dismissed.
I load up the rental car and mumble a good-bye to the inn. Thomas had been right about booking me here after all. But I have to admit that I’m rather excited about spending a few nights in the apartment above the barn. It always seemed so romantic to live up there and be close to the horses. Of course, I was younger then and a bit more horse crazy than I am now. At least younger.
On the drive to the hospital, I rehearse my questions. How long had she been in touch with my father? If they’d made peace, why not be up-front with me? Why dodge the truth about the letters?
A pleasant volunteer at the information desk points me to the cardiac wing. The closer I get to Rena’s room number, the slower my steps become. What if she gets upset and has a heart attack? I have to ask the questions. She’s the only person who can help me piece together what I don’t know about my own family. Please don’t let her get upset and have a heart attack.
I stop at Rena’s room and gently knock. The door is open just enough that I can see the foot of the bed. Simon’s voice tells me to come in and I give the door a nudge. His eyes dart from me to Rena and back to me. He smiles, a tight, tired smile, and motions for me to enter. I release a lungful of anxiety and step into the hospital room.
In my mind, I’
d pictured Rena sitting in bed, bossing everyone around. That was the Rena I was going to confront for answers. The woman in the hospital bed is old and frail, sick. She watches me take a couple of tentative steps into the room. She doesn’t encourage me forward or scowl me away, just watches.
Simon gets up and drags a second chair closer to the bed. “Come sit. Ben says you’re doing great with the lessons.”
“It’s going okay.”
“You’ve extended your stay.” Rena’s voice wobbles and I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement. “And staying in the vacant apartment.” It wasn’t a question.
I take a step back, wanting to undo the decision to come here, but Simon puts a hand on my back and nudges me to the chair.
“It makes sense for her to stay in that apartment, Rena.” He waits for me to sit before grunting into the chair next to mine.
Rena gives one slow nod.
A card on the side table catches my eye. There’s a horse on the front, the saddle on the horse’s belly, and the rider sitting on the ground with the words, “Hope you’re back in the saddle soon.”
“Did you know my father used to draw horses?” It’s not the question I’d planned to ask or even the question I most need an answer to. But the fact that she knows more about my father pushes it to the firing line.
Rena squints as though trying to bring something into focus. “Yes.”
I’m not surprised and yet I’m utterly shocked.
I pull the gray linen notebook from my purse. She stares at the unassuming book, the creases in her face becoming more pronounced. I open the book and place it on her lap.
“He was quite talented.”
“Yes, he was. Mom was the one who drew pictures for me when I was little. He never would. Said he didn’t draw. There are other sketch pads but those are of people.”
She nods.
The flap of the thick paper as I turn the pages fills the gaps between the beeping of machines.