by Orly Konig
“Didn’t feel like braiding. It’s too cold.” Jillian sips at her hot chocolate, steam twisting out in taunting spirals. Emma has the urge to dunk her frozen fingers into the mug.
“How can you show an unbraided horse? It’s so unprofessional.”
Jillian shrugs. “I’m not showing him in the hunter classes. It doesn’t matter.”
“Rena will be furious.”
“So? What’s the worst thing she can do? Tell me I’m not going?”
“Why are you being like this?” Emma stuffs her numb hands into her armpits, anything to find a bit of warmth.
Jillian lifts her braid and studies the ends, fanning the strands between her thumb and index finger. A petulant stubbornness washes over her face, a look Emma is seeing more and more these days. And liking less and less.
“Ladies.” The word thunders through the sleeping barn. “Why aren’t the tack trunks loaded? Tolstoy’s legs aren’t bandaged and his mane hasn’t been braided. And, Jillian, those boots are not show-clean.”
Jillian seems to shrink but teenage stubbornness roots her to the spot. “We’re only going down the road. They don’t need bandages for such a short trip. Takes longer to wrap than the damn drive there.”
Rena stops dragging the trunks out of the tack room, the sudden silence too loud in the sleeping barn.
“Don’t you ever use that language in front of me, and I don’t care if you’re trailering a horse to the end of the driveway or across the country, he should always have shipping wraps.”
Jillian shrugs, a move that makes Emma cringe, anticipating the lightning zap from Rena.
“Emma, finish up. I’ll get the tack loaded. Jillian, I’m scratching you from the show.”
“You can’t do that,” Jillian shrieks, startling Taylor, who tosses her head up, unbalancing Emma.
“I can. And I am.” Holding Emma’s saddle and Taylor’s bridle over her left arm, Rena turns on the heels of her spit-shined paddock boots and walks to where the back of the trailer blocks the exit to the stable.
Jilli stomps to regain the attention. “Wait until my mom hears about this. She’s going to be livid.”
“Livid? She has no right to be livid about anything.” Rena turns for a stare-down with her granddaughter. “Your mom’s mom owns this place. And if your mom was here, I’d tell her the same thing I’m telling you. Until you fix that attitude, you’re not riding for me. Now go home.”
Jillian huffs, pushes herself off the wall, and shoots lasers from her grandmother to her best friend. Emma shrinks behind the protective barrier of her horse. Rena responds with an I-dare-you line of her eyebrows.
Emma whispers, “Come on, Jilli. I’ll help you get Tolstoy ready. Come on. Please?” She hears the plea in her own voice and hopes her friend will soften to it.
“No. I don’t need this shit. She doesn’t give a crap if I’m there. You’re her golden child.” The resentment in Jillian’s eyes knocks the air out of Emma’s lungs.
Tears sting her eyes. “That’s not true. We’re H and H sisters, Jilli. I need you there.”
“You don’t need me. You have my horse and my grandmother.”
“That’s not fair.”
Emma melts under the blaze of Jillian’s teenage fury. “Not fair? Is it fair that they gave you the perfect horse who wins every class she’s entered in? Is it fair that you always get what you want because everyone is afraid to upset you? ‘Poor little Emma, her mom is dead and her dad is an ass,’” Jillian singsongs.
She wants to rail back at Jillian. She wants to yell that it was Jilli who’d suggested she start showing Taylor. She wants to argue that she doesn’t have Rena, she doesn’t have any grandparents. And she wants to scream that she’s not poor little Emma.
But while Jilli is free with her emotions and outbursts, Emma can’t release that part of herself.
“Enough.” The stamp of Rena’s boot scatters the arguments from both girls. “Jillian, you are to leave this minute and not return to the barn until we’ve spoken about your behavior.”
Jillian gives her grandmother one last defiant glare, then turns to Emma. “Good luck today. For your sake, I hope you win. It would be such a shame for you to land in the losers’ pit with me.”
* * *
Emma never fully warms up that day. Even when the temperature bumps up enough that the horses no longer look like smoke-breathing dragons, she keeps shivering despite the horse blanket draped around her shoulders. She places first in three of her four classes and second in the fourth. But the day’s success feels hollow.
The drive home is worse than the drive there. Rena tries for an enthusiastic discussion, which fizzles faster than an open bottle of soda.
Jillian isn’t at the stable when they arrive. She doesn’t answer the doorbell when Emma goes to the house. The house phone rings and rings even though Emma knows she’s there.
Emma spends the rest of the weekend hiding at home. The pull of the barn holds an unfamiliar current of anxiety. She wants to see Jillian and clear the air. And she really, really needs the comfort of the horses. But what if the resentment she’d seen in Jillian’s face is still there? Is it possible that Jilli honestly feels she’s pushed her out of the spotlight? Emma doesn’t want to be in the spotlight, she just wants to ride, to be good at something. No, she wants to be great at something. She wants to win her dad’s attention. But not at the expense of her best friend. She’s never tried to one-up Jillian. Never.
Emma had been perfectly happy riding Stormy. They’d been at a show and Jilli set her determination on buying Tolstoy. It was time for her to have a true jumper, a horse who would win, and Tolstoy was the one. She said Taylor would be the perfect next step for Emma.
She was right. At least about Taylor and Emma.
While Emma and her hand-me-down horse win most of the classes they enter, Jillian and her fancy mount struggle to connect with each other.
And somehow it’s Emma’s fault.
She tries talking to her dad about it but he just brushes it off as a teenage-girl mood swing and turns back to his newspaper.
By late afternoon, she can’t stand the deafening volume of her own doubts. She bundles up and trudges through the thick mud until she reaches the property line.
She leans against the fence, watching the horses graze. She can’t bring herself to walk up the hill to the barn but she also can’t bring herself to leave. The sun disappears behind the hills and she shudders deeper into her winter coat.
She twists to look at the path back to her house. She should probably be getting home to make dinner. Her father has been in his home office all day. She’d asked in a roundabout way if they were going out to eat. They never did, but a part of her still hopes that one day he’ll surprise her, that a perfect report card or top ribbons at a show will be rewarded with a father-daughter date.
“What are you doing down here, Toad?”
Emma looks up into the shadow. “Just hanging and watching the horses.”
“Why here though? It’s freezing.” Simon zips his coat all the way, then pushes his hand back into the glove. He tucks his chin inside the coat and his wool hat covers his ears, like a knight hiding behind a rampart of a fortified wall. Emma doubts he’ll be able to save her this time.
“Dunno. Didn’t really feel like coming to the barn.”
“Ah yes. I spoke to Rena yesterday after the show. I know what happened. Want to talk about it?”
She feels his eyes on her and wishes she’d worn a hat and scarf to hide in.
“Hey, Simon.” She has to ask, knowing he’ll give her an honest answer. “Do you think my father is a, an … a bad guy?”
She tried to say “ass,” wants to taste the word on her tongue, see how it feels to call her dad that, feel the power that Jillian commanded. But she can’t, not to Simon at least.
“I don’t think he’s bad,” he answers too quickly.
“But you don’t think he’s a good father.” It’s not a questi
on and the look on Simon’s face tells her she’s right.
“Do people tiptoe around me because they’re afraid to upset me?”
He takes longer to answer this time. “Sometimes. Not as much now.”
She wishes she could un-ask that last question. “I need to get back.” She turns, keeping her head high until the woods swallow her from sight. Only then does she allow the tears to come, but she won’t look back. She doesn’t want to see sympathy in his eyes. She doesn’t want people feeling sorry for her. She doesn’t need people feeling sorry for her.
What she does need, wants actually, is to yell, scream, throw a hissy fit. She wants to let out the years of hurt and anger and fear.
She wants understanding, not sympathy.
28
“Great lesson, Alex.” I smile at the kid on the bay pony. “Keep it up, bud.”
The nine-year-old grins, then turns to where his mom leans against the entrance to the indoor arena.
“Do you really have to leave tomorrow?” he asks, and I feel the weight of the request in the expectant quiet.
“Rena should be back to teaching soon.” I hope. “I think Jillian will be teaching you until then.” I force the corners of my mouth up.
“Why can’t you stay, Emma? Don’t you love it here?” The nine-year-old emphasis on love tugs at my heart.
I’d tucked my return to Chicago in the back of my mind where it couldn’t interfere with the almost-peace I’ve lulled my nerves into.
Over the last three days, a new Emma has emerged. The fancy clothes I came in are folded in the suitcase, replaced by breeches and boots. My laptop and iPhone are mostly idle, my fingers busier with reins and crochet needles than a computer keyboard.
I’d taken the five hundred dollars to Mark, and the black pony is now officially mine. Jilli had fussed at me about the money, said I should take far less to him and he’d never counter, but I couldn’t. That pony’s life is worth more than five hundred dollars. Despite the public stink over the rescue pony, I’ve caught glimpses of Jilli sneaking extra food to both of them. Whatever crusty shell she wants others to see, inside, horses are still her weak spot.
While the anxiety of career turmoil has hummed in the background, its presence has become more white noise than burning pressure.
I adjust my wool hat, pulling it down over my ears. Ceila will be happy to know that I made the pattern she’d given me. Although it wasn’t as piece-of-cake as she’d promised. It took four false starts before I got the magic ring to work its magic, and my counting skills failed somewhere around row twenty-six. The end result isn’t exactly what the picture shows and my head isn’t quite large enough, but I’m proud of my accomplishment nonetheless. It’s part of the mellower Emma, the Jumping Frog Farm Emma.
Every morning here starts the same. Coffee on the front porch with Ben and Tony, watching the fog release the hills and the shadows of the night make way for the brilliance of October days.
Few words are exchanged. Not the awkward avoidance of discussion of my Chicago life.
And when did I begin compartmentalizing—Chicago life versus Emmitsville life?
Tomorrow I return to that other life.
I watch Alex hop off, loosen the girth, then lead the pony to the stable.
You have a job to return to.
A job I’ve thought about very little in the last few days. I’ve checked messages, even responded to a couple, but the deluge of calls and e-mails from those first days has eased to a pinging trickle. And my need to check has eased to an afterthought. So why shouldn’t I stay?
Because your life is in Chicago.
What life? My we’re-here-for-you-anytime friends haven’t called to find out why I haven’t returned, and not even a “hey, how are you, how about our date” from John.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Yet, Lucy called yesterday with an invite to join today’s Hookers’ meeting. She said Ceila had been asking after me and tsk-tsking that I hadn’t been back to The Spinning Ewe. I’d turned her down. I had lessons to teach. They offered an evening Hookers’ meeting instead, but my last night in Emmitsville belongs to Jumping Frog Farm.
* * *
I give Alex a hug and get a pinky promise from him that he’ll continue to work hard. Don’t you love it here? The question echoes in my heart as I watch the taillights of his mother’s SUV blink good-bye.
Tucked into a sweatshirt, I curl up in my favorite Adirondack chair, the bag of yarn next to me. I’ve unraveled the scarf so many times that the wool has started rebelling. An owl hoots in the distance and I close my eyes as though that simple act will trap the memory forever.
Someone settles into the chair next to me.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself. I thought you were sleeping.” Ben’s voice is muddy, like the thickening sky.
“Listening.”
“To what?”
“The evening.” The horses quieting down, the air settling, the night coming alive. “Did you hear the owl? My father loved them.”
The owl answers with another mellow hoot.
“I used to find my father sitting on the back patio, a tumbler of scotch in one hand, his glasses in the other. Around this hour, sometimes later. Most of the time he didn’t even know I was there. I guess that’s the thing about living in a house weighed down by depression, you learn to disappear into the background. I was good at being invisible.”
“Depression? Your father?”
“Mother. Although they always said she had heart problems.” I open my eyes, a memory clicking into place. “That’s not true. It was only him. He was the one who insisted she had a bad heart.”
Ben doesn’t answer. But the owl does.
“I asked my father once what he was listening to. He said the owls. He said they were the best part of living out here. I wonder if he missed them when he moved to the condo.”
“Do you miss her?”
“Mom? No.”
Ben doesn’t hide his surprise.
“Yes but no. I know that doesn’t make sense. I miss the idea of her. I miss little things like the way she used to rake her fingers through her hair from the base up then let it drop like a fan. Or the way she’d curl up in the corner of the couch and raise the end of the throw for me to crawl under with her. Or the way she’d make circles with her thumb against the tip of her middle finger when she was thinking about something.
“But no, I don’t miss the sobbing coming from her room or having to tiptoe around so god-forbid I disturb her during one of her episodes. And I don’t miss the guilt that somehow I was responsible.”
“How could you have been responsible? Depression is a disease, not a cold she would have caught from a sniffling kid.”
“Tell that to a kid. But it was the way my father wouldn’t—couldn’t—look at me that convinced me I was to blame.”
“Tell me about your father.”
“What about him?” I pull myself higher in the chair and square my shoulders for another bumpy trip down memory lane.
He shrugs, an open invitation for me to answer whatever question I can.
“Done deal.”
“What is?”
“Everything. His patients have been handed off to other psychiatrists. His condo is under contract. Some lucky schmuck will find a whole lotta fancy suits at Goodwill. There was nothing left of the car. Or of him.”
“You.”
“Me what?”
“You’re left of him.”
“How ironic. The one thing he never really cared about is the one thing that will survive from him.”
“You don’t really believe he didn’t care?”
“Moot point. I did everything possible to matter to him, to please him. Guess I’m now free to do whatever I please.” That freeing thought paralyzes me. I’ve been making my own choices, doing what I want. Except that every move and every decision was made with the calculated anticipation of how my father would react.
Now the
daddy-boulder has been lifted from my self-doubt and I don’t trust my legs to know the right direction.
“What do you want to do?”
I shrug. It’s the most honest answer I can come up with.
“Does that mean you’re considering staying?”
A rumbling laugh ricochets up my throat. “Rena is home from the hospital tomorrow. That means Jillian will be taking over. And that means it’s time for me to return to Chicago.”
“Interesting.” Ben smirks.
“What’s interesting?”
“You said go back to Chicago.”
“I live there.”
“You didn’t say go back home.”
“Word choice, Ben, just word choice.”
“Sure it is.” His smirk broadens and he slouches deeper into the chair.
“Hey, boss, can you come take a look at Jack?” Tony calls from behind us, the urgency in his voice freezing the already cold evening air.
Ben shoots up as though scalded by the chair and disappears into the barn.
I’m a split second behind but by the time I get there, Ben is already in Jack’s stall and running his hands over the horse’s belly.
“What’s wrong?” The words are sticky in my mouth.
“Colic. Tony, get Doc Marshall over here. Now. And if he’s not available, call Dr. Buchman.”
The black horse groans, nips at his belly, and then folds his front legs to lie down.
“Oh no you don’t. Up, up. You are not going to die on me.” Ben taps the horse’s legs to keep him standing.
Heat courses through my insides. I’d helped with a couple of the horses who had colic when I was young. I remember the hours walking them, making sure they don’t roll and their intestines don’t twist. I remember being on poop watch, making sure things start working properly on the inside. We’d lost one mare to colic. We’d been lucky with the others.
I don’t believe in God and I don’t believe in praying. But I pray—to the protector of horses, to God, to whoever is up there and listening.
Please don’t let Jack die.
* * *
“Shit, I’m tired.” Ben stretches his neck left, then right. “It’s late, Emma, you should go to bed. I’ve got this.”