by Orly Konig
We’ve been alternating walking Jack since the vet left almost three hours ago. Even though Doc Marshall had arrived quickly and assured us it was a mild case, I can’t quiet the fear.
“I’m not leaving him.” I lace my fingers into the black mane.
“Won’t be the first time.” Jilli’s sharp voice pierces the darkness.
My fingers curl into a fist around a hunk of mane and Jack leans into me with the pull.
“It wasn’t my choice to leave back then.”
“Of course not, what was I thinking. Everyone made decisions for you, didn’t they? What happens now, Emma? Who’s going to tell you how to live your life with Daddy gone?”
My mouth opens and I can feel it forming shapes that might have turned into words had I not been so stunned.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Jillian?” Ben lashes out.
Her body turns to confront him but the laser beam of her focus stays pinpointed on me. “She doesn’t belong here and I want her away from my horse.”
“Your horse? Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you give this horse a second look. Emma has been taking care of him every day; talking to him, brushing him, walking him when he can’t be outside. Your horse.” He spits the last words in disgust.
I feel the scorch of heat under her glare.
“You’re wrong, Jillian. I love this place as much as any of you.” My eyes sweep over the small group huddled around Jack’s stall. Tony polishes the brass nameplate with his thumb. Jillian glares at me, no doubt wishing she had magic powers to make me disappear. Only Ben nods encouragement.
“I have no doubt.” She crosses her arms and rocks back on her heels.
The slight sway of her upper body unsettles my equilibrium and I grab tighter to Jack.
“What did I do to make you hate me?”
“I didn’t hate you. I felt sorry for you.”
I felt sorry for you.
“Why?”
“God, Emma, really? Haven’t you let it go yet?”
“I let it go. I moved on.” I match her glare, the discussion with Rena swirling inside me. Dammit, I’m not that betrayed sixteen-year-old girl.
“And yet you’re here.”
“Why?” I’m not backing down, not this time.
“Because you lived in a sheltered little bubble. Poor Emma. Be nice to Emma. Emma lost her mom. We need to be there for Emma. Emma doesn’t need to be burdened with that. Be supportive of Emma. Emma needs us.” Jillian’s singsong tone hardens with each mention of my name.
She pulls her green fleece jacket closed and tucks her left hand deep inside, against her body. She shivers and gives another tug, maybe wishing she could vanish inside it. She tucks her chin down, muffling her response. “Because of you, I lost everything.”
“Because of me?” I blink the past into focus. “I didn’t take anything from you that you didn’t push away. How was what happened that day my fault? Look around you. What did you lose? You had and still have the perfect life.”
Jack groans and begins to fold his legs, heaving his aching body to the ground.
“Dammit.” Ben pushes past Jillian and tugs the horse back to his feet. “I’m not losing him because the two of you are stuck in some teenage drama. Get the hell out of my way.”
We watch Ben lead the black horse down the aisle and into the indoor arena.
Jillian moves first. A tug to her braid, a move as familiar as if it were mine.
A horse snorts in a nearby stall. Another stomps his foot. The horse in the stall next to Jack’s pushes the lever in his automatic water bowl, releasing a whine from the pipes.
“You wanted the life you thought I had.” Her words barely match the sounds of the waking barn. “I wanted that life, too.”
29
The sounds of the night swirl around me, thick in the dark air of pre-morning, suffocating in the closed-in air of my bubble.
I’d spent half the night walking with Jack. Ben had taken him to his stall an hour ago, leaving me with orders to rest. Like Goldilocks, I went from the office couch to the lounge recliner until finally settling into the Adirondack on the porch.
Jillian’s wrong, I didn’t want her life, I wanted to be part of her life.
No, she’s right, and that insight fuels the defeat inside me.
I did live in a bubble back then, but I’ve always imagined I was the one who had inflated that protective cocoon around myself. I had to find a happy place, a place where families ate together and talked about their days. A place where parents were supportive and engaged.
I was good at pretending my life was like everyone else’s. I listened to what other kids said during Monday-morning share time, and from their weekend excursions, I created my own stories. My family went on picnics. We planted flowers. We went on bike rides. Our excursions were always ones I could make up details about without having to stretch the truth too much. Once when I found a mailer for a new art exhibit, I studied the glossy paintings and read every word in the description. Three Mondays later, I happily reported that my family had been to see the exhibit. Timmy Hart had been there the week before but he’d been more impressed with the edible fruit sculptures on the tables than the actual paintings on the walls.
Even as an adult I pretend, although now I have the experience to weave much more interesting stories. But mostly, I keep those stories to myself. I no longer feel the need to share my “family time” with anyone.
Family time. That’s a joke.
None of my friends questions why I always stay in Chicago over holidays, or if they do, it’s not directly to me. There’s a sudden burn in my chest. Do they feel sorry for me, too?
No, my bubble was mine to mold and I’ve modeled it like an exquisite pair of leather boots.
Tony jogs by, his mouth tight in concentration.
“Tony?”
“Jack isn’t good. Mr. Ben wants the vet back,” he says without stopping. The door to the office slams shut behind him.
Jack.
I break the no-running rule and sprint after him. Ben is tugging Jack into the arena.
“Get Jillian. The two of you need to keep him moving.”
I turn and run to the tack room at the end of the aisle. Jillian looks up from the couch when I burst in, out of breath.
“I need your help with Jack.”
She tilts her head, a look of annoyance wrinkling her brow, and for a split second I think she’s going to tell me to get out.
“For Jack,” she says, moving far slower than I have the patience to witness.
She catches up to me halfway back to the arena. “Ben may think you belong here, but you don’t.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not staying.” Despite Rena’s request, I’m going home in a few hours.
“I wasn’t worried.” Her words bounce lifelessly between us as she overtakes me and disappears into the arena.
For the next few hours, the only words exchanged are about Jack. We alternate who leads and who nudges him forward. The unfinished argument follows us like a dark cloud in a cartoon. I have the laughable urge to take the long whip in my hand and poke that cloud, let the ugliness dump where it will.
But I don’t.
Instead, I chew the inside of my cheek and run through the argument in my head, rehearse my retort. Somewhere into the second hour, I realize the words jumbling in my head aren’t directed at Jillian; I’m rehearsing my argument for staying in Emmitsville.
Which is crazy. I’m not quitting my job. I have a plane to catch today.
I look at my watch.
I had a plane to catch today.
“You missed your flight.” She’s not asking, not even accusing.
“I couldn’t leave with Jack in trouble.”
“He seems to be out of immediate danger. You could reschedule.” The hostility that’s punctuated everything she’s directed at me since I arrived is gone.
I stop walking and Jack bumps into me. Jillian shuffl
es to a stop and gives me a what-gives eyebrow raise. “I’d like to stay a few more days. Until we know for sure he’s okay. And until Rena is back on her feet.” And until I figure out how I’m supposed to help you move forward, whatever that means.
Jillian pulls her lips tight, creating unhappy creases at the corners of her mouth. I brace against what will come next. “I’m not surprised.”
That’s not the answer I’d expected but I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth.
“I’ll take over for a while,” Ben says, reaching for the lead rope. I hand it to him as my feet transform to lead bricks, rooting me to the middle of the arena. Jillian stands next to me. “Go shower or get something to eat or coffee. Or shower, really.” He shoos us away.
An uneasy ease settles between us as we leave the arena.
I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs to the barn apartments. I want to ask her about Rena. I want to ask why she’s clinging to the past. Deep down, I know the answer to both.
She pushes her hands into the pockets of her jeans, roaching her back. The Jillian I remember always pushed her shoulders back.
“Okay, well, thanks for helping with Jack.” She looks at my shoulder, my hands loose at my sides, my boots.
“Jillian, you were right, I did want the life you had. But I wanted to live it with you, not as you.”
Her eyes track a line of sawdust marking the path of a wheelbarrow. “There wasn’t room in it for both of us.”
* * *
My cell phone rings, a Chicago number I don’t recognize. I freeze for two rings before swiping Accept and uttering a hesitant “hello.”
“Is this Emma Metz?” The man’s voice is deep and warm but not friendly.
“Yes, it is.”
“I’m glad you answered. I was hoping to meet you tomorrow in the office but it appears that we’ll have our first discussion by phone. Do you have a few minutes now?”
I scan the apartment, suddenly uncomfortable, and clutch the towel tighter around my chest. No, not really. I was just going to shower. And I have a sick horse downstairs. But the little something-is-amiss alarm is getting louder in my sleep-deprived brain.
He takes my silence as the go-ahead. “I understand you’re dealing with some personal affairs. Bruce has filled me in as best he can. I’m sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”
I hear him take a breath. This is where I’m expected to say something. “Thank you. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Oh.” I’m surprised by the surprise in his voice. A butterfly in my stomach performs a kamikaze drop at the realization that I haven’t checked my work e-mail in two days. How much can change in two days?
“Pierce Frank. The new chief executive officer at NewComm.”
And there go the rest of the butterflies. Splat.
“What happened to Bruce?”
“You really haven’t been keeping up with the e-mails, have you?” I can’t tell if that’s amusement or annoyance in his tone. Either way, it seems like I may just be royally screwed.
“Sorry, I’ve had a lot to take care of here.” I squeeze my eyes shut not to see the details of the cozy apartment and evidence of what I haven’t been doing in the last few days.
“The board of directors have brought me on to take the company in a slightly different direction. Bruce will be assisting me in an advisory capacity.”
My assistant was promoted and my boss was fired. I’m not screwed, I’m fucked.
“Do I still have a job?”
“Yes. I do, however, need a firm date when you’ll be back at work. I see from the HR files you’ve pushed the date back a couple of times. You are planning on returning?”
My legs turn to rubber and I sink to the floor.
Am I?
Of course I am.
So why haven’t I?
The truth blazes past like a blowtorch. Because I’ve been finding excuses not to.
“Emma?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, you are returning?”
“I am returning. There was an emergency last night. I can be back in the office on Monday.” My voice sounds puny, a little kid anticipating a reprimand.
“Monday. I’ll have my assistant set up a meeting for us. I’ll look forward to speaking in person.”
Monday. That gives me five more days.
Five days for what, though?
I fist the ends of the towel around my chest and stretch my legs, the wood floor cold on the back of my exposed thighs. I let my head drop back against the edge of the bed. Next to me is the sweatshirt I’d been wearing. I reach for it and bury my face in it. Sawdust, hay, horses.
“This isn’t your life. It’s not what you’ve been working for all these years.”
I close my eyes, searching for the smells of my Chicago life. Expensive coffee, exhaust fumes, sweaty people. That’s the life I’ve been living and it’s the life I have absolutely no desire to return to.
30
June 1996
Emma looks at the clock above the door for the hundredth time in the past twenty minutes. This day will never end. She can’t keep her leg from jiggling and it’s making the metal chair squeak. Her teacher has already given her a couple of stern looks.
Nine more minutes to go.
Eight minutes to go.
Someone pokes her from behind. “Pay attention,” the poker whispers loud enough for pretty much everyone in the room to hear.
“As I was saying,” Ms. Monroe catches Emma’s eyes, “your reports will be due tomorrow. Five pages.”
A collective groan rumbles through the room.
Report on what? Before Emma can raise her hand to ask for clarification, the bell rings. Secure in the din of scraping chairs and the eruption of voices, Emma turns to her neighbor. “What’s due tomorrow?”
Jason stuffs his notebooks into his backpack. “Man, you’re a space cadet today. What’s up with that? Ms. Monroe was talking right at you. Now, thanks to you, we have a five-page report to do. It’s the last stinking week of school. Way to go, Emma.”
He hoists the backpack over one shoulder and walks off to join his friends. Laughter, probably at her expense, follows them into the hallway.
“Emma.” Ms. Monroe is waving a piece of paper. “The assignment. Whatever has you so distracted, I suggest you deal with it before tomorrow.”
“Yes, Ma’am.” She takes the paper and hurries out. She has a bus to catch and a riding lesson to get to. Today will be her first time riding Jack and there’s no way she’s missing that. The assignment will just have to wait. Anyway, writing a five-page report is easy.
She finds Jillian in the cool-kid section of the bus, scrunched down with her knees wedged against the back of the seat in front. Two boys are facing backward in their chairs talking to her, and a girl leans across the aisle to join in the discussion.
“Hey.” Emma squeezes past Talia and collapses onto what’s left of the seat next to Jilli. “I thought today would drag forever.”
Jillian’s eyebrows lift but she doesn’t break the conversation with her fan club.
“Whatcha guys talking about?”
“Nothing important.”
Talia snickers and one of the boys tosses a wadded piece of paper at her. The boys turn to face the front as the bus lurches forward.
Emma sighs. It’s been much like this since the weekend of the horse show a few months ago. She hates when Jillian gets into these funks but lately, no matter what she does, Jilli finds something to get upset over.
“Come on, Jilli, talk to me. Who are you riding in the lesson today?”
“I’m not.”
“What do you mean you’re not?”
“I mean I’m not. I’m not taking the lesson with you today. I’ve decided to start training with Kate instead.”
“What? Why?” The bus takes a sharp right onto the main road and Emma grabs at the seat in front to keep from falling.
“I just think it’s time for
me to move on. Grandma and Grandpa are fine and all, but I need someone who can focus on me and help me win the big shows.”
“Oh.” Emma wants to protest that Rena and Simon can take them both to the next level, that they’re supposed to be doing this together, but Jillian has turned to look out the window, an invisible DO NOT DISTURB sign.
Emma’s stop is first. Jillian mumbles “see ya” in response to her good-bye. The moment she’s out of the seat, Talia leans over and the boys turn in their seats.
She swallows the lump in her throat. Message received.
* * *
After the initial letdown at not having Jillian in the lesson, Emma gives in to the excitement. She’s been watching Kate work with Jack. She knows how he moves, what aids he responds to. She’s fantasized about this day since he was born.
She takes her time brushing him, letting the motion soothe the sting of Jillian’s brush-off.
Here, with Jack, it doesn’t matter. Here, she doesn’t doubt herself. Here, she’s never alone.
Riding Jack is exactly the way Emma has imagined all these years. His walk is long and free. Her body sways with each step, an extension of his legs. His trot is confident and balanced. Each step moves her body in perfect posting tempo, the movement born of instinct rather than learned. His canter is smooth and measured. Her body rocks in perfect time to his strides, as though she’s one with him. She feels like she’s floating.
She closes her fingers on the reins and tightens her lower legs around his girth, then sits deeper in the saddle. Jack collects himself into a perfect transition from canter to walk. She gives him a pat on the neck and, glowing, turns to Simon. “He’s perfect.”
By the time the lesson is over, she’s forgotten about Jillian.
* * *
“Nice riding, Toad.” Simon lowers himself onto the step stool by the wash stall with a loud “ouuffff.”
“Thanks.” She hopes the flush blazing over her cheeks isn’t obvious. But she has to admit that she hasn’t felt this great in a long time. Ever.
“You know, I think you two will be ready for your first show next month.”
She stops brushing, hand frozen in mid-sweep. “Next month. Already?”