by Orly Konig
“It wasn’t a popular decision.”
“The right ones rarely are.”
“I couldn’t leave her. She’d be dead by now.”
We’re silent, watching the ponies and lost in our own thoughts. I release myself to the hypnotic sound of horses cropping grass, their muzzles skimming the ground as they shift from spot to spot.
Jilli had been less than pleased with my decision, although I think the displeasure was more that I did it instead of her. But it was also the first time that she hadn’t been furious with me, either. There’d been hints of the old friend Jilli the day we picked up the ponies, the slightest quiver that the past could be filed away.
But it can’t be, not completely anyway. We may have once been best friends but it’s easier to forgive when you’re young, during those years when you wear your emotions openly. Or, in my case, not as closed off. Life was so much simpler back then. There were no hidden agendas. Jillian and I needed the same thing—love and acceptance. We just went about finding it in different ways.
If we met now, would we be friends? Probably not. That realization saddens me.
“How long was she sober?” I chance a look at Simon.
His head ticks in my direction but his expression doesn’t change. I can’t read this Simon. I wonder when he changed from the easygoing man who always wore his emotions for all to see. Just when I think I’ve overstepped, he responds. “Three years. It was a condition for her to take over management of the barn. She had to be sober a full year first. The year before was rough. This was the only way we could think to force a change. I had my doubts that she could do it.”
He rubs a hand over the stubble on his cheeks and returns his attention to the horses.
“Had she been drinking all along or did she start again after Rena’s heart attack?”
He snorts something between annoyance and amusement. “Ben told you?”
“Not all of it. She was drinking in high school.” I feel him stiffen next to me and hear him release a breath, but he doesn’t respond.
The chestnut pony wanders our way, close enough to check us out with just enough distance for safety. Simon pulls carrot pieces out of his jeans and reaches a hand forward, the orange treat in the middle of his palm, fingers squeezed together. The pony stretches his neck, his lips twitching and contorting, trying to suction the carrot.
“Come, come.” Simon coaxes under his breath, staying as still as a post along the fence line. “Come, come.”
The pony shifts his weight until his lips find the carrot piece. By the third treat, he’s moved closer. The black pony watches us warily from behind her friend. Simon hands me a supply of treats and I repeat the process he went through, hand stretched, coaxing gently. The mare takes slow, careful steps until she can reach my offering. I slip another piece of carrot into my palm. She rests her muzzle in my hand. A warm tingle travels up my arm and down my spine.
“You need to stay.”
Careful not to startle the pony, I turn to look at Simon. “Didn’t we agree my being here wasn’t a good thing for Jilli?”
“We did. But it’s good for the rest of us, you included. And Jillian, well, she needs to deal with her demons. You being here forces her to do that.”
I cup my hand around the velvety muzzle and look at the warm brown eyes, still wary but alive. The defeat that had broken my heart the day I made the snap decision to buy her is gone. I wish I could make time stand still, like this, exactly like this.
I close my eyes, wanting to trap this moment in my memory, like a camera snapping a picture. The mare steps away, leaving my hand suspended and cold.
The truth sparks a tumble of emotions in me. I don’t want to leave. Despite the secrets and heartbreak, I’ve found the inner peace that has eluded me all these years.
The ponies continue their search for good grass spots. In the opposite paddock, Jack dunks his muzzle into the water trough and drips a slobbery waterfall onto Juke’s back. The goat gives a little shake but doesn’t move.
“I have a flight back tomorrow afternoon. And a meeting with my new boss Monday morning. I’ve accomplished what I came for and I think I’ve accomplished what my father set out for me.”
“What about her?” Simon nods at the little black pony, now grazing at arm’s reach from us.
“You’ll take care of her. And she’ll take care of Rena’s clients in the program. I’m not disappearing for good. I’ll be checking in on the program, making sure you guys are using my money properly.” I shift until our shoulders bump gently.
The corners of his mouth tick up into a smile that betrays the truth. “I should get back now. Don’t trust Rena unsupervised for long. Damn stubborn old mare.”
“Simon.” I have to tell him. No more secrets.
“Yes, love?” He straightens, stomps a clump of mud from his boot.
“The accident, it wasn’t me driving.” Like pulling off a Band-Aid, there’s a momentary sting followed by a rush of relief.
The open-emotion Simon is back, looking at me with wet eyes.
With the Band-Aid gone, the words gush out of the wound. “I told her we needed to call Rena but she knew she’d be in trouble. I guess both of us had something to prove. To you, to each other, to ourselves. I’ve replayed that day in my head so many times. To the point that I’m not always sure if the memories are real or shaped by years of hurt. But I wasn’t driving.”
For a few long, loud heartbeats, he doesn’t say anything. I hear my breathing, the horses eating, the goat pawing at the metal water trough, a car arriving—or leaving—on the gravel driveway of the farm.
“You told your dad?”
I nod.
“He knew you weren’t driving. We all knew.”
A burn of anger flashes through me. “You all knew and still let me take the fall?”
Simon’s shoulders sag. “Your father knew we were in a custody battle over Jillian. We’d filed a petition to keep her away from her mum, away from our own daughter. Jilli didn’t know. We had to do something or she was going to end up like her mum, a drunk, an addict, screwing up her life. If it became public that she’d caused the accident, we wouldn’t have been able to stop the tornado of self-destruction. If the truth had come out, she would have ended up in a juvenile detention center or a foster program. We couldn’t let that happen.”
Like a gas burner, the flame inside me goes out and I shiver.
“Bloody hell. We—I—owe you an apology, Emma. Not that it’ll fix this or make any of it less shitty, but you deserve an apology. We did what we thought was right. We were wrong. And then it was too late to reverse direction. Grown-ups aren’t always as brilliant as we would like to think we are.”
How many mistakes were made in the name of protecting the ones we love? And how easy was it to latch on to those mistakes and use them as crutches?
Simon pulls me into a bear hug. “In the end, we lost both of you in that crash. I don’t want to lose you both again.”
“You won’t,” I mumble into his shoulder.
He releases me and crosses the gravel path to where Jack is leaning into the fence, demanding his share of the carrots from Simon’s pockets.
I hear the crunch of carrots followed by a ping as a rock ricochets off another. I close my eyes and picture Simon walking, hands pushed deep into his pockets, the slight roll of his shoulders. From where I’m standing I can’t see him, although I can still hear his progress in the crunch and ping of the gravel drive. The Simon walking away in my mind is the man in my dreams, sixteen years spunkier.
Next time I won’t stay away for so long. There’s no longer a reason to stay away. I can come back for vacations and holidays. I’ll stay at the Mountain Inn with Lucy and visit Ceila and the sheep. I’ll watch my pretty little black pony blossom. I’ll have Rena and Simon and Jack. And Jillian.
We all deserve a second chance.
I distribute the last of the treats between the two ponies, Jack, and Jukebox, then walk t
he same gravel path Simon has just taken. The sun makes a momentary appearance, sending an arrow of light onto a smooth, round rock a few feet in front of me. I stoop and pick it up. It’s dark gray with a white marbled line zigzagging through. It’s warm in my palm and my thumb traces circles over the smooth surface. This one is going back with me. This one will be a reminder of the other life I had, even if for just a short time.
38
January 2000
“Hey, Emma, we’re going to the library to study for the history test. Want to join?”
Emma stops walking and turns to the three girls who’ve just parted paths from her. Stacy, her roommate, looks at her expectantly.
“Thanks. I think I’ll pass, though. I have reading to do for English Lit.” She raises a gloved hand in a halfhearted wave, then ducks her chin into the wool scarf and continues toward the dorm. Behind her she hears, Why do you keep asking? Indeed, why? Emma resists the urge to turn around and catch the response.
It’s been almost three months since she came to Briarwood. It’s been two months since she stopped using crutches. And about a month since she stopped walking with a limp.
She’d told everyone it was from a skiing accident. When they asked where and what, she’d thrown out a vague Switzerland and claimed not to remember more than the start of the run and waking up in the hospital. At least the last part was true.
It didn’t take long for the questions to stop, although the speculation behind her back continued. It wasn’t that different from those first months at Emmitsville Elementary. She’s just gotten better at shutting out the noise.
Emma lets herself into the dorm and stops at the mailbox. She’s been here almost three months and she’s yet to get any mail but still checks every day.
She’s sent a couple of cards to her father. All of the cards she’s written to Rena and Simon and Jilli are in the bottom drawer of her desk; addressed, stamped, unsent. She’s not sure why she keeps expecting something from them. They probably have no idea where she is. But here she is, checking anyway.
Emma nods at a few familiar faces walking down the hall but doesn’t make eye contact. That encourages people to talk and she doesn’t want to talk.
She flips on the overhead in the room and sighs at the mess. Stacy’s half of the room is taking up two-thirds of the space. She’s not used to seeing clothes multiply and books breed. Her father would never have tolerated that.
The food wrappers, however, are beyond what she can tolerate. The first month, she’d cleaned around Stacy’s things, thrown out wrappers and empty food containers. She’d even folded a load of laundry that exploded out of the hamper. Stacy had seemed more amused than pleased at first. At least until the day Emma tossed a sandwich that had been on the desk overnight. Apparently Stacy had scribbled an assignment on the wrapper and now had no idea when it was due. Emma didn’t touch her side after that. Now when Stacy’s things cross to her side, she discreetly moves them back.
She turns on the desk lamp and shuts off the overhead. It’s dark enough outside by now that without the overhead, she can pretend there’s nothing beyond her circle of light.
She opens her backpack and pulls out her history notebook. She really does need to review her notes for the exam. And yes, she should have gone with the others.
It’s only been three months, she justifies. She’s not not friendly. And it’s not that she doesn’t want to make friends. But being friends means letting people in and letting people in means opening up. That’s where it gets complicated.
She taps a rhythm with the end of the pen and watches the fine green tip twitch up and down. When did she start doing that? It used to drive her crazy when she was studying with Jillian. That was Jilli’s thinking assistance.
Emma rips out a piece of paper from the back of her history notebook.
Dear Jilli,
It’s been over three months. I’m off crutches and walking almost normally again. No visible scars at least. I wonder about you.
Were you injured as bad? Worse? Do you remember more about the accident than I do? Why, Jilli? Why did you do it?
Light floods the room as the door is flung open. Emma’s cozy cocoon is cracked open.
“Oh my god, Emma, you should have been there. Jeremy and Patrick were studying with us. We were taking turns quizzing each other. Jeremy got every single question wrong. We thought he was goofing on us but no, he really, really didn’t know. He started making up answers and then started answering in French. We were laughing so hard, old lady Marshmallow told us to get out.”
“You shouldn’t call her that, you know. One day someone will say it to her face and she’ll be hurt.”
Never make fun of people, Emma. You don’t know what their real story is, and how would you feel if you discovered someone was being mean about you? She’d been in fourth grade and amused by the nickname Mrs. Potato for the lunchroom aid Mrs. Porter. Mrs. Porter really did look like a potato. Then she’d heard a couple of kids call her Embryo Metz. She’d been in the bathroom and had lifted her feet and waited until she knew they were long gone. She’d been late returning to fourth-period math. She had to look up what “embryo” meant. Mrs. Porter stayed Mrs. Porter after that.
Emma catches June and Lyn exchange looks behind Stacy’s back. Stacy rolls her eyes and performs a leap-and-twist to land cross-legged on her bed. The bed creaks and complains. Emma wonders if she does that in her own house or just at the school, where there are no parents telling you not to. It’s not like the RAs enforce things like that.
“So? Did you finish the reading for Lit?”
Emma slides the letter she’s writing under last week’s geography test. “Nah. I’m not in the mood to read.”
“Good. Then come with us to dinner. Patrick asked about you. He made me promise you’d come.” Stacy scoots to the edge of the bed and grins at Emma, batting her eyes for added effect.
Emma’s noticed the way Patrick looks at her. She’s ignored it as much as possible. He’s the only guy who offered to carry her bag when she was hobbling around campus on crutches. She declined whenever possible. The last thing she wants right now is to get mixed up with another boy. Especially since she hasn’t been successful at censoring Drew out of her dreams, yet.
Lyn claps her hands twice and everyone turns to look at her. “I’m hungry. Can we please go now?”
Stacy pushes off the bed and grabs a sweatshirt from a pile by the bed. “Let’s go. Emma?” she stops wrestling the sweatshirt long enough to ask.
The group dinner doesn’t appeal to Emma. She’s been going at the end of the mealtimes, when most kids have already finished and moved on. But today she’s hungry. That’s what she gets for skipping lunch. And she doesn’t feel like eating alone.
“Yes, I’m coming. I need to make a quick call, though.”
“We’ll go to my room to dump our stuff and swing back by for you,” Lyn says, taking charge of logistics.
Emma follows them partway down the hall until she reaches the closet-turned-phone-booth. She waits until the girls have disappeared around the corner and steps inside. Her fingers tap the numbers.
One ring. Two rings. She catches her breath.
“Hello?”
“Jilli?”
A long pull of air. “Who is this?”
She’s pretty sure Jilli knows. “Emma.”
Click.
She stays with the phone pressed to her ear, listening to the silence of a friendship severed.
Voices carry from down the hall. Emma replaces the receiver into the base and hurries back to the room. She yanks the paper with the beginning of the letter to Jillian from its hiding place and tears it into tiny, unrecognizable pieces.
Click.
Her heartbeat pounds in her eyes and her eyes burn.
Click.
No. Not this time. This time she’s in control.
“You ready?” Stacy asks from the door.
“Yes.” Emma releases the blizzard of shredded
paper into the trash can.
She’ll make new friends, she’ll meet new guys, but she’s done needing other people. Maybe her father was right after all.
She follows the girls into the hall and pulls the door shut behind her.
Click.
39
A questioning meow greets me at the foot of the stairs to the barn apartment.
“Whazup, Beast, buddy?” I lean down to pet the black barn cat who’s taken up residence with me the last few nights, snuggling under the blankets and growling unhappily when it’s time to get up in the morning.
Meow.
“Did Simon tell you to convince me to stay?”
Meow.
“It’s not that easy.”
Meow.
“Okay, so, easy for you maybe. You haven’t spent years climbing the corporate ladder and putting work ahead of everything else in your life. I can’t just walk away from everything I’ve built.”
Meow. He twitches his tail at me and jumps onto the bed where my suitcase is waiting to be filled. He stretches with a lion yawn, then sprawls on top of the suitcase, blinking at me as though to say, “Yup, it’s really that easy.”
I flop onto the bed, making the suitcase jump. The cat glares at me.
I turn my head so I can see part of the bedroom. The queen-size bed fills most of the room. With the dresser along the foot-end wall, there’s just enough space to open dresser drawers without having to sit on the bed and hike your legs up so you don’t hit your shins. There’s an armchair in the corner of the room that doubles as a laundry holder most days.
I turn my head in the other direction. The afternoon sun winks through the large window. I can’t see them, but I know the trees at the edge of the pasture are changing colors. On the drive back from the The Spinning Ewe, I drank in the reds and oranges in the scenery.
There are quite a few trees between my apartment in Chicago and the office building. But they’re city trees. They don’t stretch their limbs, welcoming visitors to lounge under their brilliant umbrella, and they don’t show off their colors. Like most city people, they stay in their space, tight and unobtrusive, and in the fall, they drop their leaves like a commuter dropping a crumpled receipt.