by Orly Konig
It’s not the trees I’m going back for. It’s my career, my life. The career I’ve barely thought about over the last few days and the life that’s moved on without giving me a second thought.
Oh, because you’ve made an effort, right?
I haven’t. I haven’t called any of my friends, and their texts and e-mails have dried up. Who was the last to check in? Are they waiting for me to respond or am I waiting for someone to reach out to me first?
Why is it so complicated there? Ceila and Lucy have called several times to tell me about the Hooker get-togethers. A couple of days ago, Ceila texted a picture of a new yarn she’d just dyed that reminded her of me.
I bolt up, jolting the cat awake.
“You’re right, Beast, it really should be that easy.”
I march to the kitchen and grab my phone.
Bruce answers on the second ring. “Hey, Emma. I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”
“Guess I was wondering the same.”
“Touché. It’s been a bit,” he hesitates, “crazy around here.”
“I spoke to Pierce. He gave me the CliffNotes version. We have a few things to catch up on when I get back, don’t we?”
He hesitates again and I pull the phone away from my ear to check for connection. His voice is unfamiliar when he speaks again. “How’s life in the country?”
Despite the caterpillars crawling around in my stomach, I smile. “Good. I’ve been spending a lot of time at the stable actually. Even started riding again. And you’ll never believe it, but I bought a pony. A rescue, but she’s mine.”
One breath leads to two, then three. I shouldn’t have said that. Now he’s going to think I’m not committed to my job. He may not be CEO anymore but he is still advising, and with the current corporate upheaval, I can’t afford for anyone to question my commitment.
“Listen, Bruce…”
“Listen, Emma…”
We both laugh, a short, uncomfortable chuckle, then Bruce takes charge. “Me first. Listen, Emma, I know I’ve been hard on you over the years. I told Pierce you’re a huge asset to this company. Your position is safe and, based on my recommendation, you should be getting a promotion in the near future.”
My mouth flaps with a silent “I don’t know what to say” because I honestly don’t know what to say. This isn’t the Bruce I’ve worked for all these years.
“Pierce seems to have a good vision for the company. I think you’ll do fine with him.”
I mumble a thanks and silently curse when I can’t think of what else to say.
“You are still coming back, right? There’s an office pool on whether you really will return.”
“Seriously?” Although I’m not really sure why I’m so surprised. “What side did you bet on?”
“Twenty that you’re not coming back.”
“Seriously?” That surprises me.
“I don’t know what they’ve done to you there, but the Emma I know would never have stayed away this long. Or thrown money away on a pony.”
I open my mouth to argue that I wasn’t throwing money away and that he didn’t really know me if that’s what he thinks. But it’s who everyone in Chicago thinks I am. It’s who I allowed myself to become.
I ask about his plans for the future, but I’m not really listening. After a polite and awkward few minutes, we say good-bye and hang up. All those years working together, spending more time together than with our significant others (those rare periods when I actually had a significant other), and just like that we’re done and moving on.
From the open window I hear barking and yelping and yelling. Beast bolts from the bedroom and jumps onto the window ledge in the family room to see what the kerfuffle is about. I join him and together we watch as Tony holds Carlisle while a deer stands by the gate to the nearest pasture. The deer seems to look right at me, blinks, then bounds off into the woods.
Meow.
“Right you are.” I rub Beast behind the ears and he leans into me, purring, the deer and dog forgotten.
“Hey, Emma,” Ben yells up through the open window. “Can you come lend a hand? Jillian is, um, not feeling well.”
“Coming.” I quickly change and usher Beast out of the apartment. He grumbles and takes his time, stopping to rub on every object on the way to the door.
* * *
Ben and I stare at the lesson roster for the afternoon.
“Dammit, today of all days she pulls a no-show? Like we’re not juggling enough crap around here lately.” He runs his fingers through his hair, giving a slight tug at the ends, and releases a growl of frustration.
“I can take this one.” He points at a class of four labeled Beginner Flat. “Can you take those two though?”
That leaves me with a therapeutic client that Jilli was subbing on for Rena, and one of Jilli’s show clients. How hard can that be?
“Any idea what happened to Jilli?”
“Nope. She was at the house until an hour ago. She left me a voice message ten minutes ago, ten minutes before she’s to teach, that she’s running behind and won’t make it back in time. For. Any. Of. Them. That’s not running behind. That’s running away.”
“Has she done this before?”
“Nope.”
The discussion at The Spinning Ewe swirls between us.
“I’m up first,” he says and turns to go check on his lesson. Even angry, there’s a casualness to his carriage. I’m going to miss him.
There’s still an hour before my first lesson but the class list has Toby as the horse we’re to use and yesterday he came back to the barn favoring his left front.
“Hey, Ben,” I call after him. “What’s the scoop on Toby?”
He turns and walks backward, his hands diving into his hair again. “Shit. Double shit. I forgot about that. Can’t use him. I don’t know who else to give you.”
“What about Jack?”
“Can’t. The kid is too small. He’s intimidated by the large horses. And he’s terrified of Jukebox. Maybe just have him brush Toby instead of riding this time.”
I scrunch my face at the idea. That’s not a horrible idea; I’d helped Rena with plenty of therapy sessions that didn’t include riding.
“I have an idea.”
“Oh god.” He groans, only half joking.
“Hope. It’ll be her debut into the program.”
“Hell no.” He throws up a Stop-sign hand. “We have no idea how she’ll react. You don’t know what her history is.”
“She’ll be fine, Ben. Promise.”
“You can’t promise, you don’t know.”
He’s right. But so am I. “She’ll be fine.”
“Shit and double shit. You’d better be right.” He disappears into the indoor arena.
I retrieve Toby’s tack and go find my black rescue pony. She looks up from her hay and watches as I enter her stall. She no longer tries to become one with the back wall when someone enters. That’s progress. Hopefully enough progress that she’ll shine in her first lesson.
Hope checks my pockets, familiar with my treat-hiding spots. She’s quiet while I brush her and even rewards me with a neck-stretch-muzzle-twitch when I curry her withers. She opens easily for the bit and holds still while I fasten the buckles on the bridle. She doesn’t even flinch when I position the saddle on her back. I run my hand down her side. She’s put on a couple of pounds but she still has a long way to go.
“Aren’t you the perfect lady,” I coo at her. I give her a pat and walk around to attach the girth to the billets. She’s much skinnier than Toby so I slip the girth to the last hole. With my right hand on her haunches, I walk back to her left side and reach under her belly for the girth. It barely reaches the second hold. There’s no way I misjudged by that much. I take a step back and watch as my pony deflates by a girth size.
“You’re no novice, are you?” I laugh. I take a step forward and she blows up like an anorexic puffer fish. “Oh yeah, you’re good.”
I lead her out of the stall and into the indoor arena. I’ll walk her with the distractions of the other lesson to see how she does.
“Okay if I join in?” I ask Ben when the pony and I reach the middle of the ring. “Hey, check out her party trick.”
I take a step away and the girth loosens to the point you can almost see daylight. Then a step forward and the daylight disappears.
“She’s going to be a fun one,” Ben says, giving Hope a pat on the neck. She ducks her head and shifts away from Ben. Not a big move but just enough to remind us both of where she came from.
“Oh, baby.” I hug her head and slip her another treat. Who cares if she has a bit in her mouth. This pony deserves love and rewards.
I mount and walk around the ring, keeping my distance from the lesson kids. After riding Wally, being on Hope feels like being at the kids’ table. But she has a smooth walk with a surprisingly long stride.
My therapy student turns out to be an eight-year-old autistic boy. He takes one look at Hope, squeals, breaks from his adult, and rushes to hug her. Ben and I both tense and I grab for the bridle but Hope doesn’t flinch. She lowers her head enough for Aaron to give her more hugs.
My rescue pony is ready to rescue kids.
* * *
Two hours later, I walk back to the barn behind a grumpy pony and his crankier rider.
“What happened there?” Ben watches the procession.
“I made him work.” I hold up the pair of spurs. “Jillian allows him to use these. He doesn’t use his legs, just slams his heels into that pony’s sides. The mom warned me the pony is lazy and stubborn and ‘just plain awful.’ It’s not the pony who’s lazy and awful, though.”
Ben laughs then mumbles an “uh-oh” when the kid’s mother storms into the barn.
She thumps to a stop in front of me, her hands pushing into the fat on her hips. “Matty is beside himself over that lesson. How dare you treat him like that.”
Even though she wasn’t asking me a question, I steel myself to respond. “First of all I didn’t ‘treat him like that.’ I was teaching him to ride, which, unless I’m mistaken, is what he’s here for.”
“He’s been riding with Jillian for a year and knows how to ride perfectly well.”
“Look, Ms.…” I hesitate.
“Thomson,” she supplies with a shift of hip rolls.
“Look, Ms. Thomson, I’m sorry my teaching style doesn’t suit you. I’m only filling in for Jillian tonight. Matty has pretty good basics, but in my opinion he’s not riding the best he could be. Once we took the spurs off and he started using his legs, the pony’s attitude changed dramatically.”
She blinks at me as though trying to decide if I’m on to something or totally out of line. Apparently unable to decide, she huffs and walks off in search of her pouting child.
“Nicely done,” Ben says.
“Yeah well, I don’t think I’ll be getting a holiday card from her.”
“Probably not. I’ve watched them a few times. That child is a spoiled brat. You know they paid a fortune for that pony. And completely ruined him.”
“How can Jillian allow that?”
“Just told you: because they paid a fortune for that pony. They pay for three lessons a week and go to every show possible. She charges nicely for coaching fees at the shows, by the way. She lets him do what he wants, which works because they don’t want to hear the truth.”
“You mean that the kid is a shitty rider?”
He laughs again. “Yeah, that. I think you’re the first person who ever made him work.”
“No wonder he hates me. He’s going to be sore tomorrow. And even crankier. Glad I won’t be here next time they come to the barn.”
Ben’s expression turns serious. “Tomorrow?”
I nod.
“Why?”
“Clinging to that last crazy straw of my professional life, I guess.”
“You’re sure?”
I nod again.
“That wasn’t one of your more decisive nods.”
I smile. “Sorry.”
Before he can push further, Tony walks up and grabs the halter on Jack’s stall. “You should move before I get back with devil goat.”
“Good idea.” Ben takes a few steps toward the tack room, then turns and adds, “You’ve got an hour to clean up, Emma. I’m taking you out to dinner.”
I smile at Ben and reach for the halter. “I’ll get him, Tony.”
He squints at me, the halter suspended between us. Finally he releases the soft leather into my outstretched hand and mumbles, “Crazy lady.”
I walk out of the barn in search of my charges—a geriatric horse with a limp and a geriatric goat with an attitude.
Jack is standing at the fence, head hanging, watching my approach. He nickers as I get close and flaps his lips in his equine hello.
I wrap my arms around his neck. “I hate leaving you again.”
“Hey,” I yell as I’m jerked into the fence. Jukebox has my jacket in his teeth and is looking at me through the fence slats, his beady eyes daring me to play tug-of-war with him.
Jack pulls back and nips at the goat’s rear end. Juke releases my jacket, rounds his back, and hops in a circle, bleating goat obscenities at me.
Free to move without fear of losing a chunk of my jacket, I take a step back and rub the black horse’s head. “Thanks, bud.”
He rests his muzzle on my shoulder, his warm breath tickling my neck. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing going back?”
Jack’s head gets heavier on my shoulder. “Are you falling asleep while I’m talking to you?” I twist my head to look at him. His eyes are closed. “Typical.” I snake my arm under his throatlatch and rub behind his ear. He grunts and leans into my hand.
“Come on, let’s go for a walk.” I put his halter on and swing the gate open, standing as close to the fence as possible to stay out of Jukebox’s flight path. But instead of following the goat to the barn, I lead Jack toward the outdoor arena. Jukebox bleats and hops to catch up, giving me attitude for trying to lose him.
At the entrance to the arena I stop. Jack twists his head and taps my chest with his muzzle as though saying, “It’s okay, we’ve got this.” I rest my hand on the crest of his neck and together we walk to the mounting block. I tie the loose end of the lead rope to the ring on the back of the halter and take the three steps up.
The pounding of my heartbeat in my ears is louder than even the goat’s protests. Sixteen years of regret and heartbreak propel me forward and I slide onto Jack’s back. I’m holding my breath. Why am I holding my breath?
Jack turns his head and lips the toe of my boot while Jukebox hops around us, agitated at the change in routine.
I nudge Jack’s side with my heels and close my eyes as the familiar movement transports my body sixteen years. Years of riding this horse in my dreams can’t compare with this moment.
We take the path away from the stable, around the perimeter of the property, toward the pond. This was our cool-down, wanna-be-alone path. The fingers of my left hand weave into Jack’s mane. A cold wind nips at us but I might as well be in a bubble of warmth.
Each step away from the barn draws me deeper into the past. The first time I came to Jumping Frog Farm, I was eight and desperately needed a place where I could belong, where I could escape from the darkness of my family. This guy—I pat the black horse under me—showed me the way out of the shadows.
We reach the edge of the pond. Jack halts and drops his head to grab at a juicy patch of grass. I lean back until I’m lying down, looking up into the afternoon sun. Jack’s body warms my back and the insides of my legs, and the sun offers a tepid ray to thaw my face. I’m fourteen, lying like this on Jack, Jilli is next to me on Tolstoy. Our horses graze and we are, just are. No heavy discussions, no deadlines to worry about, no life-shattering secrets to unravel.
I turn my head but Jilli and Tolstoy aren’t next to us. I’m not fourteen. Jilli isn’t my best friend.
Jack isn’t the spunky show horse he used to be. Tolstoy is dead. And deadlines and secrets are gnawing at my insides.
Jack shifts and I sit up. Staring at us from the edge of the woods is a deer. Jack doesn’t move, the deer doesn’t move. The goat, on the other hand, works himself into a tizzy, bleating and hoping and spinning and strutting. When he gets too close, Jack gives him a gentle nip on the haunches.
Jack whinnies, the vibration rattling through my legs to my upper body. The deer lifts its head and turns our way, then leaps into the woods.
“What did you say to him?” I lean down and wrap my arms around Jack’s neck. Another, deeper whinny travels through my limbs, straight to my heart. “You may be right.”
Jack starts a slow walk back in the direction of the barn. With each step, I’m more sure. This guy is showing me the way out of the shadows again. Each stride bringing me closer to home.
40
I spent most of the night turning from one side to the other. Beast attacked my foot after multiple complaints went unheeded. The dreams were as restless as my waking fantasies.
In one dream, I’m pushing the black pony into the elevator of my apartment building. The uptight woman with tight brown curls and beige cashmere twinset from the floor above asks if I have a poop bag with me.
In another dream, Jukebox is standing in my closet, my favorite Ferragamo boots shredded, the heel of the left boot hanging from the side of his mouth like a cigar.
And then there was the dream where I’m riding Jack. We cross a dry creek but the path leading up the hill is blocked by a herd of deer. I turn Jack around and we walk upstream where my mom is sitting on a fallen log. She waves and I wave back.
I extract my leg from under the cat and get out of bed. I only have a few more hours before my flight, it’s pointless wasting them fighting insane dreams. I need to talk to Jillian and say my good-byes even though I’m pretty sure I don’t want them to be good-byes.
I change into jeans and a sweater, stuff my nightgown into the suitcase, and prop it by the door. Beast struts up to it and pretends to spray it. I can’t disagree with that sentiment.