by Orly Konig
Tony is well into his morning routine when I get downstairs and Ben is lunging an uncooperative bay mare. This one has a nasty habit of diving to the outside of the circle and pulling whoever is lunging her off-balance. Yesterday she almost succeeded in tossing me face-first into a manure pile.
I stop at the entrance to the arena. “Hey, Ben, have you seen Jillian?”
He looks at me in disbelief. “You’re looking for her after yesterday’s blow-up? Are you nuts?”
“Probably. But I have to talk to her.”
“She was headed for the jumper ring last time I saw her. If you’re not back in an hour, I’m calling the paramedics.”
I smile despite the hammering in my chest.
She’s there, sitting on a fake brick wall jump. She crosses her arms in a coming-close-will-be-your-dumbest-move-yet. And it probably is. Except this discussion has been on hold for sixteen years.
“It’s time we talked.” I perch on the jump next to her, keeping a body length between us.
She shifts and for a heartbeat I think she’s going to leave. She doesn’t. She doesn’t even respond.
Okay, we’re going with the silent treatment. Been a while since we’ve done that.
“I didn’t come back to hurt you, Jilli. I’m sorry if my being here is hard on you, but I’m not sorry I returned.”
“Is this where I’m supposed to thank you for coming to our rescue?” Her voice is low, tired, resigned.
“I didn’t rescue anyone but that little black pony.”
“I bet Grandma and Grandpa will disagree.”
I don’t know how to answer that so I shift direction. “Remember all those dreams and plans we made for this place?”
“We were kids.”
I turn. The jump wobbles and we both grab at the base to steady it. “Dreams aren’t exclusive to kids. It’s lonely without them and lonelier without someone to share them with.”
She bites her lower lip and looks off as though assessing the property in front of us. “Yeah, we had dreams and plans and hopes and all that other bullshit kid fluff. But this life isn’t as shiny and wonderful as you think it is.”
Did I think it was shiny and wonderful? Yes. At least compared to the life I’d been living.
“Why didn’t you leave if you don’t like it here?”
She laughs and the air between us seems to freeze. “I did and failed. Leaving wasn’t a realistic option. I was never going anywhere. When you left, it was clear who was going to be successful. You had the rich father, the fancy boarding school. You got to travel all over the world and go to an uptight college. You got to be a big shot, big-city girl.”
Her words tumble in my brain, grinding against one another in their search for dominance.
“You could have gone to college, done something else.”
“Sure.”
I twist, unsure if she exhaled or spoke.
Her shoulder pops up, a halfhearted shrug. “I didn’t have a fairy godmother looking out for me. Maybe we were both Cinderellas at first, but fairy godmommy only had eyes for you. Poor Emma. We all took care of poor Emma. And look at you, poor Emma is wearing the glass slipper.”
We both look at the dusty paddock boots I’m wearing.
“That’s what you think? That my life is perfect? High profile, fancy? Far from it.”
“Poor Emma. Guess that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Why you’re back, looking for someone else’s life to glom on to. Guess money and success can’t buy you out of the loneliness pit, can they?”
Loneliness. Lonely. Alone.
The pixels of truth I’d started seeing are now crystal clear. Jillian Winn collected people. Not because she liked them but because she needed them. She needed to be the center of attention. The passion that drove her was being in the spotlight. The fear that ruled her was that someone would outshine her.
And in her eyes, my bulb had been, and still was, too bright.
“You’re right, money and success only get you so much. It’s what’s in here that gets you the real reward.” I tap my chest. “My life growing up was lonely but I never was. I had you and Simon and Rena, and Jack. You became the family I needed. Rena wasn’t my fairy godmother. She never put me ahead of you. You put me there because it suited your needs. All I wanted was to feel like I belonged.”
“Because my family was so damn great?” She snorts.
“It was better than mine.”
She puts her hands on the jump and locks her elbows, the movement pitching her body forward as though trying to dodge out of the path of the thought.
“I wasn’t trying to steal your spotlight.”
“Wow. Don’t we think a lot of ourselves?” She whistles through clenched teeth.
For sixteen years I wondered what it would be like to see Jillian again. What I would say to her. Whether we’d be able to pick up our friendship. But now I see that our friendship hadn’t really been what I’d wanted it to be for a few years before that disastrous day. Maybe it had never been what I’d imagined it to be.
“My family life sucked, but one thing my father did give me was the strength to stand on my own. Don’t mistake being alone for loneliness. If you want to see what that looks like, take a long hard look in the mirror.”
I look at the woman next to me and try to imagine the nine-year-old girl I became friends with, the eleven-year-old girl whom I shared my naïve hopes with, the teenager I envied.
If only that young me could have seen what I’m looking at now. Maybe I would have known better than to walk into that trailer; hopefully I would have known enough not to let her drive that day. But I didn’t. At the time, I wanted to believe in the friend I thought I had. I didn’t want to believe she was capable of such brilliant self-destruction.
For sixteen years I held on to a pebble of hope that one day Jillian and I would find our way back into each other’s lives. That maybe, possibly, one of those childhood dreams was still alive.
“I don’t want your life, Jilli. And neither do you.”
I turn and walk out of the arena and down the long gravel path to the barn. I reach into the pocket of my jeans and palm the rock the sun picked out for me yesterday. By the time I reach Jack’s paddock, I’m bubbling with renewed energy. Maybe not a gift from the forest spirits but definitely inspired by them. And I guess, in a way, Jillian is my discarded antler.
41
I wrap the sweater as snug as it’ll go around me. It’s colder today. Winter isn’t far away.
It hadn’t felt as cold when I marched out to talk to Jillian. Or maybe it had, and I’d been fueled by adrenaline antifreeze.
Three weeks ago, my only mission was to get in, sign papers, and get the hell out. I’d been curious in a scared-of-the-horror-movie way about Jumping Frog Farm and the people I’d left behind. People who’d once been my family.
I took one hell of a detour to get onto the crunchy path I’m about to take. I shiver and tuck my hands into the sleeves of the sweater.
Jukebox bleats when he catches sight of me.
“Are you saying hello or telling me to piss off?”
He bleats again, then bounces off, head and tail high.
“Piss off it is.”
I watch the goat make a spectacle of himself with the big yellow ball while Jack grazes, shifting to avoid a collision.
Jack and Juke lift their heads a second before I hear the crunch of gravel. The sound continues past, slow, steady. She isn’t going to say a word and she isn’t going to stop. When her steps sound far enough away, I allow myself to look.
Her head is down, jacket pulled tight, shoulders rounded. It’s not the purposeful march I associate with her. Or the I-don’t-want-you-here stomp I’ve seen so much of during the last few weeks.
Did I overstep?
No. I should have been strong enough to say those things years ago. Maybe it would have helped us both. And now I have to be strong enough to do what’s right for me
.
I give Jack a last kiss on the muzzle, return Juke’s evil eye, and walk back to the apartment above the barn. It’s nothing like the apartment I’ve lived in the last four years and nothing like where I always envisioned myself, but it’s exactly where I feel most at home.
The black cat meows from the top of the stairs, telling me to hurry. The moment the door is open, he tumbles in, then turns to pretend-spray the door as though it wronged him. I trail him past the galley kitchen and sit on the couch. Beast assesses the space next to me, then hops up and settles into a circle, his back pressed against my thigh.
I fire up my laptop, fingers flying with purpose. When I’m done with the e-mail, I sit back and reread. The cursor blinks happily, waiting for me to finish, to send, to commit.
I pull my father’s sketch pad out of my bag and flip through the now-familiar drawings until I reach my favorite. It’s a rendering of a woman, her profile partially obscured by long, curly hair. One spiral has popped loose and trails the curve of her cheek. She looks young but he’s captured a moment of emotional age. What could have caused those lines at the corner of her eye, the slight pull at the edge of her mouth? Who was she? Was she sad? Worried?
I’ve stared at this image so many times over the last couple of weeks. There are hints of me in the slope of her nose and the slant of her eyes. But the cheekbones are different and her mouth is fuller. I lay the photograph of Mom sitting on the lake-house porch next to the drawing. It’s her mouth and cheekbones, but the nose isn’t as straight and the eyes are more almond.
Is she a real person or what you saw clearest from the two of us?
An incoming e-mail pings. Instinctively my eyes jump to the screen and my fingers click it open. This ingrained reaction will be tough to break.
Howard. My former assistant, turned manager. Trade show went well. New boss is quite the performer. Thought you’d be curious to hear. When are you returning?
“I’m not.” The answer falls loud and final in the stillness of the room. Beast lifts his head and blinks at me, then draws his paw over his head, shutting me out.
I type a quick response, not answering his question. Then I hit Send on my resignation.
“No going back now, is there?” I rub the cat’s chin and he purrs in response.
“Hey, Emma.” Ben knocks on the door to the apartment. “Are you decent? Can I come in?”
“It’s unlocked. And yes, I’m decent.”
He cracks the door open and peers through splayed fingers.
“Really? Why would I lie about that?”
He grins. “A man can always hope.”
I toss a throw pillow at him but can’t help laughing at the look on his face.
“Seriously though, Rena and Simon have asked for a meeting and they’d like you there.”
“With…” Dread sucker punches the lighthearted moment.
“Jillian and Tony are in there with them.”
“Shit. Any idea what this is about?”
“We’ll find out in a minute.”
I follow him down the stairs and into the barn office. Rena sits in her usual throne behind the desk, with Simon in his spot on the couch. Jillian slumps in the chair in front of the desk, head down, arms crossed. Her hair hangs loose, obscuring her face. Though she’s slouching, her body twangs with the tightness of a taut rubber band.
Tony leans against the back wall and, from the look on his face, wishes he could melt straight through that wall. Simon gestures for me to sit. Ben perches on the armrest next to me.
The office feels stuffy with anxiety. I wish I could stand next to Tony and disappear through the portal with him.
Simon is the first to wade into the murky waters ahead. “Jillian has decided to take a little time off from teaching and running the stable. Ben, I’d like for you to take on more of the barn management.”
I notice Jillian shifting in the chair, the slightest of moves, fingers balling the fabric of her shirt into her fist.
I wonder if Rena and Simon know about my discussion with her. I wonder if taking time off was her decision.
Ben nods, keeping his eyes on his feet.
“Emma, you’ve been a tremendous help and we’re grateful for what you’ve done for the therapeutic program.” He meets Rena’s eyes and the tenderness glues me to the couch. I remember the first time I saw them look at each other that way. It’s the look that says you’d do anything for the other person, that she means the world to you.
Maybe my father had looked at Mom like that. Maybe he’d even looked at me like that. I’ll never know for sure.
“You all already know that the doctor has told me to scale back.” Rena’s voice is shaky and she pushes a mug with pens in it to the side of the computer, then pulls it to the front of the screen, then to the other side.
Simon watches the path of the mug. His lips purse and I can almost hear the rumbling of the words inside his head.
She releases a breath and her already small frame shrinks into the oversize leather chair. “Emma, will you reconsider going back? As the primary donor of the therapeutic program, I believe you should be the one to run it.”
“Run it?” My tongue feels like a giant cotton ball. Half an hour ago I was giddy with the idea of working with Rena if she’d still have me. Now I’m terrified at the opportunity she’s handed me.
“It wasn’t really a suggestion from the doctor. It was more of an order.” She studies her hands, picks at a ripped nail on her left hand.
The silence in the office is deafening.
Tell them. What are you waiting for?
“I…” Jillian winces and the words catch in my throat. Staying is the right decision for me, probably even the best decision for Rena, and undoubtedly the wrong decision for Jillian.
But the need to please my friend at any expense died the day she chose to end our friendship.
“I’ll stay. I am staying. I sent my resignation before Ben came to get me. I realized this morning that I can’t go back.”
Rena mouths thank you. Simon pats my knee, then stands and tips his head for Rena to follow. Ben squeezes my shoulder and pushes off the armrest. Tony gives me a wink and melts through the door on Ben’s heels.
And just like that, there are two left. Jilli looks up and our eyes meet for the skip of a heartbeat. One blink and I’m not sure if it was real or imagined. She stands and turns to the door. Our eyes meet and lock. My stomach drops like a bad amusement ride.
“Oh, Jilli.” I wish I could reverse time. But life doesn’t work that way. We make mistakes even when we think we’re protecting the other person. My father did. Rena and Simon did. I did.
“Don’t.” She holds up her hand, a literal exclamation mark. “I don’t want your empathy or friendship. And I still don’t want you here.” She walks out, but not with the defiant strides from every other time she’s walked away from me.
I look around the office, at my new life, familiar and foreign.
42
“Squeeze. Use your legs coming out of the corner. Squeeze.” The pony switches leads behind, then does an awkward skip-step and breaks into a too-fast trot. Matty bounces like a stuffed toy before landing in a heap in the dust of the indoor arena. The pony doesn’t bother to scoot away, just walks off, unconcerned. In the two weeks I’ve been teaching him, Matty has fallen off at least once a week.
Mrs. Thomson squeals and darts into the arena. “Matty, darling, are you okay? Oh, baby. That awful, awful pony. I’m selling him.”
And every time Matty lands in the dirt, she throws around a few accusations. A noise escapes from my diaphragm.
“Not as easy as you thought it would be, is it?” Jillian is leaning against the column of the half-door into the arena a few feet from me. The bleachers behind her are empty now that the sole occupant is in the arena, clucking and dusting at her child.
“I didn’t think it would be.” I bristle, because I had thought it would be easier. Not easy, I’m not that naïve, but I had
n’t expected how challenging it could be at times. I’ve had my share of what-did-I-do moments and corporate-life-was-so-much-easier moments. But it’s also been the happiest two weeks I can remember.
“You know, they fired me.”
I turn to look at her, surprised by the words as well as the matter-of-fact tone they were delivered with.
“No way.”
She nods. “Yes way. They told me I had to leave and deal with ‘my issues.’”
She looks at her feet; the toe of her right foot is planted into the ground while the heel pendulums left, then right. There’s an insecure vulnerability to the way she’s standing. How many times did I see her do this same thing? I always chalked it up to her extra-strength attitude. Now I see it for what it is and probably always was, the need for reassurance.
“I’m sorry, Jilli. I didn’t mean for any of this…” The words catch, afraid of igniting a Jilli response.
There’s no spark, no explosion. We stare at the hole her toe has made in the footing of the arena.
“They did the right thing. I needed a kick in the ass and they needed to know that it was okay to do it. I think they were always afraid of breaking me.”
Mrs. Thomson lets out a lion roar, “Absolutely not,” and Matty whines, “But Mom.”
I turn back to Jilli. “Are you dealing with those issues?” There’s no reason to tiptoe anymore.
“It’s not that easy.”
“Where have you been the last two weeks?”
“Talking about my issues.” She breaks out the syllables, puckering around the “u.”
“That’s good.”
“That’s crap.”
“Speaking of crap…” I hold up my finger in a give-me-a-minute and walk to the middle of the arena, where Matty and his mom are arguing.
“You are not to get back on that pony.”
“But, Mottthhhheeerrrrrr, I want to. I actually really want to. I almost had it.”
“I forbid it. And you,” she swivels her upper body, the bottom half catching up as she launches into her usual ultimatum, “are never to teach my Matty again, or we’re finding another stable.”