by Kaya McLaren
She did not hear the whispers of Great-Aunt Rae when she walked around the corner with Carly’s mom and, much to her horror, saw Carly’s napping place, the horse wide-awake now, not moving but looking at this tiny creature on its side with a wild and confused eye, then looking at Rae, imploring her to do something. She did not see her mother freeze on Rae’s command, terrified tears running down her face as helplessness overwhelmed her. She did not hear Rae swear under her breath and say, “Of all of the horses, she had to pick T. Rex,” and then swear some more. She only remembered being lifted swiftly off the soft warmth and opening her eyes to see a sky full of hooves as the giant horse rolled once, twice, and then got its feet under it and stood, taller than her very tall great-aunt.
Carly looked at that broad back, broad enough to go back to sleep on, and she reached out for the horse.
“I know. I know, little one. I know,” was all Great-Aunt Rae said.
The horse turned to sniff her, blowing hot air on Carly’s bare arms and face. She remembered that—all that hot wind. Then the horse turned and pranced away.
* * *
When Carly stepped out of the car, the smells on the wind confused and disarmed her momentarily. Pine. Hay. Horse manure. Horses. And then as she and her dad were circled once, then twice, by Violet the Australian shepherd, there was the smell of dog too. She wanted to squat down and get her fingers in all that fur, but she didn’t want to give her dad the satisfaction of seeing her happy. If he was going to treat her like a prisoner instead of a daughter, she was going to act like a prisoner instead of a daughter. You reap what you sow, Dad, she thought.
But turning over her shoulder and looking in the field beyond the barn, she scanned until she saw T. Rex, her favorite, and since no one could see her face, she smiled in spite of herself.
Amy
Back when Amy was receiving chemo infusions, she had leafed through an old issue of National Geographic—the one with the feature article about national parks. On the cover was a picture of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, and she recalled her dad telling her about how in early June, people came from all over to watch the lightning bugs put on their light show. Somehow all this time had passed and she had never made time to see that. Not that or much else. Her eyes had welled up with grateful tears because there was still time to change that. The chemo she was receiving was going to save her. Not everyone in the infusion room had such a good prognosis. Not everyone still had time to see the lightning bugs in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
In 1986, the year the little books were first published, her dad had given Alicia and Amy both a copy of Passport to Your National Parks for Christmas. It was only their second Christmas without their mom, and the grief was still so acute, but just opening the tiny book and seeing pictures of Mt. Rainier had evoked happy memories of a time when they were all together. Amy, Alicia, and their dad swapped memories, and then her dad said he hoped that his girls would always share his love for the national parks and enjoy documenting their adventures at every new place. Flipping through the little book some more, she dreamed of visiting every magical park and monument listed.
As the years passed, though, something always took priority, it seemed—finishing college, getting married, starting their careers. Before Carly was born, Amy had taught a weekly painting class in two different senior living communities and at a YMCA after-school program. When she wasn’t doing that, she was painting or peddling her paintings to furniture and home decor stores and sometimes at the farmers market. Then she rushed home in time to make dinner for Paul—not because he expected it necessarily but because she loved showing him love in this way. They bought a house they could barely afford in preparation for a family they hoped to have. After that, there was no money for traveling. It seemed they never had both freedom and money at the same time. After Carly was born, Amy remembered the dream, hoping to share her dad’s love of the national parks with her daughter; but then the bombing happened, and Paul changed, leaving her just wanting to give him whatever he needed to be happy. The beach seemed to make him happy.
One spring break back when Carly was seven, they did take her to Carlsbad Caverns, though, and it was far more magical than Amy had dared to dream it would be. Instead of taking the elevator, they had walked in, climbing farther and farther down until they were in a completely foreign world, one covered in jewels. The cave was unimaginably large, with an opaque turquoise pond in the middle, and she had stared in wonder at it all, trying to absorb every little detail as she walked behind her husband, who held their little girl’s hand. That night, from the campground, they had watched as millions of bats flew out of the cave to hunt for mosquitoes. Amy had felt like a girl again, immersed in the joy of discovery. Although Paul had seemed to enjoy himself, she’d noticed how tired he was. He’d yawned while driving and while wandering through the visitor center, and it had hit her that while she craved stimulation on vacation, Paul needed relaxation. He was so deep-down weary. He needed time away from humanity. So after that, they went back to the beach or occasionally visited Aunt Rae.
But now Amy didn’t need to take anyone else into consideration. Mt. Rainier National Park was her goal, but there were opportunities to check parks off her list between there and Oklahoma. Tonight, it was Great Sand Dunes National Park in Colorado.
She pulled in just as the sun was illuminating the sand, casting an orange glow on the western-facing sides, enhancing the forms with highlights and shadows. After finding a camping spot, she went for a short walk on a nature trail and marveled that here in the middle of the country so close to mammoth peaks, there would be giant sand dunes of all things. In the waning light, some visitors still surfed down the dunes on boards cut and shaped for that purpose, while those who were done for the day walked together through a wide but shallow river and back up the hill toward her, smiles on their faces. For a moment, she forgot about her painful year and simply felt the joy of discovery, but then as she saw the difference in how people looked at her now, she became acutely aware of how she appeared in the eyes of the visitors who passed her, and it was painful. She missed her hair. She missed being beautiful. Her mood darkened, and she kicked herself for thinking she could run away from any of this when it was so obvious that the vessel for the emotional distress wasn’t her house but her very own body and mind. Breathing deeply, she told herself she would feel better after some sleep.
After visiting the restroom, she made her bed in the back of her Honda CR-V station wagon with the same small pad and sleeping bag she had used on camping trips as a teenager. Before crawling in, she dug through the tote that sat on the passenger seat to find the flashlight she had packed, and then, ready for sleep, she dove in. Her bed was hard, so much harder than she had imagined it would be. Hard and hot. As soon as she zipped her sleeping bag, she had a hot flash and abruptly unzipped it, turned on her flashlight, and awkwardly reached over the seat to dig for a hand towel in the tote to blot off her excess sweat before it soaked into her sleeping bag. A lot of things were better in a person’s imagination, she mused as she lay back down. She had no idea how she was actually going to sleep on such a hard surface, and as she tried, her whole trip felt like a big mistake.
She had been so certain that it would feel so good to put miles between her and the pressures at home—the pressure to be who she was, to feel normal and act normal, to be a good wife when she knew she surely repulsed her husband, and to be a good mother when her daughter clearly wanted nothing to do with her. Yes, she thought she would feel better, but now that she was away, she felt very little relief at all. She still felt weary and irreparably broken.
After she watched the first stars emerge from twilight, she closed her eyes to sleep but just sweated instead. Her own home at least offered the comfort of familiarity, after all. Familiarity and a little fan on her bedside table just for moments like these. She could have stayed and had the house all to herself while Paul and Carly were gone. But what would she have done wit
h the house all to herself? Cry some more?
She rested her hands on her chest, on top of her T-shirt, felt the uneven ridges and bumps where her breasts used to be, the asymmetry, the giant dimple on the stump of her left breast that reminded her of a manatee’s mouth, and she moved her hands in small circles to help her nerves recalibrate. The tingly, electric sensations spread, and she followed the sensations up her chest and into her armpits. They weren’t the good kind of tingly sensations she used to get in the early days of her relationship with Paul when he touched her there. They were the high-voltage kind that followed nerve damage. “Heal, heal, heal,” she whispered to her body as she touched it, both an order and a desperate prayer.
It was all in the region of her heart, in the part of her body where she used to hold and feed her child, in this place that touched the heart of another when she hugged them. All this numbness. All this loss. All this emptiness. It was all right there where she used to feel so much.
Carly
Carly couldn’t untangle all the things she felt so anxious about. Sleeping in a new place. Being seen as a failure now. Failing tomorrow. Disappointing Great-Aunt Rae. Difficult decisions about her future that she would need to make starting in about a month and a half. The likelihood that she would go through what her mom went through. Control. Having no control now. Having little control later. Then having no control again at the end of her surely too-short life. Being unlovable. And undesirable. Being lonely. That last thought was what actually hit her hardest.
On the bedside table, Great-Aunt Rae had left a small stack of books for Carly, and since she was unable to sleep, she picked up each one and examined it: field guides for birds and flowers; The Milagro Beanfield War, which was set in northern New Mexico; a novel called The Death of Bernadette Lefthand, set on the Jicarilla Apache Reservation nearby; plus The Bean Trees, Cowboys Are My Weakness, and How I Came West, and Why I Stayed. And even though she and Great-Aunt Rae were leaving on a pack trip the next day, Great-Aunt Rae had put a few wild roses in a jar there too. They smelled like cotton candy. Great-Aunt Rae was trying. Carly remembered what it felt like to try.
Great-Aunt Rae had explained when showing Carly to this room that next to her bed were a pair of old riding boots that she had bought on sale and found to be uncomfortably just a little too small and that she hoped they would fit Carly. And in the closet, she had put a few cowgirl shirts she had outgrown, uncertain whether Carly would like them or wear them. Guests liked it when the guides dressed the part though, so she always made an effort and hoped Carly would as well.
Over the doorway hung an angel that someone had hand carved from wood. It looked down over Carly as if keeping watch. If it was meant to comfort her, it didn’t. It only left her wondering why. Why her mom. And probably one day why her.
She slipped out of bed and tried on one of the cowgirl shirts—red with white trim on the yokes and pockets. It was a little big, but fine. Then she pulled her curtain open enough to peek out. Under the nearly full moon, she could see the shapes of the gentle giants in the large paddock. Feeling the pull, she slipped on jeans and socks and carried her shoes as she crept down the little hall to the stairs. Boards squeaked like tattletales, but neither her dad nor Great-Aunt Rae opened their doors to check on her. That was a surprise. Usually her dad was more vigilant than that, and a light sleeper too. Surely a part of him had to be anticipating that she might run away. Maybe he was giving up on her. She was surprised to feel that possibility turn her stomach like bad fish.
Violet barked once and then recognized her enough to suspend judgment. Maybe the shirt and boots still smelled enough like Great-Aunt Rae to convince the dog that Carly was okay. As she sat on the porch steps and put on her shoes, Violet wriggled up next to her, shaking her back end, happy to have company. Carly put an arm around the furry dog, surprised to find a feeling of comfort wash over her. It was similar to when she drank water after not realizing she had been so thirsty. Memories of all the moments she had needed a hug in the last several months bubbled right up to the surface. Worried someone would catch her before she made it all the way to T. Rex, she patted Violet’s shoulder and walked out to her destination. Unable to tell whether the horses were sleeping, she leaned on the rails of the fence and quietly talked to them. She certainly did not want to get stepped on by startled Clydesdales when she approached them.
Violet ran back toward the house, and for a minute, Carly considered hiding, but she wasn’t doing anything wrong, really. She figured that if it was her dad, Violet would have barked, so it was probably Great-Aunt Rae. It seemed best to just stay put.
Soon she heard footsteps, and then Great-Aunt Rae stood next to her and leaned on the same rail. At first, she didn’t say anything, and then she asked, “Do you remember your first ride?”
Carly thought and then answered, “I don’t know. A lot of memories blend together.”
“It’s one of my very favorite memories. I remember sitting on Tea for Two, yes, a dumb name for a good horse, but on this occasion, rather appropriate. Your dad climbed the tractor tires I used as a mounting block with you in tow. You were only four years old. I will never forget the look on your face—the perfectly appropriate mix of terror and euphoria as your dad lifted you up and out to sit bareback right in front of me. I said, ‘Hold on to the mane there, cowgirl! We’re going on an adventure!’” Smiling, Great-Aunt Rae paused for a long moment before she continued.
“I remember the feeling of your little ribs against my own as you nearly hyperventilated with excitement, your little body so rigid.… I knew you were apt to slide right off if you didn’t learn to sink in. I said, ‘Here’s what you need to know, cowgirl. Relax your low back so that your tushie moves with the horse and the rest of you floats along above it. Breathe in one, two, three, breathe out one, two, three.…’ And what I remember most was feeling the moment you synchronized with that horse, and I knew that you were hooked. I remember thinking that you were one of my tribe now—the tribe of horse-crazy girls and girl-crazy horses, my spirit tribe.”
Again, Great-Aunt Rae paused. It gave Carly a moment to consider whether she was going to allow the belonging that was being offered to sink into her heart or whether she was going to resolve to be impermeable and let the belonging that was being offered slide off. Before she made up her mind, Great-Aunt Rae began to speak again.
“It was something, you know. This little child sitting in front of me, her dreams coming true right that very instant … such a bitty thing in the space between my arms. For just an instant, I had a taste of what my life might have been like if there had not been a war going on during the one time in my life when I had really been in love. I wasn’t sure whether to feel sad at what life hadn’t given me or grateful for the little taste of pure sweetness that it was offering me in that very moment. Tea for Two walked through the long loop with us on his back and your dad following on foot and taking pictures until your mom reached out and touched his arm. She knew. She remembered. There were moments too sacred for pictures, too sacred for the distraction of having them taken. There were moments that should be allowed to be the pure magic they were.
“We wandered away on our own, our noses full of the scent of horse and wild roses, your little hands full of fur and mane … soft, well-oiled leather reins and a little girl in mine. I had wanted that ride to last forever, but when you began to head bob just a little, I broke the sacred silence and asked you all of the questions I saved just for the rare moments that I met a four-year-old, questions about how you thought it all worked. The big questions like where horses came from and where wildflowers came from and why you thought you were born a girl and not a horse. This woke you up, and you rattled off ideas in fragments that sometimes made sense all strung together and sometimes did not, but you stayed awake until we were safely back at the barn.” Great-Aunt Rae took a long breath. “Not a lot of things in my life softened me. But that moment was one thing that did. Softened me all the way to the very center
of my beat-up heart.”
Great-Aunt Rae kept her eyes on the horses even when Carly turned to look at her with a small smile. A smile like a peace offering. She had never considered that Great-Aunt Rae had ever been in love, or that she might have wanted anything out of life other than what she had gotten, or that her heart might have felt beat-up.
“Well, kiddo, child of my tribe, don’t stay out too long. Tomorrow is a big day. Life is more fun when you’ve had enough sleep. It’s safer, too.” Great-Aunt Rae gave Carly a pat on the back and a little smile before leaving her to remember something about who she was in the presence of girl-crazy horses.
T. Rex turned to face her. Moonlight shone on his back, illuminating his outline like a halo. And even though she had hated having her dad’s will imposed upon her, she couldn’t help it. She was glad she was here.
Paul
Paul came down the stairs with his things and found Rae sitting at the kitchen table. “Good morning, Rae. I woke up early and got to thinking that if I left before Carly woke, you two might get off to a better start.”
Rae nodded in agreement. “Leave her a note, though.” She poured him a cup of coffee and set granola and milk on the table along with two bowls and two spoons. “Did you stop by your house?”
“Drove by. That’s all.”
“You going to?”
He nodded. “It’s high time I assess the situation.” He dreaded it—dreaded seeing his dream ruined, possibly beyond repair.
“You know, if you wanted to stay, Carly and I won’t be back here for a week. Key to the garage is right there. I’ve got plenty of tools. And you can use my truck if you need to buy anything that won’t fit in your car.”