“It is what it is.” Dad turned her away from Derek and me. “I have a good feeling. I know I’ll win, and then we can head up to that place Julia told us about last month. Mendocino, was it?” He tilted her chin up with his finger.
Mom nodded, avoiding his gaze.
Seraphim whinnied and gave a sharp kick, rocking the trailer.
“We better get on the road to settle them,” Dad said, his lips brushing hers. Mom pulled him closer.
“Please stay.”
“Amelia. Let’s not go over this again. This is what I do.”
Mom’s hand clung to his shirt. I felt for her. I really did. She didn’t understand horses and was terrified something would happen to Dad and me, constantly reminding us of Christopher Reeve. She’d grown up on the East Coast, their families socializing in the same circles. They had been good friends, and she’d been there—had seen his accident happen. She wouldn’t allow Dad to tell her that that had been a freak accident. That Christopher had been an amateur competing in a cross-country event—a much different sport than show jumping.
“All right, Brynn. Time to go,” Dad ushered me toward the truck, his forehead even more creased than before. “Derek, call me with any questions.” Dad placed his hands on Derek’s shoulders. “I trust you’ll take care of things, son.”
“Yessir.” Derek clicked the heels of his paddock boots and saluted.
We were almost to the truck when Mom caught up to us. “Luke!”
Dad turned back.
Mom reached her arm out to him, then let it drop. “Go show them how it’s done.”
Almost five o’clock.
We’d been driving since eleven in the morning. I couldn’t wait to stretch my legs. I closed my equine anatomy book and looked at the GPS for the hundredth time. We were somewhere past Eugene, Oregon. After Oregon we’d go north to Washington, then a short skip through Idaho, and finally across the border into Alberta: thirteen hundred miles in all. Green fields stretched into mountains in the distance.
I glanced over at Dad. His jaw was set in his typical determined fashion as he checked the side mirrors of our Dodge pickup. His slate-blue eyes, so much like mine, narrowed as he concentrated on the road. And even though years spent outdoors in the sun had aged him, his energy and joy for the horses made him seem younger than fifty-five. Luke Seymour, a top hunter-jumper trainer on the West Coast, was a force to be reckoned with, but today he was just my dad—and this would be one of the last times I would drive to Spruce Meadows with him.
I’d have to tell him soon.
The afternoon shadow on his jaw was starting to show, making me want to reach out and touch it, like I used to as a kid. I had loved the sensation of that rough stubble against my cheek as he’d tickle me and throw me in the air.
He never talked much, but when he did, people listened. And he was always thinking, it seemed. I doubt he ever had a spare moment of time to not think—about shows, clients, the farrier, the vet, or about the hay. There were always worries about hay. Its supply. The quality. Rain during harvest. Rain during delivery.
I knew this drive well, having done it every summer for the last ten years. We made pit stops along the way to check on the horses, to give them fresh water, let their legs rest, and then we’d be on the road again. At night we’d sleep in the trailer, in small sleeping quarters built into the gooseneck. Dad said we saved money and time, which there never seemed to be enough of.
Dad looked over at me. “You wanna drive?”
I was too surprised to answer right away. “Sure. We can switch.” Dad usually drove the entire way, although the last couple of summers he had let me take the wheel for a spell. “But don’t do that thing you always do,” I said.
“What thing?”
“You know, watching my every move. Your knuckles get all white and your jaw clenches and then that vein at the side of your neck looks like it’ll pop.”
Dad wrinkled his forehead, but then his face softened. “I promise I’ll be good.”
Over my lifetime, we’d probably spent close to six hundred hours in this truck together, driving all over the western United States and Canada interstate highways, pulling our trailer full of jumpers.
For this trip, Dad had hooked up a camera in the trailer. “Amazing technology,” he’d said, tapping the monitor. “Now we can watch the horses in the back while traveling in the front. Isn’t this great?” He’d laughed and slapped me on the back. On these trips he treated me like a partner, and I liked that.
I’d checked that monitor over a hundred times in the last six hours, gazing at the horses in the trailer:
Jett, Seraphim, and Cervantes. Black, chestnut, and gray. Jett, my baby, always calm and wise. Seraphim, the anxiety freak, who should really be on the equine equivalent of Ritalin, and Cervantes, more of a teenager than I’d ever been—bucking, tearing up the paddock whenever he was turned out.
Most of the time they just munched on the hay hanging in their hay nets. Sometimes they dozed, their heads bobbing with the rhythm of the ride. At one point I laughed aloud, imagining them as little Breyer horses in my plastic trailer that still stood on the shelf in my bedroom. As a child I’d zoomed that plastic truck and trailer around the house with those horses in the back. A familiar scene playing itself out again, one I had done hundreds of times in my imaginary world.
The sun started to set, reflecting from the side mirror straight into my eyes. I pulled my sunglasses down.
“If I haven’t told you, I’m glad you’re coming.” Dad straightened his back as he leaned toward the steering wheel, his hands gripping it with pure excitement. “This is it, Brynn. Cervantes . . . he’s it. He’s the horse of my dreams and I want you to be there. To see us jump. It’ll be something, all right. I can’t believe he was passed up by all those trainers in Europe.” He chuckled. “I tell you, those Belgians don’t know a good horse if it was to kick them in the teeth. You watch, with a more forward seat and a lighter hand he’ll jump a meter-sixty. Just like he was born to.”
Yes. But would he do it in a stadium in front of sixty thousand spectators?
But I smiled and nodded, dutifully, as I’d always done. Dad counted on that first-place prize, his share amounting to nearly $70,000. If Dad did well at this show, the winnings would pay for Cervantes, his shipping from Europe, and most importantly, he’d attract more clients for our training program. Those had been slower to come than he’d hoped.
“Are you excited?” Dad asked.
“That’s a rhetorical question.” I gazed out at the panoramic view, much greener here this time of year than back home, the fields subdivided into neat rectangular and square shapes.
“But?” Dad pressed.
How was I supposed to explain that I didn’t think I’d ever be good enough? And not only that: just like the breeding of a horse limits him, my petite frame would always limit me. At five four and a half, and at just over a hundred pounds, I wasn’t strong enough to control Jett, who usually pulled me through the jumps. And there was Mom’s fear of me falling, getting hurt, like Christopher Reeve. I knew how terrified she was and had wanted to make her happy. Make her proud of me by going to school.
Maybe I could tell him now? I glanced over at Dad, but he looked lost in thought again. Dad ran his hand through his hair, dislodging a piece of hay that flitted to his shoulder. It reminded me how much I longed for thick hair like his. I placed my hand up to the back of my head and touched my ponytail, pin straight, hanging halfway down my back. Together our heads were like the ebony and ivory of a chessboard.
“I thought you’d be more excited. This is The Queen Elizabeth Cup.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I know, I know. You’ll be jumping in the lower classes, so it’s not that big a deal, but it’s what you both need. Practice for the Gold Cup.”
The Gold Cup. Grand prize: a million dollars. The winner took home a third of the pot, with the rest split among the rest of the top twelve riders. I hadn’t a chance in the w
orld to qualify for it, never mind win. It was the highest level of competition on the West Coast. The Gold Cup was Dad’s dream. And if that wasn’t enough, Dad dreamed of both of us competing at the Olympics. He dreamed of us on the same team: father and daughter, riding for the gold—show jumping was one of only two events in the Olympics in which men and women competed directly against each other. We’d talked about it ever since I could walk, but it was just a silly little dream. Not that I would ever say that in front of Dad. He seriously believed we’d be like the famous Canadian Ian Millar and his kids, or the Belgian Ludo Phillipaerts, who rode with his sons.
What were the odds? Something like one in ten million? But I wasn’t going to be the one to ruin that dream for him—at least not yet. I had to keep up an act. Until after this trip. That’s when I’d tell him I was quitting riding.
The radio crackled. I searched for a station, finally giving up and turning it completely off.
Dad started in again. “You know, Jett can move up to be a Gold Cup horse, but it’s not going to be easy since he doesn’t have the raw scope.”
Yes. The famous all-inclusive term scope that jumper trainers, and every wannabe trainer, used. Scope, defined as natural talent, physical capability, a horse’s conformation and spirit in one. His potential. A small word that encompassed so much. Not unlike the word love.
“I know.” I folded my feet up on the seat and tore at the threads hanging off the bottom of my worn jeans, letting the string bite into my finger as I wrapped it tighter and tighter. I wished he wouldn’t bring up scope. Jett was home-bred and we still weren’t sure whether he had enough of it. Plus, he barely reached sixteen hands, which was small for a jumper.
As if reading my mind my dad interjected, “Don’t worry. With more hard work and practice, you’ll get there.” He reached over and patted my knee.
I sighed. “I know, Dad. I know.”
I checked the camera. The horses had nodded off. I closed my eyes for a moment and rested my head on the back of the seat, my mind swirling with all the things I really wanted to say—and all the things I never could.
The truck lurched. Then again. My stomach jolted to my throat. We heard a loud bang, and the truck swerved.
“What was that?” I bolted upright, peering over at Dad in the dim light. He surveyed the traffic through his side mirrors. A car passed, then slowed and honked. The driver yelled, waving his arm about. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. I looked back to the video monitor. The darkness made it harder to see what the monitor displayed.
Something wasn’t right. I saw Seraphim shake her head, wrestling it up. Was she irritated at the lead rope attached to her halter? She started kicking, her body jerking left and right, up and down. The other two horses angled their bodies away from Seraphim, who stood in between them, turning their heads to look at her, as if trying to figure out what was going on. I leaned forward, scrutinizing the small monitor.
“What is it?” Dad asked.
“Not sure. Seraphim’s freaking out at something.”
“The truck’s swerving. Doesn’t feel right.”
I felt another lurch. “She seems to be getting worse,” I said. With that, her kicking jerked and rocked the whole truck. Even at fifty-five miles per hour, I was aware of the fragility of the truck and trailer, knowing that a panicked thirteen-hundred-pound horse could do a lot of damage to the trailer, and to the horses in it with her.
Another car passed, this time slowing to drive next to us. The woman in the passenger seat waved her hand, pointing wildly to the back of the trailer. The kids in the backseat were glued to the rear window, staring at something.
I looked more closely at the monitor.
“I think the back trailer door is open,” I said, practically in a whisper.
Dad peered ahead. “I don’t see a rest stop anywhere.”
I sat up onto my knees, staring out the back window, as if I could do something.
He merged into the far-right lane, slowing down. We passed a sign that read the rest stop was eight miles away. Too far. Much too far.
“I’ll have to pull over,” he said, and although his voice was calm, I heard it waver.
I started to unbuckle, my heart beating loud, my breath shallow.
“Now don’t you dare go into that trailer, Brynn. We’ll just stop to settle her down.”
I nodded, biting my cuticles.
“And stay away from the freeway, you hear?”
I nodded again.
Dad slowed the truck, the trailer shook with Seraphim’s kicking. A large truck zipped by, rattling us even more.
Even before the truck stopped, I was out running. “It’s all right, Sera, it’s all right,” I called. I ran around the trailer to the back, and even before I got there I saw the dented ramp, off the hinges, the trailer door unlatched swinging in the gusts created by the passing trucks. Dad joined me, grabbing the ramp, eyeing the door, trying desperately to shut it.
He eyed the broken latch. “How the hell did this happen?”
A large truck’s horn blared as it passed, making me jump. I felt light-headed. I hadn’t double-checked the latch. I was supposed to have double-checked the latch. I had been distracted by my own thoughts.
Seraphim kicked even harder.
“We have to calm her.” Dad ran along the freeway to the trailer window. “Stay to the side!”
I ran after him. Cars and trucks whizzed by less than five feet from us. Dad climbed on top of the wheel to reach the alum-window gate. Seraphim flung her head every which way, kicking and rearing. A chunk of green froth from her mouth fell on my arm.
“Can we get her out?” I asked.
“Not possible. Where would we put Cervantes?”
“I could hold him while you unload her.”
Dad shook his head. “She’s too far gone. We couldn’t control her. And if she ran onto the freeway . . .” He didn’t need to explain. Cars honked, the sound wailing past me. I turned to look behind us just as something flew toward me. I ducked my head but not before a small razor-like rock stung my cheek.
I reached up and felt the warmth of blood on my fingers.
“Brynn! You all right?” Dad was at my side, peering at my face. “We’ve gotta get off this road!” He pulled me behind the trailer and examined the cut closer, and for that moment I felt safe with his hands on me.
“It’s okay, it doesn’t hurt,” I said. Dad gave me a questioning look, but turned toward Seraphim’s window.
“Go grab the Ace,” Dad said, then turned to talk to Seraphim in a soothing voice. I ran to get our medical supplies and to fill the syringe with the tranquilizer. We’d need to administer it intravenously if we wanted the effects to kick in sometime in the next fifteen minutes. A panicking horse rarely calmed down until they sensed safety, and Seraphim was overtaken by fear. My fingers shook, and I accidentally stabbed myself with the needle. I sucked on the blood from my finger, telling myself to calm down. I had done plenty of injections over the years, and especially this past year in school. I managed to fill the syringe, then tapped the side to get the air bubbles out.
“How are we going to give it to her? We can’t get at her when she’s panicking like this. We’ll never hold her still enough to find a vein.” My voice, unnaturally high, barely rose above the screaming traffic.
“We don’t have a choice.” Dad kept his voice low. Beads of sweat had formed on his upper lip. I licked my own lips, trying to get the dryness out of my mouth.
“Keep calm, Brynn. Here’s what we’re gonna do.” He grabbed my shoulder, making me face him. “You’ll have to help me keep Cervantes from rushing out of the trailer when we undo the back tailgate holding him in. Then I’ll go in and try to give her the shot.”
I agreed, even though I knew that the chance of Dad hitting a vein when Seraphim was rearing was close to nil.
Dad placed his hand on the tailgate bar. “You ready?”
I wasn’t, but I didn’t have a choice. With my
right hand I felt in my back pocket for the capped syringe.
Seraphim was wild with anxiety and fear. Her eyes rolled back in her head, showing her whites like some crazed beast out of a horror movie. She tried to lunge upward but her head, held down by the tie, was contained.
We unlatched the tailgate and instinctively Cervantes pulled back. Dad gave him a pat on his haunches while I held the door slightly closed, trying to prevent him from bolting out of the trailer.
My eyes adjusted to the dimness inside. Jett pawed the ground, but at least he wasn’t panicking yet. His black hair shone in the receding light, his tail swished. Seraphim, chestnut coat lathered in her own froth, pawed and kicked. White foam stuck to the roof and sides of the trailer.
Seraphim let out an earsplitting squeal.
I reached up to cover my ears, letting the trailer door go.
It slammed, making Cervantes jump. Terror gripped me, my breath caught in my throat, my lungs burned for air. I grabbed the door. Seraphim had managed to break the snap that attached the rope to the halter. Sensing freedom, she reared as high as she could in the confines of the trailer. As she came down, her foot caught on the stall divider. A spray of red blotted out everything around her. She gave out another piercing squeal, trying to rear again. Blood splattered Cervantes’s gray-white coat. My knees buckled.
My eyes sought out Jett; he was calm, almost tranquil. He turned his head toward me, his black eyes met mine, and for a moment I felt his strength, and a fleeting sense of serenity washed over me.
“Okay, Brynn. Latch that door open. You need to be near his head, keep him calm, and hold him in. Cervantes will be fine. Won’t you, boy?” Dad placed a hand on Cervantes’s haunches. I grappled with the steel clasp, but it kept slipping through my uncooperative fingers. What should have taken me seconds seemed to take minutes. By the time I finished, Dad had undone the back safety bar and had pushed Cervantes’s hind end over so that he could get closer to Seraphim. Cervantes’s haunches scooted partway down the ramp.
Learning to Fall Page 2