Learning to Fall

by Anne Clermont

  Headlights swept across the road as a car turned into the driveway. I stood expectantly, but they weren’t the limo’s. A few more cars drove in and out. I moved behind a column, ashamed to be sitting at the bottom of the driveway. I’d just rest my head against the column, close my eyes, wait. The limo was bound to be here soon.

  My dad had taught me to never stand directly behind a horse because I might get kicked. Herbivores can spend as long as ten hours per day grazing and since they need to be on constant lookout for predators, their eyes are on the sides of their heads. It allows for an almost perfect three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view—except directly behind them.

  I woke up at dawn in front of the mansion and stared out at the view ahead of me—the hills dotted with homes, the blue of the ocean below—and I remembered Dad’s lesson. I hadn’t seen what was directly behind me—Chris behaving like the idiot-cheater-asshole he was.

  The sky brightened with the rising sun. I figured it must be around six thirty. I’d been so blind. So stupid.

  I stood up, brushed the leaves and dirt from my dress, and walked up the driveway. A few cars were still in the driveway. I climbed the stairs to the front doors, wiping at my teeth with my finger, praying to God I didn’t look as terrible as I felt, and knocked quietly on the etched glass. No one answered. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, but I also didn’t feel right about my two other options. One: ring the doorbell and wake the host who had probably gone to bed late; or two: walk into someone’s house without an invitation and possibly get mistaken for a burglar.

  The door swung open.

  Roman’s friend stood on the other side, hair neatly combed. He wore a red-and-white jogging suit and neon yellow-and-black running shoes. He seemed as fresh as if he had spent the day at a relaxing spa drinking a secret-formula cleanse juice. He eyed me up and down.

  “Oh, dear,” he said, clucking his tongue. “You look like you slept in bush.”

  “You have no idea,” I mumbled.

  “Party over,” he said, scrutinizing me, “or going still on, depending on who you are . . .” His eyebrow lifted above deep-set gray eyes.

  “I, um, well, you see, I was here with my friend Roman last night.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest.

  “Roman? Tak! My good friend! You are looking for him? I don’t know where is he. Who you are?”

  “Brynn.”

  “Brynn. Boy name, no?” He eyed me up and down again, his face perplexed.

  “But where my manners are, no? Come in, Brynn.” He rolled the r as he said my name, and pulled the heavy glass and steel door wide open.

  “I’m actually looking for a phone. I was supposed to get a ride home with my friends, but it looks like I missed it.”

  “Tak, tak! Come in moja grószka.”

  I had no idea what that meant, but at this point I didn’t care. I held my clutch and heels tight against my chest, wishing I had a cover-up or better yet, my sweater that I’d lost somewhere the night before.

  The place should have been designated a disaster area, but was still as impressive as the night before. People lay on every surface available: floor, chairs, couches, their limbs contorted every which way. I stepped over beer bottles, glasses, and cigarette butts. Gold-framed mirrors lined the wall of the large dancing room.

  He took me to the kitchen, the doors still open to the patio outside. “Sit, okay?” he said, pointing to a tall bar stool at the edge of an island. I plopped down, too weak to argue, happy to take my feet off the gummed-up floor. The cabinetry, in a deep cherry mahogany, extended along the top wall and below the counter in a semicircle.

  “Juice?” he said, turning away. Sure enough, there was green juice in the blender. I put my hand up to my mouth and laughed. I laughed until tears spilled over. The laughter felt good, like a cleansing of its own kind.

  “No juice?” he asked, eyeing me. “I have not coffee, juice only.” He arched his eyebrow in question, still waiting for my answer.

  “Juice would be fine. Thanks.” I said, wiping under my eyes, wondering if my mascara had smudged. I wasn’t used to wearing any. My head throbbed, likely from dehydration as much as from alcohol. The back of my throat burned. The juice tasted surprisingly good; even though it was green, it tasted of strawberries and mangoes and like the good green earth back home. I finished my glass, and stared into the bottom.

  “Can I use your phone?” I said, but reconsidered. Who would I call? Chris? Jason? My mother? “Or better yet, do you think you could call a cab? I need to get h—um, to my hotel.”

  “You don’t want to stay? I have nice shower upstairs. Clean clothes,” he clucked again, “would fit you . . .” He nodded approvingly. “You stay. We have nice pool.”

  “I’ve seen your pool. Thanks.” Memories of Chris with his hand up Vivian’s dress went through my head. “I really need to get back.”

  “I drive you.”

  “No, really. That’s okay.” I shook my head, standing up and placing the glass in the sink. “I just need a cab.”

  “No. I drive. Come, come. Friend of Roman friend of me.”

  Aleksy turned out to be all right. He drove me back to the hotel in his red Ferrari, and didn’t even hit on me. Well, maybe his hand rested on my knee at a stoplight once. I gently removed it, and he didn’t try again. He waited for me to enter the lobby as if we’d been on a date. I turned and waved goodbye, and he waved back, his bright teeth flashing through the passenger window.

  He leaned into the passenger seat. “I come watch your show next week!”

  I smiled and turned away, not giving him another thought, nor bothering to tell him my next show wasn’t for over a month.

  After going through an ID check, I retrieved a new key card from the front desk and slogged to the room. I closed the door and leaned against it, my head pounding more than it had an hour ago. I scanned the room. My shoes and riding boots were lined up against the wall, my laptop sat neatly piled on top of my notepad. The sheets on the bed were turned down, and a little piece of gold-wrapped chocolate on the pillow beckoned me. How strange to see a made bed first thing in the morning. A wave of shame washed over me. How could I have broken Jason’s rule of no drinking and partying?

  I threw my shoes and purse down, peeling off the ruined dress as I walked to the bathroom. I drew a hot bath, and threw in some scented oils left on the side of the Jacuzzi tub. I had an hour to be at the show to help pack, and needed to make myself feel somewhat human before seeing Jason.

  On the way back to the show grounds I thought about what I’d say to Chris. I wanted closure. I wanted to tell him where to go, but of course he conveniently made himself scarce. I walked past trailers, staff busy breaking down awnings, taking down drapes, and packing horse supplies into boxes.

  When I got to Chris’s tent, orange hay ties, coffee cups, and empty grain bags greeted me. The sod that had been so meticulously laid down the day prior to the show had turned brown, the grass crushed in the mud, ready to be tossed in the dumpster.

  I stood in front of the empty stalls, white vinyl, stained with mud and manure, stretched across a rickety metal frame, a red stamp designating it as number 34B. A skeleton of the fancy decor that had been there just the day before.

  My fists clenched and unclenched at my sides. He’d left without so much as a goodbye. I leaned down, and found a fourth-place yellow show ribbon, Chris’s name scribbled on the back. I bit at my cuticles, drawing blood, then yelled “No!”

  A passing Mexican groom stared at me from under his hoodie, then hurried away.

  I turned on my heel and walked back to our stalls.

  “How many times have I told you how important that rule was to me?”

  I leaned my head down, rebraiding my hair. The bath, the two liters of water, two cups of coffee, and of course the green juice at Aleksy’s house hadn’t taken the smell of alcohol from my breath.

  “Dammit, Brynn, it really doesn’t seem like you want to win. Sometimes it feels like you t
hink this is just a joke.” I’d never seen him lose his temper before.

  “I know. I know it’s not a joke. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what happened. It was a shitty night. I made poor choices.” Mai’s hand on Jason’s arm flashed before my eyes, making me see red again, reminding me of the jealousy that had led me to go out with Chris. I wished I had stayed in the hotel room instead.

  “You could have called me,” Jason said.

  “Were you in?”

  A look of surprise crossed Jason’s face, then the hardness crept into his jaw again. “Yes, Brynn. I was in. Did you expect something else?”

  “No. I just thought. I saw you with Mai, and I thought—”

  Jason stopped and laughed, then shook his head. “I ran into Mai in the lobby on the way to the reception last night. I escorted her into the banquet hall, but we didn’t go together. And we sure as heck didn’t leave together. Though I did see you leave with Chris and the rest of them.”

  I hung my head, feeling shame, and the incessant pounding of my head and heart.

  “You know, Brynn, sometimes you act so grown-up, and at other times I feel like I’m dealing with a child. You want to go out and party? Ignore my rules? That’s fine. But I’m not going to stand by and watch.”

  I grabbed his arm as he turned to leave. “Please. It was a mistake.”

  Jason paused, straightened his shoulders back and closed his eyes. “You’re right. I’m overreacting.” He sat on a bale of hay, and placed his face in his hands. “I’ve seen this before, though, and I’m sensitive to it. I’ve been down that road, and trust me when I tell you, it gets ugly quick.”

  He was quiet for a moment and I gave him a nod of understanding.

  He continued, “When I won the first World Cup, I had trained hard, worked for years to get there. Thanks to Ian, no less. He found me at the racetrack at the age of eleven, when I was just a kid trying to make some extra money to help pay for the cockroach-filled apartment above a gas station we had to move to after our house got repossessed. Ian was treating a horse at the racetrack at the stable I was working at, mucking stalls. He’d known my dad, and our history, from seeing him around the track. He pitied me, I guess, took me under his wing and got me my first job at a jumping stable. That’s how I met your dad. Through Ian.” Jason looked at me now, his eyes holding mine. “Your dad gave me some of the best lessons of my life. He was the real deal. A true horseman.”

  I sat next to him, shocked at this news, trying to wrack my brain, trying to remember if my dad had ever mentioned Jason, but I would have been less than ten years old then. “Your dad came down to teach clinics sometimes, or to show, and whenever he was in Southern California, Ian would take me to see him. I took lessons with whomever I could the rest of the time, having to stay close to LA, to my mother, who got sick with cancer. I got other people’s horses to ride, and soon people noticed I had talent. I got lucky. But by the second time I won the World Cup, I let it all go to my head. I was riding on fumes, riding on pure luck. Within months of the second win, the prestige, the clinics, the stardom, all got to my head, and the booze, drugs, parties, and girls were easy to come by. I became unrecognizable even to myself.” Jason stood, and looked at me for a long moment. I debated hugging him, but didn’t feel it was right. He said, “I’m headed to the office to check out.”

  I stood. “What happened? What got you back on track?”

  “My mother died. I had promised Ashley I’d come take care of her for the weekend, promised I’d be there. Ashley had a friend’s wedding to go to, so she left, thinking I would be there. But I forgot. I got high at a party, slept through the day, went to another, and by the time I remembered, I found my mother lying in a pool of vomit and urine in her kitchen. She’d knocked her head, then choked on her own vomit. She was at the end stage of her life, and needed constant care—and I had promised to be there.”

  I stared at him, opened my mouth to say I’m sorry, but Jason only nodded. Then turned and walked away.

  Surveying all the equipment and horse supplies that needed to go home made my head pound louder. Suddenly it seemed as if the earth swayed, and I had to grab the edge of the stall to keep from falling. I closed my eyes, knowing it was just the hangover and lack of sleep, though really, a lot of it had to do with Chris the night before and now Jason. I’d never seen him even remotely upset.

  Derek showed up late, his cap pulled low, his sunglasses perched on his nose, looking like I felt. He had gotten back to the hotel in the limo with the rest of the group. When I asked him why he hadn’t looked for me, he said they all had, but he’d assumed I’d gone home with Chris, since he was nowhere to be found either. I couldn’t blame him for making that assumption. That’s what should have happened. I didn’t tell him what I’d seen at the pool, unable to relive the scene just yet.

  “Damn, B. I’m not used to that anymore.” He moved like a broken-down horse. Then, as if noticing his surroundings for the first time, he said, “Where’s Jason?”

  “Office. Checking out.” I made my way to the end of our short row of stalls, noticing all the stuff that still needed organizing and packing. I asked Derek if he had any ibuprofen.

  “Nope, but a Bloody Mary sounds good.” He groaned, plopping onto one of the lounge chairs, head between his knees.

  “You’ve got ten minutes. Get it together, because I need your help.” I threw a polo wrap at his head. His response, a pitiful moan, escaped as he stretched out on the chair, his feet up on the patio table, his cap over his eyes.

  My first task was to lug the large container filled with horse shampoos, conditioners, body sprays, liniments, lotions, and ointments. Almost tripping, I peered over the edge of the container. A dandy brush lay amongst the litter on the ground. Balancing the container on my knee I leaned down to pick it up when a shadow darkened my path. My eyes moved up a pair of designer jeans. The nausea that had subsided earlier overcame me again.

  Vivian.

  “Chris went home,” she said, her hand on her hip.

  “I know.” I shifted the container, trying to get around her.

  “You should have watched him more carefully.”

  I paused, closing my eyes, wishing she’d leave. I opened the side compartment door of the trailer and slid the container in. Vivian leaned against the side of the trailer. “It’s not my fault, you know. He wanted to be with me.”

  I inhaled through my nose, counting, trying to remember the pranayama techniques Jason had taught me. Prana: life force. Yama: extension of breath. Being able to find energy and the spirit or soul.

  “Is that all you came to tell me? Because I’ve got to load this trailer.” For the first time ever I noticed how dry the skin on her arms was. Dry and flaky, reminding me of the snakeskin in the glass cabinet at the nature center on the coast that our teachers would take us to when I was in grade school.

  Vivian straightened. “I don’t trailer my own horses anymore. It’s so much easier to have other people handle all that. Of course, it is an added expense.”

  “What do you want, Vivian? You’ve got Corinne, Kennedy, Seraphim, Best of Luck, and the others. You’ve got Chris. What else?”

  A vein throbbed at the side of her temple. “I tried to be your friend. I offered my help and you didn’t bother calling. You know, some people might take that personally.”

  I was hot yet chilled and clammy, my whole body trembling. “What do you want?” I asked again. “I’ve got nothing left.”

  Vivian eyed me, wrapping her braid around her finger. “I think it’s too late for anything now, but you might consider dropping out of the running for the Gold Cup. You won’t ever get there. You’ll always lose. You’ll always be a loser.” She paused, leaning in toward me, her breath hot on my cheek. “Just like your father.”

  My hand whipped out before I even had a chance to control myself, hitting her across her cheek. The sharp sound split the air, startling me.

  Vivian brought her hand up to the blooming patc
h, her green eyes wide, her lips open in a wide O.

  I stood taller. “Don’t you ever talk about Luke Seymour like that again.”

  A flicker of fear went through her eyes, but quickly disappeared. “You watch yourself, Brynn.”

  I stepped toward her, feeling more powerful than I ever had, wanting to take her on. My fists clamped at my side, ready. I took another step, but then someone grabbed my arm.

  “Brynn, don’t.” Jason wrapped his hand around my wrist and moved in between Vivian and me.

  “You should leave,” Jason said, his back blocking my view of Vivian. “Now.” Forceful, yet quiet. There’d be no arguing with him.

  “Nice of you to step in, but this is between us,” Vivian said, “and we’re not done.”

  “Oh, you’re done.” Jason turned toward me, wrapping his arm around me.

  Vivian eyed us, then stormed away.

  It took me a while to process Jason’s story, and somehow his honesty made me even more determined to win. The following week I begged Jason to forgive me. Told him I’d acted like a fool, and I’d take his rules seriously, that he could trust me. He said he understood, and if there was anything to gain from yoga, it was that we were constantly evolving, learning, and hopefully improving.

  Back at home the walls of my bedroom were the same mossy green they’d been for the last ten years. My vet school textbooks lay disorganized on my dresser and in my reading nook. The kitchen was empty, and the sitting room still ached for laughter and conversation. I was reminded that my place was here, at Redwood Grove, with Mom.

  Outside, the fields had again dried and yellowed, and Chris’s absence left no hole in my life. It was as if it had never happened. Not that I should have been surprised. Our relationship had never defined who I was. And if anything, now I could zero in on the Gold Cup. Not some stupid notion of romance.

  The day we loaded the trailer for the drive to Spruce Meadows, I tried to block the torrent of thoughts of last year, the nostalgia I’d felt. Dad standing with the hills and sky behind him, like a hero from some old Clint Eastwood movie. This time, instead of three horses, we only loaded one: Jett. None of our clients had horses experienced enough to jump even in one of the smallest jumping classes at Spruce Meadows. But Helena, Mai, and their daughters and even Stuart said they’d be there to watch.