In my drunkenness I had forgotten to put out the privacy sign.
“No room service!” I called.
The knock came again.
“No, thank you!” I yelled louder.
“Brynn. It’s Jason.”
Shit. I didn’t want to see him. Or anyone, for that matter. I pulled the covers over my head, hoping he’d go away.
“Brynn. Open the door.” There was a pause, then his imploring voice, “Please?”
I hesitated, but then gathered my strength, and stumbled out of bed. I tugged my old Young Riders T-shirt lower.
I opened the door. Jason stood twirling his hat. He peered down at my bare legs and feet. I curled my toes, suddenly embarrassed at my appearance. He looked up, his eyes gazing deep into mine. I could almost taste his desire. And as much as I hadn’t wanted to see him, I also needed him—I’d needed him since that day at Patterson’s. He grounded me like only being around Jett, horses, nature, could. But there was more.
Heat rose through me, opening me.
He took one large step toward me, and as his arms encircled me, I rested my head on his chest. I barely reached his shoulder. The hotel room door clicked shut behind him, leaving us in silence.
I inhaled, my chin trembling against him. He smelled of maleness, horses, the earth. I ran my hand up his hard chest, the cotton of his shirt in contrast soft. Jason pressed his hand against my hair, then moved the weight of it slowly off my back, letting it fall to one side, moving his fingers through it, then pressing his palm against the back of my head. I rested, my ear against his heart, listening to it beat.
Jason pressed my head closer to him. “Dear, dear Brynn,” he mumbled into my hair.
And we stood there in silence, with fingers of light weaving through at the bottom of the dark, drawn shades.
Days or weeks passed since I’d come home from Calgary, but I stayed away from the barn, slept in late, and ignored all phone calls, e-mails, and text messages. Most were from Jason or Derek. Jett was fine. The injury had only been soft tissue damage and a slight strain. He needed rest, but Uncle Ian was sure he’d only require a couple of weeks off.
As for Jason, nothing ever happened that day at the hotel. Not because I wouldn’t have wanted it to, but he’d come to comfort me, and I had nothing to offer in return. Every time I thought back to the fall, how I’d reacted at the barn, how I’d yelled, a heat crept up to the tips of my hair follicles and I knew that Jason deserved someone better. Someone who listened to him, who learned from him, someone who didn’t waste his time.
A basket of flowers caught my eye, the setting sun deepening the kaleidoscope of colors. Corinne had sent a get-well card and the arrangement of pink roses, orange tiger lilies, purple irises, and gold asters. I’d wanted to toss them, but Mom had been attending to them, and displayed the arrangement on the side table of the sitting room, my favorite room in the house. I set aside the Barbara Kingsolver novel, of which I hadn’t managed to read a word. My land, the horses—they’d all be gone soon. My oath to Dad broken.
The white curtains billowed in the gentle breeze as the fresh summer air filled the room. I sat with my feet tucked beneath me, the dark leather soft and worn against my bare feet. I didn’t turn on any lights. I felt rather than heard Mom enter. I ignored her, hoping she would leave me with my thoughts. I still couldn’t forgive her for not coming to Spruce Meadows to watch me ride.
“Hi.” Mom’s voice wavered. She walked quietly across the room. How did she manage to keep the wooden floor from creaking beneath her footsteps? I had never been able to do that. She paused at the flower arrangement, picked off a few dry leaves, and pulled out the drooping stems, then sat down next to me. “I know this is a tough time, and I really want you to know that I’m here for you. I think you did—you are—doing a wonderful job, and I’m so proud of you . . .” She worried the bottom of her shirt. “What you’ve done to help me—to help the ranch—I know it wasn’t easy. I know I haven’t been of any help. In fact I’ve opposed everything you’re doing.”
She pulled at her earlobe, her gaze at her feet now. “And I want you to know that it wasn’t your fault . . . what happened at Spruce Meadows, what happened on the freeway. Accidents happen. Everyone falls. We try, we stumble, sometimes literally.” She smiled, and I guessed that was her way of trying to lighten the mood.
I didn’t smile back.
“It’s part of life, to have problems and challenges, to deal with them, then to learn and move on. We’ll never have no problems. Only new ones. New challenges. I’m learning that now.”
I stared out through the tall windows. The tick of the old clock measured the passing time. She seemed as if she’d aged five years in the last one, her skin translucent, smudges of gray under her eyes, the lines in the corners of her eyes deeper. But she was still poised. Gracious. Her lips, even without lipstick or gloss, held a reminder of the ruby color of her youth. I looked away, not wanting to feel anything, too tired to allow any more guilt or responsibility to weigh me down. Outside, the hills were nothing more than a silhouette against the setting sun, the sky transformed into a pastel drawing, shades of pink and mauve mixed with blue.
“So, if you want to talk . . .” Her voice trailed off, her face, turned toward the window, a reflection of mine. “God, Brynn. When I watched your round on TV and I saw you fall—” The emotion in her voice overcame her. She gave out a sob, but composed herself quickly. “I just don’t know what I’d do if I lost you too . . .” She leaned against me, resting her hand on my head. She ran it down the length of my hair, tentatively at first, then with more certainty. “You’re my baby. I need you.”
I squeezed her hand, wishing I could be stronger for her. Wishing I could be strong enough, capable enough to win.
The sun went down, the last of its rays receding in less than a minute, leaving nothing but darkness in its wake. I didn’t know how to talk to her or what to say. But I did feel a quietness having her next to me. We were connected, mother and daughter, connected through blood, through Dad.
The shadows disappeared. The temperature dropped. Mom stood, pulling the windows shut, one by one. She paused to drape a blanket over my feet. “Those boys have been working really hard down at the barn. You might want to check in with them.” I flinched, but it didn’t matter. Jason and Derek were fine without me. I’d just cause more problems. “Don’t stay up too late, darling.” She leaned down, her lips brushing the top of my hair, then she slipped out of the room as unobtrusively as she had come, leaving me in the near-darkness of the evening.
The next morning I woke to the pitter-patter of rain. I couldn’t remember the last time it had rained in the summer. The rain washed the dust off the window, promising to wash the dust off the land. I sat at the edge of my bed and stared at my feet on the hardwood floor. They’d been idle long enough.
I trudged to the barn for the first time in two weeks. But when I got there, I continued past the entrance, down the trail through the gate into the gold pastures, my pace picking up. Just a speck of sun would surely brighten the drops on the leaves of the California oak trees and on the blades of grass under my feet, but I wanted to feel the rain.
Tears began to fall, and as soon as they stung my eyes I felt relief. I wrapped my arms around myself, holding my pain in, as I had been doing for over a year now. But the tears continued to well up and spill over, warm on my cheeks, mixing with the cool droplets.
I spread my arms out wide, like I had when I was a kid, running around the field with airplane wings at my sides. An ache moved through me, as if it had been coiled up for too long. I forced myself to keep my arms out, to allow the energy to stretch through me, letting it go.
At the bottom of the field, I ducked under the fence. A dark Jersey cow and her calf stood in front of me. Afraid to startle them, I hesitated. They didn’t move. As if she sensed my pain, the cow bellowed out a soft sound, continuing to chew her cud. Her mellow eyes were black and moist. Billowy white clouds emerged f
rom her large nostrils into the morning air. The calf leaned into its mom’s flank, nuzzling against her, seeking protection. Rain beaded, then fell off their black fur as if they wore raincoats.
I pushed forward through the tall yellow grass, my jeans soaking up the freshly fallen rain through to my skin. Instead of feeling cold, I welcomed the sensation. My skin bumped, rubbing against the denim of my jeans, but it made me feel alive, and I needed to feel alive. I’d felt dead for so long.
Near the edge of the redwood forest, a rainbow appeared. It started down in the valley and stretched toward the ocean. The hues of the rainbow glinted, scintillating, like phosphorescent play in the gray sky. The rain stopped, and a ray of light broke through the clouds to the valley. I turned my face toward the sun, closing my eyes, letting the brightness redden the thin skin of my eyelids.
The land lay before me, fresh and alive and new. I wiped at my nose with the back of my hand.
“Thank you,” I whispered. I had a sudden need to see Jett, to touch the muscles under his silky coat, to smell him, to hear his breath.
I stumbled in the mud and dead grass full of thistles and foxtails, keeping the top of the hill in sight. I watched as three jays attacked the hawk that lived at the edge of our property. They dove at him, biting, and instead of fighting back he flew harder and faster than he had before. The jays were relentless but the hawk didn’t use aggression, instead continuing on his flight path. I panted up the hill, my breath shallow and quick.
I walked into the office, hoping to find an extra jacket. My wet jeans clung to my legs, my shoes squished across the floor. I peeled off my wet sweatshirt, turning on the light.
Jason sat at my desk, his head in his hands, his fingers braided into his thick hair.
“Jason?” I’d never seen him this burdened, dejected. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to enter. I wanted to hold on to the transforming moment I’d experienced in the valley, not wanting to lose its magic.
Jason didn’t move. I walked closer. “Jason? What happened?” His stillness unnerved me.
He raised his head, pushing the collar of his fisherman’s sweater up around him, reddened eyes staring back at me. “It’s Eve. The leukemia’s back. And worse than that, we were told she has a ten percent survival rate. The only options were to let her go, or to try a bone-marrow transplant. Of course we opted for a transplant. I was a close enough match, I had seventy-five percent of the twelve markers they look for, so I ended up being the donor.”
“Jason! Oh, my God! Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jason didn’t even look up at me, and I felt stupid. Maybe he had tried; I’d never answered my phone.
He continued, “But it’s not good. Her body seems to be rejecting it, though the doctors say it’s still early. It can take weeks for her body to adjust and to take to it. She’s weak. Her white blood cell count is very low.”
I caught my breath, and moved to kneel by his side. Little Eve. I cradled his face in my hands, remembering the day she visited the barn, her elation at riding Jett. “You have to keep faith. You have to believe she’s strong enough to fight.” His cheeks were icy against my palms. His lashes clumped, his olive skin darkened with unshaved stubble.
“I just don’t know how to do it anymore. I don’t know how to be brave for her.” His sorrow was my own. And here he’d been riding Jett, helping with the horses, teaching Derek, all while I’d been wallowing in bed. The strength I’d captured in the meadow gave me courage, and I knew I didn’t need to flee anymore.
As Jason and I walked down the UCSF Children’s Hospital, I placed my hand into the crook of his elbow, as if it were the most natural place for it to rest. Clorox and disease permeated the air, reminding me of the last time I’d been at a hospital, the night of Dad’s death. I shook my head, forcing each foot to fall in front of the other.
Butterfly, meadow, and barnyard animal murals tried to mask the heartache lurking behind each closed door of the pediatric bone-marrow transplant wing. Jason paused before we reached her room, placing a hand on top of mine. “Are you sure?”
I nodded. We had to scrub up in an anteroom before going in.
“Right now she pretty much doesn’t have an immune system, so everyone has to scrub before going in. Even the nurses and doctors.” Jason handed me a face mask. “She’s in a lot of pain, and one of the side effects she’s experiencing is that her mouth is full of ulcers. They have her pumped full of pain medicines, but her body is rejecting a lot of them. They call it playing the whac-a-mole game. Pain is up, she gets a med. Then she’s nauseous, they give her something for that, which makes her not sleep, so they give her a sleep aid . . . well, you’ve gone to vet school, you get the point. Luckily she’s been sleeping most of the last three days.”
I pulled my mask on, adjusting it to fit over my nose and mouth. Jason pushed the wide door open and I felt the air push out toward me instead of in, and I realized the positive pressure helped maintain a sterile environment. The room was brighter than I’d expected, one wall pink, the remainder blue. Eve had a room to herself, but under the window there was a second bed where Ashley and Jason took turns sleeping. One of them was always with Eve, every hour of every day, and yet during his time away from the hospital he had still helped at the barn—at my barn. The mask seemed tighter, and the disposable gown made me even hotter than I was.
In the bed closest to the door a shadow of a girl lay atop a colorful pillow. The bright pink pajamas accentuated just how pale she was, her skull, round and smooth, the skin almost translucent under the fluorescent lights. Next to her lay a worn Peter Rabbit plush toy, about half her size. Above her bed, a huge pin board spelled out her name in a sparkly red foam. Pictures of Eve and Ashley, Eve and Jason, Eve and her dad, her dad in his uniform—a desert landscape in the background—and hand-drawn cards filled out the collage. And there was the picture of her on Jett, pinned to a bulletin board.
A barrage of machines stood beeping and flashing next to her bed, an IV drip attached to her arm. I wasn’t frightened—I’d seen similar ones at the vet hospital, though I was surprised at just how many there were. I counted ten IV lines.
Ashley sat at the edge of the bed, her back to us. Jason introduced us, though she barely glanced at me, her charcoal eyes darting back to Eve’s face, as if to confirm she hadn’t disappeared. Regarding the two siblings side by side I could see the resemblance, though she was as petite as he was tall.
A doctor came in, short and squat, pushing his small glasses back onto his nose. He looked to Ashley. “Mrs. Lane?” Above his mask, his eyes crinkled into a smile.
Ashley didn’t move.
“We have some good news.” The doctor shifted on his feet, as if he’d been standing too long.
Ashley turned to me. “Brynn? Would you mind?” She nodded toward Eve’s hand, lifting it gingerly toward me.
I opened my mouth, not sure what to say, only to breathe out an “of course.” I moved next to the bed, taking Ashley’s place, trying not to disturb Eve. Eve kept her eyes closed and seemed so frail that I worried my touch might break her tiny bones. Ashley placed Eve’s hand in mine. Cool and dainty, it was an emulation of what a child’s hand should feel like, of what it had felt like just a few months ago. There were no dimples where the knuckles were, no pudgy fingers, only the ivory, featherweight clear skin overlaying her silver veins and bones. I cradled Eve’s hand in mine, swallowing back the lump in my throat. Eve’s face looked puffier than it had the day she’d ridden Jett at Redwood Grove. The photo of the girl on Jett, who’d laughed and squealed when Jett nuzzled her and blew into her ear, bore no resemblance to this one.
Jason and Ashley stood with the doctor near the door, out of earshot. Ashley’s long black hair draped over her thin arms. Her shoulders slouched in her navy T-shirt, and her bony knees beneath her khaki shorts looked like they would buckle. Her face pinched in worry as she listened to the doctor.
When the doctor left, Ashley clutched Jason’s arm, resembling a child
herself. “Jason, I don’t know if I can handle this. How much longer do we have to sit around waiting? I can’t watch her suffer anymore.” Her eyes welled up with tears as she glanced at Eve. She seemed desperate. Small. I turned away, listening to the beeping of the monitor, brushing Eve’s hand with mine, adjusting the cuff of her PJs, trying to keep my own tears at bay.
I’d been so selfish. It wasn’t just me suffering. Everyone around me suffered too. And Jason and Derek had picked up my slack. I’d been such a fool—and now I only had six weeks left to get my shit together, to get Jett and myself back into shape. I had a show to win.
The next six weeks flew by filled with early-morning yoga sessions followed by riding Jett on the flat, and in the late afternoon jumping and gymnastic sessions for Jett and me. I turned into bed by nine practically every night, only managing to read a handful of pages of either Anne Kursinski’s Riding and Jumping or the Yoga Sutra of Patanjali books Jason had given me. Jason’s yoga mat stood next to mine in the corner behind my desk, and by the time I’d stumble into the office at six every morning, he’d already have the windows open, a new playlist on, and had been meditating for a good thirty minutes. Some days we’d practice outside. On others, when the fog was too thick, we stayed inside. Within two weeks I was beating him to the mat. The first day he saw me there, he paused, surprised, one eyebrow raised. But then he cleared his throat and acted as if it was nothing unusual. I couldn’t help feeling proud. When I opened my eyes and glanced at him, I saw his mouth turned up in a smile as he meditated, and I felt like I’d just gotten the biggest reward in the world.
We would start with asana practice, some days solar flows, some days lunar, but we always ended with breath work. The Savasanas lying on our backs were awkward at first, and I had no idea how to completely relax, but a couple of weeks in, instead of focusing on Jason lying next to me, or thinking about all the things I needed to do, or worrying about whether we’d win, everything started falling away.
Learning to Fall Page 23