Learning to Fall

by Anne Clermont

  “It takes a long time to understand, but when you get it, it becomes obvious.” Jason reached his hand toward mine, and I knelt on the horse blanket beside him.

  “When I found my mother in her apartment . . .” Jason played with the beads on his bracelet, then finally found this voice again. “The days and weeks that followed I cut myself off from everything. I went to a really dark place, unable to ride, unable to see my sister, unable to live. I wanted to drink myself to death, to numb the guilt and the pain that came with it. The typical pattern of self-destruction.

  “I’m not unusual or different from anyone else that this has happened to. It’s been studied by yogis in history for thousands of years. So my sister showed up with her friend one day, an intervention of sorts, and her friend, this yogi guru, left a book for me to read. It was about healing the mind, healing the spirit. And it seemed to make sense. I started reading it, and the more I read the more my head cleared, so I looked up local classes then joined. What I learned was that we are all fundamentally divine. We’re all good. We make mistakes. Every single one of us. It takes practice, but with time we can forgive ourselves. Especially if we believe that we’re a part of a greater good—of God, the Holy Spirit, the Universe, Buddha, whatever you wish to call it. We can change. We can better ourselves. And all we have to do is act with the best intentions.”

  The best of intentions. The words circled around me, wispy, ethereal. I laid my head in his lap and even though I wasn’t sure I understood, I knew one thing: I could have lain there, listening to him, with his hands running through my hair, forever.

  Spending the night in the barn left me cramped. By 5:30 a.m., Uncle Ian was back. I held my breath as he again examined Jett while Derek jogged him, running beside Jett, trying to extend his stride so that we all could get a better look.

  “He’s still a bit off,” Uncle Ian said.

  “I don’t think it’s his stifle,” I said, watching him move. “It’s not consistent with that. It may be in his hoof.”

  Uncle Ian pushed his glasses up, and nodded. “I agree.”

  Derek brought Jett closer to us, and I asked Uncle Ian for his hoof-testers, big metal prongs, a larger version of metal pincers. I lifted Jett’s left front foot, gripping it between my knees, letting the hoof rest on my bent thighs. Derek kept a tight hold of Jett’s halter. Jett shook his head impatiently up and down.

  Uncle Ian leaned over and felt the hoof. “You know, Brynn,” he said, then smiled. “I think you’re right.”

  “You seeing what I’m seeing?” I asked. “Stone bruise?” When we pressed the metal prongs against the bottom of Jett’s hoof, Jett yanked at his foot, trying to take it back. But there was no heat, like there would be with an abscess.

  Uncle Ian looked up at me and smiled, and a wave of gratitude filled me. But almost immediately my heart sank. “What about the lameness testing?”

  “We may be fine before then. If not, I’ll talk to the vet, explain the situation, and they may let us retest on Friday. First, let’s get him moving, get his blood circulating without putting too much pressure on that foot. I’m going to shockwave it. It’s not usually carried out on the hooves, but it can’t hurt. When I’m done, Derek, can you apply a poultice?”

  “Sure thing, Doc,” Derek said.

  I walked over to Jason, and as if he’d read my mind Jason answered the question I was going to ask. “Jett will be fine if we don’t ride for the next couple of days. He’s fit enough. Those hills and all those gymnastics sessions have built up his condition and stamina.”

  “But he needs practice, and we need to get him into the ring.”

  “He’s practiced enough. He knows his stuff, and so do you. He’ll be fine as long as we can get him in the ring by Friday.”

  “Two days. That’s all we’ve got,” I said. “And we can’t even give him anything for the pain after tomorrow . . .” My voice trailed. It was illegal to give horses painkillers before a show. “But there’s nothing we can do, so let’s take it as it comes,” I said to no one in particular.

  Derek gave me a strange look, and Jason smiled.

  Exhausted from spending the night in the cold barn, I walked back to the truck. I desperately needed a hot shower to ease my cramped muscles. Just as I neared the parking lot, I spotted Vivian and Chris getting out of a green Mustang. Chris noticed me first. Our eyes met for a split second, and he dropped his arm from around Vivian.

  I turned my head, and walked the other way.

  In the late evening I drove back from the hotel to the show grounds, stopping in at Time Faults. A tea for me, a coffee for Derek. Derek stood, tack hanging on a hook, the bridle taken apart, soapy water dripping down his elbows as he wiped the leather with a sponge. From the way the overhead lights reflected off the saddle, I wondered how many times he’d already cleaned it today. It shone like the hood of the silver Mercedes displayed in front of the Gazebo of the Meadowcourt Building—the Mercedes that the lucky winner would drive away with, in addition to the winner’s share of the million-dollar prize.

  “I think you missed a spot,” I said, smiling.

  “Well, you’re going to be televised, aren’t you?”

  I had to give it to him—he wasn’t giving up.

  Derek’s hand moved quickly back and forth, polishing every inch of the rich chestnut leather. “Dr. Finlay came to check on him about an hour ago. He’s the same.” He scratched at the unshaved face around his goatee.

  I slumped against Jett’s stall door, sliding down to sit on the concrete. Derek moved on to the martingale. I put my head in my hands, my hair falling around me, reminding me of the tent I used to pitch as a child on the back deck in the summer. I’d hide in it all day, playing make-believe with my Breyer horses. What I wouldn’t do now to feel that lightness again.

  Three pairs of shoes appeared—Derek’s paddock boots, a pair of black ballet flats, and a pair of men’s dress shoes.

  I glanced up. Helena, Derek, and Bill stood in front of me. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “C’mon.” Derek extended his hand toward me.

  Staring at the three of them, I couldn’t help noticing a hint of a smile cross Derek’s face, and Helena’s eyebrow raised in amusement.

  “Let’s go. We ain’t got all day,” Derek said, acting stern.

  Tentatively I reached my hand toward his, my fingers wrapping around his palm. He tightened his grip and pulled me up. I glanced at Helena, wondering what she was doing here. If Vivian saw her in our barn, she’d probably call a SWAT team to wrestle me down for even talking to one of her clients.

  Helena smiled, hesitant, then leaned in and embraced me. I tensed, but tears pooled in my eyes, her familiar Yves Saint Laurent perfume bringing back a flood of memories.

  “Let’s go,” she said, grabbing my other hand. “There’s some unfinished business.”

  As we walked through the next barn, I pulled Derek back and let Helena and Bill walk ahead of us.

  “What’s Bill doing here?” I whispered.

  “We’re making up,” Derek said and winked. I gave his hand a squeeze.

  “I’m so happy for you,” I said, giving him a quick hug. “And where the hell are you taking me?”

  “You’ll see . . .”

  They brought me to Seraphim’s stall.

  “Won’t Corinne be furious?” I asked, but Helena and Derek laughed, like kids in on a joke.

  “It was Corinne’s idea!” Helena said. “She’s got Vivian out at some fancy dinner, just so you can ride Sera.”

  “But why would she do that?” I asked.

  Derek and Helena exchanged a glance. Helena leaned in, and played with a button on her shirt before meeting my gaze. “It’s time to forgive. To move on. Now hurry up. You have less than an hour before Vivian is back.” They turned and left me alone with Seraphim.

  I moved in slow motion, getting myself organized. The grooming box, bridle, girth. Derek got my saddle while I spent a long time brushing Seraphim. W
hen I got to her legs, I ran my fingers over the dents and raised lines of the scar tissue. A flash of her coat and tail appeared in my mind as I remembered the night she ran off after coming down on Dad. I forced myself to focus on the present image of her, instead of the one that had been forever imprinted in my memory.

  When I finally got on, her flesh quivered, just as a horse’s will when it’s trying to flick a fly off its sensitive skin. My own skin prickled. I leaned down from my saddle, running my hand down the length of her neck, smoothing the hairs, feeling her warmth under my hand, calming her with my touch. An electric current passed between us, and for a second I had an impulse to get off, put her back in her stall. There was a part of me that was worried that she would take off like she had that night.

  “You’re such a chickenshit,” I scolded myself.

  I held her to a slow walk, concentrating on my position as if I were a beginner rider. I rode her out on the back paths of Spruce Meadows, praying no one would see us. A rustle in the bushes startled me, and I held my breath. A buck jumped out toward us, his ivory antlers large, his coat speckled with white. I squeezed a bit too tight with my calves, on the ready for her to take off. But Seraphim didn’t falter, her ears alert, yet forward, her step long, her breath slow, like a schoolmaster taking yet another beginner student out for a trail ride. The moon lit our way and the cricket symphony played while I leaned down against her and breathed in her horse and leather scent. And I didn’t need to tell her. She knew, and the invisible weight I’d been carrying lifted and disappeared, up with the rising moon.

  Saturday afternoon Jason put his arm around me, and we walked behind the grandstands of the International Ring. I stood in the shade of a tree, drinking a cup of water. First round of the Gold Cup was behind us, and I’d made it into the jump-off.

  “Drink it slow, and not too much,” Jason warned, then ran off to find Derek, to check on Jett after the first round. Jett wouldn’t need much of a warm-up and Jason wanted him to save his energy. Uncle Ian had performed a miracle and Jett had jogged fine. I closed my eyes, listening to the hubbub of fans buzzing about. It was the halftime of show jumping, with people milling around the international food stands buying drinks and food, and the lineup for the restrooms long. The prediction had been right. There were over eighty thousand fans in the grandstands. I still couldn’t get over that I’d made it into the jump-off—the only one of five—Vivian, Chris, Roman, Tiffany of Canada, and me.

  A light hand brushed my shoulder. “Hi, darling.” My mom’s face was hidden by large sunglasses.

  “Mom! You’re here! You took time off?”

  “How could I not? My baby’s riding in the Gold Cup.” Her finger trembled as she reached toward me and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear. “Actually, I quit the night job. I got full-time work as an editor. It’s freed up my evenings for writing. Of course I couldn’t have done it without you—believing in us as you do. And look at you. Here you are!” She wrapped her arms around me, held me tight, then said, “It also helps that Aunt Julia and Uncle Ian were generous enough to cover the costs.” Her cheeks flushed and she lowered her voice. “They’ve been so supportive of us.”

  I guess it would be embarrassing for her to feel like she had to accept their generosity. “We’ll figure out a way to pay them back, Mom. This is the first step in our new future.”

  “Yes. Yes it is. And I know we will. I have faith in you. I have faith in us.” Mom pulled me close and all the pain of the past year seemed to lift slightly.

  Mom wiped away a tear. “Look who else made it . . .” Chris’s mom stood near the stands. The two of us exchanged a smile and I was grateful to see her there for Chris’s sake. I hoped they’d made up.

  Biting back the sudden tears I felt springing up, I said to Mom, “Did you watch the first round?”

  “You and Jett were splendid. I was up in the stands. I didn’t want to distract you, but I wanted to come down and wish you good luck before the jump-off.”

  The announcer’s voice boomed, “And now, in the arena, all the way from Germany, the Celle Stallions!”

  Six stunning black stallions and their outfitted handlers and riders rode past us through the entrance under the clock tower. They performed carefully choreographed dressage to classical music.

  “I’ll be riding in fifteen minutes or so,” I said.

  “I’ll be on my way, but I wanted you to know I was here.” She brushed the back of her fingers against my cheek and smiled. I’d missed seeing that expression so much. She gave me a kiss on the cheek, then held me at arm’s length and said, “Go now. Go show them how it’s done, and don’t be afraid. You were meant for this—your dad said so the day I first held you in my arms.”

  Vivian rode Seraphim. Third in the lineup of five. Roman had knocked a rail. Tiffany went clear. Time to beat: 49.5 seconds.

  Seraphim’s body was tight, contracted. Instead of jumping with vigor and energy, she dragged her hind legs and had lost her spark—her eyes now seemingly filled with pain and sadness. Vivian spurred over and over. Each time Seraphim bucked, my heart clenched, my stomach felt like the bottom was falling out of it.

  “Do something,” I said aloud.

  Jason squeezed his arm around my shoulders, holding me tight.

  I closed my eyes not wanting to watch anymore, but I had to. Seraphim fought for her head, but Vivian seized her hands against Sera, forcing her head down, cranking it so that Seraphim couldn’t stretch over the jumps.

  “The only way she’ll beat that time is if she does that last line, the oxer to oxer, in three strides,” Jason said as he watched.

  As they neared the last combination, Vivian spurred, but Seraphim slowed. I bit my fist, imagining the inevitable crash. They made it over the first jump, and Vivian spurred again, smacking Seraphim hard, four times in a row with the crop.

  “She should get disqualified for that!” I cried.

  Seraphim slowed more. They had no choice. They had to do the line in four strides: one, two, three—I held my breath—four, but they made it over with no faults. I exhaled. The crowd roared.

  I glanced at the scoreboard above the stands. Vivian’s name lit up at the top. Her time to beat: 48.6 seconds. I ignored Vivian’s proud look as she exited the arena.

  “Ready?” Derek asked, leading Jett toward me. He’d been hand-walking him to keep him warm. I nodded, preparing my knee for Derek to give me a leg up. Chris was about to head in, then it was my turn.

  “Hold up! You may not want to get on just yet,” Vivian called.

  Derek let go of my shin abruptly. I stumbled and grabbed Jett’s mane. Vivian marched toward us, head high, chin lifted, a smirk playing on her lips.

  “Just so you know, the FEI official is on his way over to pull Jett from the show.”

  “What the . . . ?” It felt like I’d been dunked in ice.

  Vivian glanced around in a dramatic gesture, then leaned in toward Derek and me. “Oh, you guys know. I saw you. With Jett. Monday night. I know he’s lame. And you know better than I do that he shouldn’t be jumping in this competition. There are rules against that sort of thing.” She arched her eyebrow. “Someone will be here any second, so don’t bother mounting.” She pulled her sunglasses off, scanning the crowd.

  Derek clenched his fists at his side. “This is bullshit.”

  “I’m just glad I was here to bring justice to the show. Imagine what might have happened had I not been there that night?”

  Derek lunged toward her.

  “Don’t!” I said, grabbing his arm.

  A crowd watched us now, and I saw Helena and Corinne walking closer.

  “I know what I’m doing,” Derek said to me.

  “No, Derek. It’s not going to solve anything.”

  He tried to avoid me, but I pulled on his arm, and even though his eye twitched, his arm relaxed by his side.

  Corinne and Helena walked up. “What’s going on?” Helena asked.

  Derek, with a shaking hand, g
estured at Vivian. “She’s got some nerve. Coming here, saying Jett’s lame.”

  “Well, you’ve probably got him drugged to high hell, so he won’t show any signs of it now, but I’m sure as soon as the FEI official gets here and does a blood test, we’ll find out the truth.” Vivian flung her hair over her shoulder. “It’s over, Brynn. It’s done. You’re done.”

  “What unusual circumstances.” Corinne faced Vivian, her eyes narrowed. “It really would be unfortunate if Brynn and Jett were disqualified, but”—she glanced up at the scoreboard—“but somewhat beneficial if you had one less rider to compete against.”

  Vivian eyed Corinne, her smile fading. “Is that what you think this is about?” The vein at Vivian’s temple throbbed.

  “I’m only noting the facts. And it just so happens, Vivian, that that little fiasco with rapping still hasn’t been disclosed. I’ve never been too happy about it, and actually had cameras installed just a couple of weeks ago back at our barn. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, but sure enough there you were, using your friend the pole. And on Seraphim. Can you imagine how shocked I was? Especially since we had our talk and you promised me you wouldn’t do it again.”

  Corinne stood only inches from Vivian now. “Now, if there is anything I can’t stand more than lying, it’s hurting my horse, and then lying about it.”

  Vivian leaned farther and farther back as Corinne spoke. Her face took on the color of her white shirt, two bright red spots blooming on her cheeks.

  Fourth in the lineup, Chris rode past us on De Salle. Carefully. Purposefully. Chris nodded at me, then smiled, his genuine smile, the one I’d seen the first day I’d met him.

  “Now, I know you’ll want to make this right,” Corinne said.

  A shadow loomed in the tunnel below the grandstands. The FEI official stood at the bottom of the ramp, his face dark. He surveyed the area, searching. Spotting Jett and me, the official beelined toward us.