by Tudor Robins
Craig wanders in, coffee in hand, sips and watches, sips and watches. “What do you think?”
I’m glad he’s not asking what I feel – my heart is refusing to lift, even though I want it to. But what I think is easy: “I think amazing. Powerful.”
“That, and lazy, too. Come on, chase him up; he’s barely moving.” Then, in a tone I’m not used to, rushes to add, “If you’re tired, or your head hurts, you tell me, and we’ll take a break.” He swivels to Slate; sounds more like himself. “Not you. You haven’t been working that horse enough lately. No breaks.”
But my head doesn’t hurt, and I don’t get tired. Or feel like crying. Or feel anything. Most every ride on Major gave me a moment of joy. Of pride. Like when he was just learning to do flying changes, and he unexpectedly threw one in for me in the middle of a course. “He changed for you!” Slate yelled, and my heart swelled. He loved me. I loved him. Life was great.
Or when we’d stand, and watch another rider do her course, and Major would turn and rest his nose on the toe of my paddock boot, and sigh. Love.
Those feelings aren’t with me on Apollo, but at least being on horseback – even though it’s not my horse – gives me a one-hour vacation. A mental shut off. All that matters is my legs, and seat, and back and hands. Everything I do is a communication. Apollo may be expensive, but he’s a horse like every other horse. He talks to me with the swivel of his ears, his mouthing of the bit.
Once we’ve gotten to know each other, I tighten my legs, and relax my hips, and hold the reins as steadily as I can, and he lunges into an extended trot, hooves flying, reaching, all the upward, saddle-thrusting, motion focused forward, neck arched and mouth listening to my hands. I feel like I’m sitting on a charging bull, and I feel like I’m holding a carton of eggs in my hands, at exactly the same time.
“Beautiful!” Craig’s nodding. “See that, Slate? She’s not fiddling with his mouth to get the frame. She’s driving from behind.” He watches as we round the ring one more time. “That’s enough. I want to see a nice walk transition, then give him a long rein.”
Apollo stretches his neck long and low, his muzzle almost brushing the ground, demonstrating to Craig that he was working the right muscles, showing he’s happy and relaxed. I rub his withers. “Good boy.”
He is a good boy. He’s a lovely boy. And I’ve been privileged to ride him – I know that. This ride has been like coming halfway home. Like when we flew back from England, and I was so excited to land in Toronto. It felt great, it felt like home. Almost. But it was only when we started seeing signs for Kingston and Ottawa on the 401 that the real feeling of home – of belonging – seeped into me.
Apollo’s helped me back to my country, but my hometown’s still out of reach.
“He’s beautiful.” My mom wasn’t in the ring – in the magic oval – so for the last hour I’ve forgotten about her.
However, the fact that she’s stayed for my ride – and that she’s been watching instead of working – worries me. My mom never wastes her time, so if she’s chosen to spend her time watching me, there’s got to be a reason.
Eventually I’ll find out what it is, so for now I just agree with her. “He’s a great horse.”
“What’s that?” says Craig.
“I said he’s a great horse.”
“He is. And he went well for you. I was telling your mom you can ride him from now on if you like.”
My mom turns to me, eyebrows raised, voice pitched high. “Isn’t that a wonderful offer, Meg?”
“Well, Craig will take it back if I don’t cool him out properly.” It’s only a temporary dodge, but it works for now.
Craig laughs. “You’re right; keep him moving.”
I circle around to walk Apollo next to Slate and her horse, Obsidian.
Slate reaches out to poke me with her dressage whip. “See that, Slate? See how perfect Meg is? Even with a concussion she rides ten times better than you …”
“Shut up.”
“Why should I?”
“He’s just being nice to me because I’m damaged goods, and my horse is dead. He’ll go back to tearing strips off me in a couple of weeks. Let me enjoy it for now.”
She shrugs. “You’re right. Your hair looks like hell, and he didn’t even give you crap for not wearing a hairnet. I guess he is going easy on you.”
“Thanks Slate.”
“Anytime Bestie.”
**********
Slate sticks her head back in the car after she steps out onto her driveway. “Walk the dogs?”
“Um, sure.”
My mom twists around in the front seat. “You’re not too tired, Meg?”
“No. I’m good.” I look at Slate. “You take longer than me – when do you want to meet?”
“Half an hour?”
I raise my eyebrows. “You’ll be ready?”
“Yeah, well, you’ll have to deal with the flat-haired, non-made-up me.”
“Good thing you’ll be walking Garnet; I might not recognize you.”
Twenty-five minutes later, flat-haired and non-made-up (but that’s nothing new for me), I reach down and click Chester free from his leash. He immediately leaves the mowed path to bound through the wild grasses, already higher than my knees. The scope he gets – nearly straight up from a stand still – makes me shake my head. What could he jump if he was a horse?
As I watch, he’s side-swiped by Garnet. Our families got these two dogs just weeks apart, and though now they’re both settled – and, on their own, sometimes lazy – together they always revert to puppy ways.
“To the beach?” Slate is anything but flat-haired.
“How do you do it?” I pick up a hank of my après-riding hair, let it fall back in place.
“Oh the wonders of dry shampoo, my friend. I’ll give you some for your birthday.”
It’s one of those early June nights, when the air is skin temperature – so light you can’t even feel it. When minus-thirty January deep freezes, and sticky plus-thirty July blasts, are equally impossible to imagine. It’s the kind of night you could declare perfect and nobody would argue.
We walk along the shore of the river, and when we get to a spot where the dogs like to splash out on the broad, flat rocks we stop, and sit on a fallen tree and stare over at the Gatineau Hills.
Slate clears her throat. Here it comes. “Hey Meg, you’re holding your breath. What’s up with that?”
“You’re going to tell me something I don’t want to hear.”
“What makes you think that?”
“You never, ever, want to walk the dogs after riding. Never. You want to eat popcorn, and paint your nails, and watch back seasons of ANTM.”
She spreads her fingers in front of her, studies her nails – shiny, but chipped – and sighs. “You’re right. I don’t want to have to tell you this now. After everything. But you’re going to find out …”
Chester pushes his wet nose into my hand, and I close my fingers around his muzzle. “Just tell me.”
“I … we … Obsidian is for sale.”
“What?” My fingers scratch behind Chester’s ear a little too hard, and he whines and ducks away. “But he’s amazing. He’s great. He’s the perfect horse.”
“I know. That’s the point. It’s the right time to sell him. He’s at his peak. Somebody will buy him, and do well on him, and love him.”
“I thought that person was you.”
Slate shakes her head. “I get that it’s hard for you to understand, Meg, but I’m done. I’ve had enough. I know it sounds stupid, and shallow, but I’m tired of driving out to the barn. I’m sick of getting dirty, and breaking my nails, and always having helmet hair … God, it sounds pathetic, but just the fact that I notice all those things tells me I’m not into it enough anymore.”
Not into it anymore. Her words run a shiver through me. I talk to cover it up. “But we were going to show all summer.”
She nods. “And we would have. It would have been
fun. But now it would just be me. And then I started figuring out how many shows I’d miss at the end of the season, anyway – to go to London…”
Ah, yes. University. Slate’s a year ahead of me. And more brilliant than her hair-clothing-make-up-ANTM fixation would have you believe. She has an entrance scholarship to Western in September.
“I get it.”
“You do?”
“I guess. I wondered what you were going to do. I never thought you’d take Sid to London.”
“No, and there’s no point in him sitting here, doing nothing.”
“I get it.”
She reaches over, squeezes my arm, right above my wrist. “There’s one caveat to this, Meg. If you want Sid – if you want to ride him, and show him this summer – just say the word. He’s yours. I’ve already talked about it with my parents. We’ll sell him in September, after the championships, if that’s what you want.”
“It’s an amazing offer, Slate …” I stand, stretch, snap my fingers for Chester. “Let’s head back. I’m kind of tired.”
“Oh God, your head. I’m sorry. Let’s go.” We’re mostly quiet on the way back, but it’s not because my head hurts. It’s more because my mind won’t stop.
Major is gone. And soon Obsidian will be too. I glance sideways at Slate. Suddenly even her departure, which has seemed far off for so long, feels imminent.
Everything’s changing.
I could get my old life back. At least part of it. I’ve got lots of time to heal before the show season gets into full swing. I’ve been offered rides on my coach’s Olympic-calibre event horse. My best friend has presented me with the option of showing her trained-to-the-eyeballs A-Circuit jumper. I could clean up this year; do even better than I could have done on Major.
But …
“What’s that thing you always say when Ben’s being an ass, and you decide you should definitely break up with him, and then you take his call, and fifteen minutes later you two are back together again?”
Slate raises her eyebrows. “Always?”
“More than once. More than twice. Would you prefer ‘Often’?”
She laughs. “OK, you’re right.” She claps her hand over her chest. “The heart wants what it wants.”
The heart wants what it wants. Something in the pit of my stomach does a flip every time I hear that quote. Even when it just applies to Slate talking about her high school boyfriend. Especially in the context of me thinking of the gangly, dirty, off-the-track-thoroughbred who stole my heart two years ago, and kept it as we grew and improved together. As he learned not to bolt, and I learned not to panic, and we went from the pair who were hard to get into the ring (Major knocked down more than one whipper-in during our early show days), to the pair who were tough to beat.
I don’t know what my heart wants but, from the absence of any flip or flutter in my stomach or elsewhere, I know it’s not showing Apollo or Obsidian.
If a persistent ache counts for anything, I’d say my heart wants things to go back to the way they were before Major died.
I guess just because the heart wants what it wants, doesn’t mean it can have it.
Chapter Three
Slate: Ready Meg-O? Back to school … pick you up 8:45.
Me: Thx. See you then.
I’m up too early. I forgot to reset my alarm, which is programmed to give me time for a before-school run. I’m not quite there yet, though. Better to see how my head feels after a day in class.
So, a good forty-five minutes earlier than I need to be, I’m down in the kitchen, showered and dressed, opening and closing cupboard doors, staring at cereal boxes, wondering if I should use the time to make pancakes, and getting between my mother and her laptop one too many times.
She bumps into me as she turns from the coffee maker to her laptop, which has a place in every room in the house. Here, in the kitchen, it snugs in beside the fruit bowl. “For God’s sake, Meg. What are you doing?”
“I’m, uh, making oatmeal, I guess.” I fill the kettle and switch it on.
“So, how bad is it?” I should be used to it, but it still catches me off guard when my mom picks up conversations seemingly out of nowhere on her headset. The coffee’s at peak percolation and the kettle’s heading to the boil. My mom wrinkles her nose. “Excuse me, Miranda. Let me just get somewhere quieter. It’s like a zoo in here. Now, you were saying …”
I plunk a teabag into my mug, and green tendrils swirl out as I pour the boiling water over it. Crap. Not enough water left for my oatmeal. I refill the kettle and start again.
I tap my feet. Wait for the tea to steep. Drum the countertop. Wait for the kettle to boil.
Bing.
My mom has an email. What a shock. My eyes slide to the screen. Not one, but six new messages have piled up bold and important in her inbox since I last saw her check it five minutes ago.
The kettle clicks off and I turn away, just as something catches my eye. Meg.
I step back. Squint at the screen.
Re: Question about Meg.
It’s my mom’s email.
But it’s about me.
The sender’s name washes a wave of memories through me. South Shore B&B.
Long grasses. Huge skies. The ever-moving St. Lawrence river. Gravel roads. Cows. The bakery, the general store, the village. The ferry.
Our island cottage.
The B&B beside it. Nearly a kilometre away by the long driveways and concession road; a third of that distance on the path mowed through the hayfield between the two properties.
Owned by Betsy and Carl.
Betsy, baking the best cookies in the world; carrying them out to the deck for me to devour with my big brother, Cam.
Cam and I always starving from building forts in the weeping willows, and from long “wild turkey hunts” led by Carl.
Carl, showing us how to build a bonfire; loading us up with buckets of corn to throw to the ducks in the pond.
The kettle’s gone quiet and is going cold. My finger hovers over the touch pad. One click will tell me what question Betsy and Carl have about me.
My mom has the right to privacy.
I have the right to know what’s being said about me.
I hold my breath, cross my fingers and click.
Scroll past the top threads:
Betsy: We understand, thanks for replying so quickly.
My mother: It’s an interesting offer Betsy. But given the current circumstances, I don’t think the time is right …
To the original:
Hi Emily,
I hope this finds you well. It feels like much too long since we’ve seen you, and we’re looking forward to the summer when we hope you’ll be around more.
Speaking of the summer, Carl and I have a question for you. It’s more a question for Meg, I suppose, but we thought we should run it by you first.
The B&B is getting so busy we didn’t have a moment to ourselves last summer. As the weather is getting warmer, and our bookings are picking up again, Carl and I are remembering how much hard work it was. We got talking about it last night and were wondering if Meg would be interested in working for us this summer?
Of course, we know you and Jack would have to OK it first, which is why I’m contacting you. It goes without saying we’d keep an eye out for her, and pay her fairly, and maybe even give her some time off!
Let us know what you think and when we might expect to see you. Drinks on the deck?
Take care,
Betsy
A job. I’ve never had one. The cottage. It’s been ages since we’ve gone – between my parents’ work, and my showing, and Cam, who graduated from Queen’s, to move onto McGill – there just hasn’t been the time, or the reason, to drive to Kingston and the nearby cottage.
So, do I want it? A job? The cottage?
I know what I do want. The chance to decide for myself.
My mom’s footsteps approach. The loose floorboard in the hallway creaks. My heart double-thumps,
and there’s a flutter in my throat. But I don’t close the message. Don’t click out of her email program. I stand my ground and I wait.
The best defence is a good offense. It was my lawyer-mother herself who taught me that. So, before she can register my nosiness; before she can call me on it, I’m on her. “Were you ever going to tell me about this?”
“Excuse me?”
“This message from Betsy.” I peer at the screen. “Which first came three days ago. And, which, it appears, you’ve already answered on my behalf, without asking me.”
“The message was to me, Meg.”
“About me.”
She walks to her laptop. Clicks out of the message, out of her email. Closes the lid. Stands as straight as she can. “I’m your mother.”
“Yeah, mother. Not boss.”
“Whoa, girls. What’s going on in here?” My dad heads straight for the cupboard which contains his coffee flask. Picks it up and turns to the coffee maker. “Well?” His eyebrows are high as he lifts the carafe from the burner. “Emily?”
“Meg has been reading my personal email.”
“Betsy offered me a job and she turned it down without even asking me.”
My dad sets his flask down, stares at me. “And, just who is ‘she’?”
Shit. I should have known he’d take her side. “Sorry. Mom.”
“Apologize to your mother.”
I move my eyes to her without changing my stance, or my expression. “I’m sorry I called you ‘she’.”
My mom nods. Allows a tiny smile to turn up the corners of her mouth before pushing it down. “Apology accepted.” She reaches for her coffee mug.
“So, what’s this about a job?” my dad asks.
My mom’s hand stops just shy of the handle.
I jump in. “Betsy and Carl need help at the B&B. I don’t know all the details because I never got to read the email …” Don’t look at her. Don’t make it worse. “… but they’ll pay me.”
“Hmmm. It might be good for you to have a job.”
“Jack!” The word starts shrill, before my mom pulls her voice back down. It’s a well-known fact that my mom gets to make ninety-eight per cent of the decisions, but when my dad decides to weigh in the other two per cent of the time, watch out. My mom has to tread carefully here if she wants to keep this particular decision in ninety-eight per cent territory. “I understand where you’re coming from, Jack, but there are other considerations. We should probably talk about it.”