Saving Tess

by J. Lynn Bailey

  “Earth to Tess.”

  “Sorry, yes, I’m here. Heard something outside.” I’m not lying. Because the wind and rain are all I’ve heard for the better part of the day. “So, when are you due?” I walk back over to the sofa and sit down.

  “We haven’t met with the doctor yet. I’m at eight weeks. According to my calculations, I’m about six weeks pregnant.”

  “That’s exciting, Anna. I couldn’t be happier for you and Colt.”

  “Any bites on the house?” she asks.

  “Still fixing things. Emmitt, the general contractor we hired, said he should be done with the work before Christmas.”

  “And then you’ll sell it?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “What about … what about you and Casey?” Her voice is quieter.

  “I’m not sure.”

  She sighs.

  “What?”

  “I’m just not sure why you two haven’t figured out you’re meant to be. I mean, sure, your parents will be pissed. But they’ll eventually get over it. Especially when you guys start having kids. They’ll have to, right?”

  My heart sinks and falls to a puddle on the floor.

  Anna and I always dreamed of marrying the Atwood boys when we were younger. Having babies. Living next door to each other. Celebrating Christmases and birthdays and Easters together.

  We never planned on losing brothers.

  We never planned on family feuds and broken families.

  But we also never planned on unexpected miracles, as Clyda always used to put it.

  “Maybe.”

  I want to tell Anna what happened, but I’m too afraid all these emotions I’ve held on to for so long will make me cry uncontrollably.

  Besides, I need to talk to Casey about that before I talk to anyone.

  “Well, I love you, Tess.”

  “Love you too. And I’m so happy for you two.”

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I hit End just as an e-mail comes in from my mom. It’s some of my pictures I asked for earlier. She finally sent them.

  Hey, honey.

  Here are a few pictures I found. My favorites.

  How’s it going there?

  Anyhow, I love you very much.

  Love,

  Mom

  This is not my mother.

  My mother has always made a concerted effort to intervene herself in my life. Meddle. Save the day, if she can. I haven’t called her very much since I’ve been here, and she hasn’t called me much. Hell, she has to know Casey is here, too, and she hasn’t said a damn word. I mean, it’s Dillon Creek. I’m certain when I left, Delveen submitted an op-ed piece to the Dillon Creek Echo about my leaving. Nevertheless, it’s odd behavior for my mom to act … well, normal. I know she meddles because she cares deeply. I know she does it because she’s terrified of losing me, like she lost Tripp. I know she partly feels every inch of Tripp’s death daily. Maybe she feels she could have prevented it.

  I wake up every day and wonder the same thing.

  If I had been home …

  If I hadn’t gone to Oregon with Casey …

  If I had stayed put and not made decisions that would haunt me and Casey for the rest of my life …

  What I wouldn’t give to hear my brother’s voice again.

  Why didn’t I save his voice mails?

  There are four attachments in the e-mail, and they’re clearly labeled—age four, age five, age seven, and age nine.

  I get up, go into the kitchen, and grab the framed photo. I open each photo my mom sent—one of me by a tree, eating a popsicle; one of me in my Sunday dress at age five; another one of me on the first day of school with a rainbow-colored sundress and no front teeth to speak of; and one of me at age nine when I got my first real big-girl bicycle with hand brakes. I remember that day because three hours later, I crashed it into a parked car. Time seemed slow and life was simple and I didn’t understand the complexities of the world. But all of these photos don’t look like the little two-year-old in the photo.

  I don’t know how Casey thinks I might look like the woman, even the little girl—I mean, sure, if I compare the two, but all two-year-olds can look similar if they have the same hair color. But a lot of change happens between two and seven. I saw it in my students—the changes.

  Feeling relieved, I e-mail my mom back and ask her how she’s doing. I give her a rundown of the renovations, the people we’ve met. I don’t touch on Casey because that’s a conversation better had in person. At the end of the e-mail, I ask her for pictures when I was an infant.

  Waiting for her response, I sip my wine and watch the fire dance. I think about the truck that Emmitt allowed us to borrow and how kind it was of him. I think about Esther and the Chilkat blanket she gave me. I think about Olive. I think of the kindness people have extended to a woman they don’t know.

  The wind begins its nightly ritual, and the old girl gives back, creaking and whining and letting the wind know she’s not giving up the good fight. She tells the wind of her new roof, the new floors she’ll get soon get, that she has new owners now, and that she’s content.

  For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m in the right place at the right time. As if this old house needed rescuing and I was the only person for the job.

  Now, I’m not scared to start a fire by myself. I’m not scared of chimney fires. I’m not scared of the wind or the rain. And I’m not scared of Casey.

  I welcome the thought of a new life. Maybe teaching isn’t my calling. Perhaps it’s something different, but I don’t have to know tonight or tomorrow or next week.

  Breathing the old, musky smell in, I rest in ease. For the first moment since Tripp and Conroy left our lives, I am content. Even as a child, I felt restless. I remember never wanting to be left alone. I was anxious. I wanted my mother at all times.

  It is now that it dawns on me.

  I needed my mother at all times as a child, like an old memory I grabbed from the sky like a fleeting thought. Oh, here you are.

  I needed her next to me.

  I needed to feel her hand in mine.

  I needed her.

  And then, one day, I just didn’t.

  I grew up maybe.

  And she still needed me as a little girl.

  Maybe she had a harder time with the transition.

  Isn’t that what mothers do? But how would I know?

  Emotion sets in my chest like cement, so much so that it becomes hard to breathe.

  But then the old girl lets me know she’s here with a quick shudder with the wind.

  “I know,” I whisper.

  Is it crazy, I ask myself, that I talk to an old house?

  Finally, an e-mail comes through from my mom with a ping.

  Hey, honey.

  For whatever reason, I’m having a hard time finding your infant pictures, but I’ll keep looking.

  It’s in my gut that I feel a tinge of turmoil start to twist and turn like a hurricane, a slight and unsettling feeling that lives somewhere between my throat and my stomach.

  All that was right in the world only seconds ago has tilted.

  My mother has never had a hard time finding anything.

  The green spatula from 1972? Third drawer down, next to the ice cream scoop.

  The Little Golden Books from my childhood? Attic. Right side, under Tripp’s baseball cards.

  The video of my first Christmas recital? The entertainment system. Left side, back row.

  My mother has never misplaced anything in her entire life, and this thought is so unsettling that my heart starts to beat quicker.

  Something isn’t right, and this scenario isn’t adding up.

  I reply.

  Okay. Thanks, Mom.

  I love you.

  I set my phone down on the coffee table and begin to ponder what the hell is going on.

  Why has the world led me to Ketchikan, Alaska?

  28


  Casey

  “Can I talk to you for a minute, Ri?”

  Riley’s coming down the path between the bull pens with her horse, and she stops in front of me.

  Our conversation played in my mind so many times last night.

  What I should have said. What I should have done. And all I did was sit there like a coward.

  “Look, I’m really sorry for the way I handled things between us. It wasn’t right. I never wanted to hurt you.”

  The corners of Riley’s mouth turn upward. “I knew, Case. I knew that you didn’t love me the way I loved you. There was always—I don’t know—something that I saw in your eyes that told me you were miles away from where I wanted you to be. But I tried. I tried to keep you in that saddle. Tried to make you love me the way I wanted you to love me,” she sighs. “Ain’t nothing right until it’s right.”

  I rub the ears of her horse, Storm, study the lightning bolt on her head that runs into her mane.

  “Truth be told, Casey. I should have ended it before it ever really got started.”

  Cowboys and cowgirls are making their way past us, saying, “Hey.”

  A few slaps on the shoulders from other bull riders and cowboys congratulating me on my ride last night.

  “Where to next?” Riley asks.

  “After tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ketchikan, Alaska.”

  “What’s there?”

  “My future.”

  “Huh. I thought you were from Dillon Creek.”

  “I am.”

  “Is it that Tess girl you grew up with?” She shakes her head and smiles. “I always knew it was that girl.”

  I look down at Riley. “I’m really sorry, Ri.”

  “There’s always another cowboy, Casey. Maybe not one quite like Casey Atwood, but there’s one for me. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Casey. That Tess is a lucky woman.” Riley gives a gentle pull on the reins to Storm, and they walk away.

  Shoving my hands in my pockets, watching her walk away, I think to myself that I could have built a future with Riley. She was a close second to Tess. But the heart wants what the heart wants.

  Garrison walks up and slaps me on the back. “You ready, cowboy? Get ready for our rides?”

  We walk back to the locker room together.

  Blaine, the athletic trainer, tapes my ankles, knees, and wrists while Garrison hops on the stationary bicycle and waits his turn.

  Garrison is quiet, I notice, which isn’t like him, but he’s preparing for battle. He’s on the bubble of making the World Finals. These next few weekends are crucial for him. He’s drawn What in Tarnation for tonight, one of the toughest bulls in the PBR right now.

  “Cat got your tongue, cowboy?” I ask.

  “Just gettin’ centered, man.”

  “All right, man. I’m gonna go do my rope.”

  I grab the rosin from my riggin bag, my rope, and head outside. I tie my rope up to the fence and begin removing the old rosin with a wire brush. I think about Top Ten and the way the bull stared me down; it was like I was looking death straight into his black eyes and he let me live. Gave me a chance.

  Do we get second chances in life? Do we get do-overs?

  Branson—another PBR rider, a father, a husband—didn’t get a second chance at life. His bull didn’t give him another chance.

  Raised in the church, I know what God is. I don’t use him as often as I should, but I pray before every ride. Maybe, with Top Ten, God was trying to get my attention. Hell, I don’t know.

  But what would God say about Branson? He had a family. Why did he die while the rest of us go on living, go on setting ourselves up for death night after night?

  After the old rosin is removed, I throw my brush back in the bag and grab a rock of rosin, break it against the fence, and then forcefully slide it up and down the length of my rope.

  Everybody has a plan, I guess, some way they’ll live and die, and that’s it. When I was younger, I always pictured myself riding bulls until I was old. But as I’ve gotten older, the self-centeredness that I had as an eighteen-year-old kid has changed. I started to think about how Conroy’s death had changed me, my family. Life was a luxury no more. It was no longer promised or guaranteed. I started to think about my mom and dad, and as they get older, how they’d handle the ranch, the land. I started to think about marriage and a family and Tess. All that shit that I’d pushed down for years slowly began to creep back into my life. I sure as hell don’t want to be selling old-man gel on television because I have to make ends meet or because I don’t have a choice. I want to end up on top. To walk out of the arena for the final time and have options.

  After the rosin is applied, my phone sounds from my bag.

  It’s a text from Tess.

  Tess: I wanted to call, but instead, I decided to text you, only because your focus is most important to me. Ride like hell, Casey Atwood. Ride like hell.

  Knowing it’s hard for Tess to watch these events, I always feel the need to reassure her.

  Me: I’ll see you tonight, Morgan. Save me a spot next to you in bed. ;)

  I wait for her to respond, but she doesn’t, so I throw my phone back in my bag along with all my shit.

  The announcer takes to the microphone. “Now, this cowboy is no stranger to the PBR, and he’s had some really great rides this year. Garrison is your next cowboy.”

  I throw my bag over my shoulder and head to the arena to catch Garrison’s ride. I climb up the fence and sit, having a clear shot of the arena, next to Cody and Lou and a few other bull riders.

  “Miss anything?” I ask.

  “Nah, just gettin’ started,” Cody says, chewing tobacco in his lip.

  “Man, Atwood,” Lou says, “you’ve had some rides lately.” He shakes my hand.

  Garrison gives the nod, and the chute flies open.

  The bull takes off in a fury of jumps, kicks, and spins.

  Then, he switches direction. Something I know Garrison didn’t plan for.

  What In Tarnation isn’t known to switch directions.

  And then it happens.

  Garrison loses his seat and gets sideways on the bull.

  He tries to gain his seat back, but it’s no use.

  “Fuck,” I whisper.

  With one massive buck, Garrison flies into the air, but he’s caught up. His rope is stuck on the bull.

  The bullfighters try to distract What In Tarnation, but it’s no use.

  One bullfighter reaches from the back of the bull, trying to loosen the rope.

  He bucks and spins as Garrison’s arm is still attached to the bull. What In Tarnation back hooves land on Garrison’s calf.

  I stand.

  Finally, the rope comes loose, and Garrison falls to the ground, limp.

  The entire arena grows eerily silent as Garrison lies there.

  I jump off the fence and run to him, but I’m pushed away by medical personnel who’ve made it to him quicker than I did.

  My heart is pounding out of my chest.

  “Come on, Atwood.” One of the bullfighters takes me by the shoulder and leads me to the fence, but I don’t take my eyes off my friend.

  The stretcher comes out, and with a neck collar on him, they load him onto it.

  “I’ll meet you at the hospital. Which hospital?” I ask the medical personnel as they walk past with Garrison.

  “Fuck that shit, Atwood.” It’s weak, but he says it. “Get back on that bull. You ride that son of a bitch.”

  I have to smile. Laugh. “I will, man. I will. I’ll be there soon.”

  He gives me a weak thumbs-up.

  We take falls off bulls, we heal and recover and come back to the PBR only to do it all over again, separates the boys from the men. But watching buddies never come back because they’re six feet underground or sitting somewhere on someone’s mantel, like my brother sits on my parents’, that’s finality.

  “Atwood! You’re up next!” Cody yells.


  I put my hands on my waist, drop my head, and do what Garrison asked and get back on that bull.

  When I’m in the chute, the adrenaline courses through my veins like power. It’s payback.

  An old bull rider once said, “Never get on a bull with revenge in mind. These bulls out here aren’t out to get anyone; they’re out to get riders off their backs. Respect the bull, and he’ll respect you.”

  But the old bull rider’s words disappear with my rage.

  Before I give the nod, I say a prayer. Please, God, I don’t ask for much, but watch over Garrison.

  I nod.

  The chute opens, and the bull comes out with the same vengeance I feel for him.

  He bucks.

  I sit back in my seat.

  He kicks.

  I balance.

  He spins.

  I stay upright and loose.

  We dance.

  He leads.

  I follow.

  He jumps.

  I stay.

  We do this deal for eight fucking seconds.

  The buzzer sounds, and that’s when I realize I’m hung up. My rope is stuck.

  I’ll ride through the World Finals, and I’ll hang it up, I tell myself, if I make it out of this one.

  I drop by the hospital. Garrison is in the emergency room still, but they let me back there. I told the front staff that he was my brother.

  In a lot of ways, I guess he is.

  But in the direction the nurse told me to walk, I hear howling from behind the curtain.

  “Please, God, make it stop!” Garrison says.

  And then silence.

  I pull open the curtain, and a young doctor is moving his shoulder.

  Garrison is still in his vest, his clothes.

  “Ma’am”—I tip my hat—“I’m his brother.”

  Garrison laughs. “My brother. That’s right,” he says, still wincing in pain.

  He looks like hell. A swollen left eye. Bumps and bruises to his face. But everything looks to be intact.

  “Dislocated shoulder, a torn Achilles’, a mild concussion, but he should be okay,” the doctor says.

  Garrison looks lovesick for the doctor.

  “We’ll keep him overnight for observation. I’ll get him admitted.” And with that, the young doctor leaves.

  Shoving my hands in my pockets, I walk closer to his bedside.