Kansas tells us she’s going to bring Electra in from the field and put her in the stall next to my horse to give him some company. She says that should help him settle in faster, because horses are herd animals.
I’m not so sure that unicorns are herd animals, but I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. I watch him at the back of the stall, his head down, eyes half-closed. He doesn’t look very happy. Maybe he has a headache too. I look up at my dad to see if he’s noticed, but he’s watching Kansas disappear up the driveway, the halter and lead rope slung over her back and a carrot sticking out of her bum pocket. Standing on the bucket, I’m about level with my dad’s shoulder, and I watch him in profile. I think he’s very handsome, even though he’s old. I like the way his hair curls out over the back of his shirt collar. I like how I can see the pin prick spots where his beard is growing in despite the fact that he shaves every morning. I like the way he smells.
“Look,” says Dad, “I have a couple of calls to make. I’ll be in the car. I’ll put your bike in the back. You come out when you’re finished and I’ll drive you home.” He pats me on the bum and leaves.
Dr. Cleveland exits Braveheart’s stall with an armload of shipping boots and the blue summer sheet the horse had been wearing to keep off the dust. Dr. Cleveland is glowing. At least someone is happy, but it makes everything worse, because this is how I should be feeling and no matter how hard I try, I can’t.
She stops beside me and peers down into my horse’s stall. “Oh,” she says.
“He needs some time to settle in,” I tell her.
For a long time she’s quiet and then she says, “I always loved grays.”
She doesn’t sound convinced. It’s as though she can’t understand if she always loved grays then why doesn’t she like this one.
There’s a long silence. Dr. Cleveland shifts her load of gear from one arm to the other. “You’d seen pictures of him, before you bought him?” she asks.
I know what she’s getting at. If I didn’t know she was totally distracted by having her own horse arrive, I’d be worried she thought I was plain stupid. I guess I have to make allowances for her, like I seem to have to make allowances for all adults, but it’s very disappointing. “My grandpa bought him for me, from a friend of his in Saskatchewan. He wanted him to be a surprise.”
“Hmmm,” says Dr. Cleveland. “Does he have a name?”
Of course Grandpa had told me his name, but it had flown out of my head as soon as I saw him, because it clearly was not a name for a unicorn. “Brooklyn,” I say.
“Like the bridge,” says Dr. Cleveland.
My stomach turns over and I look at her in horror. “A bridge?”
“Brooklyn Bridge,” says Dr. Cleveland, heading off to the locker room, not noticing a thing.
CHAPTER FOUR
I’m dreaming, and I know I’m dreaming, but I’m exhausted from the previous day and don’t have the energy to control where the dream goes. I hope nothing goes wrong or that if something does go badly I will have the energy to wake myself up. At first everything’s fine. I’m cantering along a trail and we pop over a small drop jump. Then we’re going a bit too fast, so I sit up like Kansas has told me to and slow the motion in my back. The horse responds by dropping to a walk and we mosey along, enjoying the countryside.
I know I’m dreaming because Kansas won’t let me jump yet. When I have lessons on Electra we only do flatwork. Dressage is Kansas’s passion. I don’t mind doing it if it’s going to make me a better jumper rider, but sometimes it does get boring, which is probably why I never bother to dream about it.
Suddenly the horse disappears, and I’m on my feet.
The unicorn is limping beside me. There’s a scab on his forehead where his horn used to be. He says, “Did you hear what the driver said? Not a bad little guy?”
I scuff my feet in the dirt. Fortunately I’m wearing my paddock boots. Sometimes in the past I’ve been wearing ballet slippers, which are the sort of thing my cousin Taylor likes to wear because she is a dance-nut the same way I am a horse-nut. This footwear switching is only one way things can become very mixed up in my dreams. Apparently there are rules to lucid dreaming. Sometimes I break them accidentally and then crazy things happen. The main thing is that I’m not supposed to build bridges between worlds by mentioning the name of someone from the real world while I’m in the dream world. The last time I made a mistake, suddenly Taylor was with me in the dream, and the unicorn followed her in because unicorns used to be her spiritual protectors. She had pictures of them all over her bedroom. But this particular unicorn wasn’t very nice, and he had very pointy teeth that scared Taylor out of her mind. Her life has been ruined by my error—she’s had to remove all the unicorn decorations from her room and she’s still looking for a new guardian for her soul.
I look around nervously, hoping that thinking about Taylor won’t be enough of a bridge to draw her into the dream.
“I need to rest for a moment,” says the unicorn.
We are under a large tree. I take a seat on a curve of root and stare at my boots. I wish I could ask the unicorn why my new “horse” was named after a bridge, because it’s really bothering me, but obviously I can’t.
“I don’t know about those drugs you’re getting,” says the unicorn.
“The growth hormone? I need that for the Turner Syndrome or I won’t grow.”
“What’s so bad about being short? I have a good life and never grew over fifteen hands.”
“A good life? You’re grumpy all the time.”
“I am not.”
“And Dr. Cleve…” I stop myself just in time. “My psychiatrist said it generally helped people psychologically to break the five-foot barrier.”
“Generally speaking. Not always. Not if it means you have a headache every day until your epiphyses close over.”
“My what?”
“You know. Until the growth plates have fused at the end of your long bones. Until you reach bone age fourteen.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know anything about this? You said you reported on the general spiritual picture.”
“I’ve been reading up on it.”
“Oh right, now you’re a unicorn that reads. I suppose you have high speed internet access back home in your mountain cave as well.”
“Sylvia . . . ,” he says, using that warning tone that adults are so fond of and drives me crazy.
I launch myself from the root. “Do not talk to me like that! Do not treat me like a child. I am so sick of this.” I glare at him and barely restrain myself from punching him in the nose. I decide to hurt him another way. “What happened to your horn?”
He turns away. I can see his face in profile, which makes the absence more obvious.
“And why can you call me by my name and I can’t call you anything? Is that fair?” I can feel my frustration building. I know I’m going to cry and when that starts I’ll wake up. I don’t have much time left. “What kind of spiritual creature are you anyway?”
His head sweeps back slowly and he considers me with deep dark sad eyes.
“Flawed, just like the rest of you,” he says.
I throw my arms around his neck, hold him and sob.
Of course this wakes me up.
It’s still early.
I ease myself out of bed, hoping not to give myself a headache right away. I part the curtains and look out the window for a while. I can tell it’s going to be another hot day, there’s not a cloud anywhere.
I can hear my parents chattering away to each other in the bathroom. I wonder how it is that they never seem to run out of things to talk about despite sleeping with each other all night and having lived with each other for a couple of decades.
I stand in front of my mirror. I sleep in a long t-shirt. My mom used to buy me
nighties with frills and cutesy pictures on them, and I thought this was my only option until I met Kansas. I helped her fold her laundry once. All she ever sleeps in is t-shirts.
I roll my sleeves up over my shoulders and flex my biceps. A small bulge forms, about the size of half a golf ball. Kansas says not to worry, that doing barn chores and learning to ride will develop all sorts of muscles.
I turn sideways to the mirror and pull in my stomach and puff out my chest muscles.
That’s when Mom peeks her head in the door. “Oh, you’re up already, Pumpkin?” she says. And before I can answer she comes in, shuts the door behind her and sits on the edge of my bed. She has my injection in her hand but she’s lost interest. “You know, Sweetie, there’s no reason you can’t wear a padded bra . . . until the medication starts working.”
“What?” I say. Then I look back to my reflection in the mirror. “Mom, no. I was checking my muscles.”
“No one would need to know,” says Mom. “Auntie Sally says the best place to go is that lingerie shop on Fifth Street.”
“You talked to Auntie Sally?” I am so mortified.
“She went there for Erika,” says Mom, as if this would make me feel better. Erika is ten.
She’s relentless. I do what I have to do to get her off my case, though in a way it’s too late already because my headache has come back. “I’ll think about it,” I say. I sit on the bed beside her.
“Oh good,” she says. “Can you phone Grandpa before you go to the barn today and let him know everything worked out fine yesterday? We should have called him last night but we forgot.”
“Okay,” I say. I’d rather not get into a discussion with her about whether or not everything really worked out fine yesterday.
She waggles the injector in front of me. “I have your medication.”
“Mom, I have a headache.”
“Again?”
Finally she’s heard me. Finally I have her complete attention. “Still. I always have a headache. Yesterday I threw up. It’s from the growth hormone.”
“Now what makes you think that, Sweetie? They told us there should be no side effects. And didn’t Dr. Cleveland say yesterday that she thought you were just anxious? She should know.”
I stare at my thigh and wonder if I can say that a unicorn in my dreams told me the headaches were from the medication. My mom would never buy it. I wouldn’t buy it myself, except it makes such perfect sense.
I feel the sting on my thigh as she administers the dose. “I’m sure it’s just all the excitement, Honey.”
“Mom, it’s more than that.”
She cocks her head as though she’s considering a new possibility, and for a brief moment I feel some hope, but then she launches into her usual sort of thing. She even has a different tone of voice, as though she’s being interviewed by Oprah. “Well, you’ve never struck me as the type, but perhaps it’s because I’ve been too close to you. Perhaps you do have an anxiety disorder . . . .” And her eyebrows pinch together as if she’s mentally reviewing all the psychology textbooks she studied at university.
I groan. “Mom, no…”
“Oh you’re right, I shouldn’t have said disorder,” she says. “That makes it sound terrible, that’s why we try not to use labels, because they’re pathologizing. And really, Sweetheart, anxiety is something that people can learn to manage. In fact I could teach you some terrific relaxation and visualization exercises. We can start tonight. It’ll be fun! Now I’ve got to go, your dad’s still here, he’s in the shower.” She kisses my cheek. “I love you, Pumpkin. Have a great day. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine—I promise.”
I close my eyes. Why do adults have to be such morons? She promises? Obviously I’m on my own with this one. Tonight I’ll do an in-depth search about growth hormone and side effects on Google. Google is usually reliable.
After I hear Mom’s car clank off down the road, I throw on a sweater and drag myself to the kitchen. I phone Grandpa and he answers, breathing hard, on the eighth ring.
“Hi Grandpa. It’s me, Sylvia.”
“Hey Pipsqueak. What’s new with you?”
As usual I’m unsure whether Grandpa is kidding or showing more signs of senile dementia. “Brooklyn got here yesterday,” I tell him.
“Well how is he? Do you like him?”
“He bit the driver.”
Grandpa clears his throat. “What does . . . er . . . Dakota think of that?”
“You mean Kansas. She’s not sure. She says I have to be careful around him and give him time to settle in.”
“That’s good advice. Do you like him?”
“I think so.” It’s not so much that I’m lying as that I’m being kind. Grandpa has been very generous and I don’t want to hurt his feelings. “Grandpa, do you know what breed he is? Kansas was wondering if maybe he was part Shetland pony, because his coat is kind of long, and because he isn’t as tall as we were expecting.”
“I don’t know, Pipsqueak. I’ll see if Travis knows, but he kept a lot of horses and now he’s stuck in extended care. His son and I haven’t been able to find all his records yet. He left things in an awful mess, not that I’m blaming him—how was he to know he was going to fall and break his hip? And who wants to be spending their precious time with paperwork? Life’s too short for that. You need to be out there living it up enjoying things while you can. That’s my advice to you, Pips.”
“Okay, Grandpa.” There’s some crackling and buzzing down the line between us. I can’t think of what else to say.
“Some of Travis’s horses were imported from Europe,” says Grandpa. “I’ll keep looking through his files, how’s that?”
“Thanks, Grandpa.”
“And take your time,” says Grandpa. “You don’t need to rush anything. Give the horse a chance. Give yourself a chance. Everything will be fine.”
“Erk,” I say.
“You okay, Pipsqueak?”
“I have a headache. I think it’s from the growth hormone.”
“What does the doctor say?”
“I’m not scheduled to see the pediatrician for another two weeks. I could go see our family doctor, Dr. Destrie, but he would only say I have allergies. That’s all he ever says, even when Stephanie had Chlamydia.” Stephanie is my cousin too. She’s Taylor’s older sister, and Erika is the youngest. Taylor has warned me about Dr. Destrie, though my mom thinks he’s super.
Grandpa isn’t saying anything. Maybe he doesn’t know what Chlamydia is either; I had to look it up the first time Taylor told me about it.
“That’s a bacteria,” I tell him.
“Of course it is,” says Grandpa. He clears his throat. “You know, Pipsqueak, what I said about living it up and enjoying life while you can . . . well, there are limits.”
“Okay,” I say uncertainly. I don’t know where this is going all of a sudden.
“When I was young . . . .” He has to stop for a bout of coughing. I hope he isn’t getting pneumonia. This is how my dad says most old people die.
“Grandpa, are you okay?”
“Oh hell,” he says. “What were we talking about? Never mind. And I shouldn’t have said hell. What do I know? Let me know how it goes with the horse.”
“Okay, Grandpa. And thank you for sending him,” I say, but as usual Grandpa has hung up before I finish.
I turn around and Dad is watching me. His hair is wet from the shower. His eyes are kind of buggy. “You were telling Grandpa about Chlamydia?” he says.
He sounds so perplexed that I figure he doesn’t know what it is either.
“It’s a bacteria,” I tell him.
“I know that,” says Dad. “How do you know about it?”
He’s making such a big deal of this. “Stephanie had it. Dr. Destrie thought she had an alle
rgic reaction to fabric softener. It’s an STD,” I tell him, because that’s how Mom talks about these things—very matter of factly, preferably with acronyms. His Adam’s apple bobbles up and down. I think it’s time I changed the subject. “Dad, do you think I might have an anxiety disorder?”
“Jesus Christ,” says Dad.
I decide to ignore this. “Because Mom thinks my headaches might be from anxiety, but I think they’re from the growth hormone.” Surely I can get someone on my side about this issue.
“I don’t know, Shorty,” he says. He hasn’t called me Shorty in a long long time so I know he’s exasperated. He checks his watch. “Shit,” he says.
“Dad!”
He apologizes.
“And you said you wouldn’t call me Shorty any more.”
He puts his great big hand on top of my head. His face looks so sad, I regret reminding him. “I’m sorry, Sylv. I’m really sorry. I’ll try harder. It’s just I’m so busy right now, and I’m stressed about work, the economy’s a mess, all those sub-prime mortgages . . . .”
I sigh. “It’s okay, Dad. Don’t worry about it.”
He grabs his briefcase. “Look, Munchkin, I really have to run. We’ll talk more tonight.” And he dashes for the door.
CHAPTER FIVE
I cook a piece of toast and smear it with extra-crunchy peanut butter, but can’t eat it. I know if I put it in my mouth I’ll throw up again. Last night I somehow managed to eat dinner so maybe I’ll have enough nourishment on board to take me through the morning. I grab an apple from the refrigerator and cut it into thin slices and put all but one of them in a zip-lock bag in my backpack. The extra slice I slip between my teeth and suck it carefully, drawing out the juice and swallowing a teeny bit at a time.
The phone rings, startling me into chewing and swallowing. I’m spluttering as I say hello.
“Sylvia? Is that you? You sound funny. It’s me, Taylor. How’d it go yesterday? Did your horse arrive?”
Miraculously the apple stays down in my stomach where it’s supposed to be. “Yeah,” I say.
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