Trish crossed her arms over her chest and slid down a bit in her chair. “I really have nothing to say.” She tried to sound casual, but realized she sounded rude.
“Your mother’s concerned about you, Trish.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Did you get registered at the college?”
Trish shook her head. “I couldn’t.”
“No room in the class?”
She shook her head again. “No, that wasn’t it. I just couldn’t do it.”
“I see.” He tapped a finger against his chin and leaned forward. “Trish, I want to help you, and I know I can, but you have to want help. I’m here for you anytime—day or night. I’ll come to your house, if that would be easier for you.” He waited for her response.
“I…ah—” Trish bit her bottom lip. “Okay, that would be easier.” She stood and fled from the room before the pastor could say anything more.
I just had to get outta there, she thought on the drive home. Maybe I need to get out of here!
“So what time is your class?” Marge asked from her rocking chair when Trish came in.
“No class.” Trish started down the hall to her room.
“You mean they were full already?”
Trish leaned her forehead on her crossed arms against the wall. “No, I mean I didn’t register. Mom, I can’t even think. I zone out, fall asleep. I just can’t take chemistry now; I’d flunk for sure.”
“Did you talk to Pastor Mort?”
“I saw him. We talked a little.”
“Trish, you will see him again? You promised.”
“Yes, Mother. I will see him again. He’s going to come to the house.”
“Okay. I’ve backed off long enough, and I feel it’s time you get some help. You’ve been rude, and even cruel—to all of us. I won’t tolerate it any longer. Your dad and I did not raise you to act like this.”
“Mom—you think I like what’s happened to us?” Trish hurled the words at her mother. “You can’t just put a Band-Aid on it and expect everything to be all right. What can Pastor Mort do? What can anyone do? You…you just don’t understand.” She whirled in the hall and marched out the front door.
Jumping into her car, she jammed the key into the ignition and cranked it hard. The engine roared to life. She threw it into first, and gravel spun from the tires as she roared out the driveway.
After shifting into third out on the road, Trish floored it. The car leaped forward, picking up speed—forty, fifty, sixty. She cranked the wheel hard around the first curve.
Was she trying to outrun the voices screaming in her head? Seventy. Trish hit the brakes to make it around a ninety-degree bend. Her front wheels hit the shoulder but she jerked the car back on course.
For a few minutes she drove more cautiously, her heart pounding. She flicked on the radio to drown out her thoughts.
Radio blaring, she picked up speed again. The mist was coming steadily now, and she turned on the wipers.
Up into the Hockinson Hills, Trish followed the winding road. Driving like this was like racing a Thoroughbred, the car responsive to the wheel like a horse to the bit. She swung a hard left. The car skidded. Trish caught it and gritted her teeth until she straightened again.
Another hard right. She tapped the breaks. A hard left. Too soon! She slammed on her brakes and left the road, bumping over ruts and into a hayfield. Her head hit the roof. Slamming down again she bit her tongue.
The car stalled on a hay bale.
Trish leaned her head on the steering wheel. She felt like throwing up. Her hands shook so hard she could hardly turn off the ignition. She threw open the door in time to lose whatever was in her stomach.
Her dad was gone. Spitfire was gone. And now she’d wrecked her car. What else was left? Maybe she should have hit that tree.
Then it all would have been over.
Chapter
11
But it wasn’t over.
Trish dug in her purse for a tissue and wiped her mouth. “Oh, for a drink of water,” she whispered in the stillness. When she finally felt like her legs would hold her up, she opened the door and stepped out. Walking around the car, she checked for damage. The only problem she could see was a flat tire on the front passenger side.
She got back in and turned the key. The engine started immediately, and Trish levered the gearshift gently into reverse. Slowly, she eased out the clutch and backed the car off the hay bale.
“Too bad you weren’t equipped with a phone too,” she said, patting the dashboard. “I don’t see a house anywhere.” She’d shut the engine off again, and her voice seemed to echo in the quietness around her.
“Well, if anyone is going to change that tire, it’s going to have to be me.” At least she had the tools and knew how to use them. Somehow, though, she’d never quite planned on changing a tire in the rain, at dusk, and in a hayfield—on her new car.
What is your mother going to say now? her nagger piped up.
“Plenty, I suppose,” Trish answered curtly.
When she got back on to the road she noticed the alignment was off; it was hard to steer and keep the car on the road. Trish felt like crawling into the house. There was no way to hide the fact that she’d had some trouble. She was soaked, and her clothes were dirty.
“What happened to you?” Marge gasped.
Trish tried to sound casual. “I missed a curve and ended up on a hay bale. A front tire went flat, so I changed it.”
“Where were you?”
“Somewhere up in the Hockinson Hills.”
“Tricia Evanston, you scared me half to death when you took off like you did. And look at you.”
“Are you hurt, lass?” Trish could hear disappointment in Patrick’s voice.
“Not really. Something’s wrong with the car, though.”
David shook his head. “Nice going, Trish.”
“I think we need to talk.” Trish sighed. “Let me go to the bathroom first and get cleaned up. I need something to drink too. My stomach hurts.”
Marge followed her daughter to the bathroom. “Let me see your mouth. Is it bleeding?”
“I just bit my tongue.” Trish stuck it out for inspection. She rinsed her mouth and wiped off her face. “Really, I’m okay. Just shook up.” Her hands trembled as she dried them.
Marge pulled Trish into her arms. “Oh, Tee, if anything happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”
Trish leaned limply against her mother. She’d held the tears in so long they wouldn’t come even when she wanted them to. Her throat and eyes burned as she and Marge walked back to the kitchen.
Trish slumped into her chair at the big oak table. Lifting her head to look at her mother took a major effort.
“I think you bent the tie rods in the front end of your car,” David announced, washing his hands at the kitchen sink. “I couldn’t see any leaking from the radiator or the oil pan, though. You’ll have to take it in to the garage in the morning.”
“I guessed that, David.”
“I think you ruined the tire too.”
“What did you want to talk about, Trish?” Marge asked, stopping David’s recital of damages.
“I need to get back to racing.” Trish looked at her mother imploringly. “I’ll go crazy unless I get busy again. Everywhere I look I expect to see Dad—”
“Don’t you think the rest of us feel the same way?” David asked accusingly. “You’re not the only—”
“David…” Marge cut him off.
“I know.” Trish ran her fingers along the edge of the table runner.
“What about the chemistry makeup?” Marge asked.
“Adam said there are several colleges near where I’d be staying in California. I can take classes at night, or hire a tutor if I have to. Mom, please let me go.”
The silence at the table stretched into minutes. The fish tank bubbled in the corner; Caesar thumped his leg on the deck as he scratched for fleas.
Trish looked
up to see her mother with her eyes closed, her hand propping up her forehead. Trish knew her mother was probably praying.
She didn’t dare look at her brother. She knew she wouldn’t get any sympathy from him.
Marge finally dropped her hand and looked at her daughter. “I have one condition and there will be no arguing it. If you want to go to California, you will have to talk with Pastor Mort first. No games.”
Trish swallowed hard. “Okay. I can do that.”
David shook his head, and Marge laid her hand on his arm to keep him from leaving the table.
“And you’ll be back in time for school, whether the season is finished there or not. There will be no discussion about that either.”
Trish nodded. School seemed a long way off.
Patrick had stepped into the room when Marge mentioned California. She asked him, “How quickly can you make the necessary arrangements?”
“A couple of days. The horses are ready any time. I’ll call Adam and get a horse hauler.” He looked to David. “Who do you generally use?”
“We borrowed Diego’s van last winter. I could call him and see about using it again. He may have a horse or two he wants to send down there too.”
“How many does the van hold?”
“Six, I think.”
Trish thought she’d be relieved if her mother agreed to her wishes, but instead she felt drained. She pushed her chair back and stood up. “Thanks, Mom. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” She tried to catch David’s eye but he wouldn’t look at her.
Once in bed, her nagger began to taunt her. You used to trust God and His promises…the verses that were on your wall. Your life would be a lot easier if…Trish groaned and turned over, burying her head under the pillow.
After working the horses in the morning, Trish called the Chrysler dealership and made an appointment to bring in her car.
“Mom, would you follow me into the shop?” Trish asked after she’d hung up the phone.
“Sure.” Marge leaned against the sink, sipping hot coffee. “What time?”
“Right away. I just need to change clothes.”
Trish brushed her hair in front of the bathroom mirror. She didn’t think she looked like herself. Even her hair was unmanageable. The charm from her new bracelet clinked against the edge of the sink when she leaned over to brush her teeth. “Whoa, I haven’t called Red since I got back.”
After her car was looked over, Trish sat in a state of shock. The estimate on the repairs read between $2,500 and $3,000. New bumper, repair tie rods, adjust alignment, replace dented oil pan—and that was only what could be readily seen. There could be more damage inside.
The only good news was that she should be able to pick the car up the next evening.
“Are you going to file an insurance claim?” her mother asked as they walked back to the family station wagon.
“I don’t know. What do you think?” Trish rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers. She winced as she hit a tender spot. She must have banged her head on the steering wheel.
“It might be better to pay it off yourself, since the accident was your fault. That way it won’t show up on your record. Your insurance rate could go up quite a bit at your age.”
“I’ll have to get money transferred from savings to checking, then. Can we stop by the bank?”
Marge nodded as she pulled out onto the street. “When will you see Pastor Mort?”
She’d decided to see him at his office. “I’m going in this afternoon at three. Can I borrow your car?” Trish hated to ask, but she had no choice.
Sitting in the pastor’s office, Trish felt like a child being reprimanded in the principal’s office at school.
“Who are you mad at, Trish?” Pastor Mort said gently after a few moments of general conversation.
Trish shrugged. “No one, I guess.”
“Do you think that drive you took was because of anger?”
Trish tightened her jaw. “Maybe.” If she didn’t talk much, maybe this would be over sooner than she thought. At least she was doing what her mother had asked.
“I think you’re mad at yourself.”
Trish raised her eyebrows. “Maybe. I know driving like I did was stupid. I’ll never do that again.” Her voice became stronger. “Actually, I can’t believe I did it. Three thousand dollars—maybe more.”
“Do you think you could be mad at your dad for dying?”
“That too…” Her voice trailed off.
“How about God?”
Trish nodded. How did he know all this stuff? “My dad used to say that God heals. He had me memorize Bible verses about it.” Trish shoved herself to her feet. “Yes, I’d say I was mad at God. He doesn’t live up to His promises.…” Her voice broke. “I don’t want to hear about God’s promises ever again.”
Pastor Mort just nodded.
Trish sat down again. “What’s worse—my mother is taking over Dad’s place! And my brother sits in Dad’s chair. Patrick’s doing his work down at the barns. No one seems to miss him except me. Why did he leave me?”
“I don’t think your father wanted to leave you, Trish, and I understand how you feel.”
“Do you?” Trish glared at him. “You talk about how God is so good. Well, I don’t see Him that way.” Trish held her head in her hands. She felt like a volcano about to erupt.
She pulled her legs up underneath her. “I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay.” Pastor Mort poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on his desk. “Is there anything else you want to say?”
“That’s not enough?” She sipped the water.
“No, I think there’s more.”
Trish stared into her glass. “I guess I—uh—I feel so…guilty. Like it’s my fault that Dad died. And that I shouldn’t be mad like this. Sometimes I just want to die…it hurts so bad.” She leaned her head against the back of the chair.
“Do you know anything about the grieving process, Trish?”
Trish shrugged. “I—I guess you’re sad, and you cry a lot.”
“Have you cried a lot?”
“At first I did. Mostly when I was alone. Now I can’t. There aren’t any more tears, I guess.”
“You’ve locked them away, Trish. There are more tears, and you should let them come. Grief comes in stages. Denial, anger, fear, guilt—it’s all normal. Every person that suffers a loss experiences these stages of grief—in different degrees, of course. Sometimes we go back and forth between emotions. It’s okay to be angry at God, by the way. He loves you no matter what you think of Him.”
Trish muttered into her glass, “If this is love, what is hate like?”
“God isn’t punishing you or trying to hurt you, Trish. We can’t always know why or understand what life throws at us. As long as we live on the earth there is going to be some pain, illness, death. God only promises to get us through it—if we trust Him. You have to deal with your feelings. They aren’t good or bad, they’re just there—a part of you. By trying to lock them up, not allowing yourself to cry, you get stuck in the rage. Tears are healing, Trish. They are not a sign of weakness.”
“Do you think I drove off like I did because I was stuck in a rage?”
“What do you think?”
Trish nodded in spite of herself. “But nothing will bring my dad back. And I can’t live without him.”
“It may seem like that right now. But you have to give it some time. You can’t be over your grief so quickly. You know your dad would want you to go on and enjoy your life. He did the best he could with his. I have a suggestion. How about writing a letter to God, telling Him exactly how you feel? Don’t hold anything back; tell it like it is. And then write a letter to your father.”
Trish stared at the pastor, as if he were a little wacky.
“Your dad found writing in his journal was a big help back in the early days of his illness, when he was angry and scared.”
“He was angry and scared?”
“Yes,
he was. He and I did a lot of talking when he was in the hospital that first time. He said journaling helped a lot. He could say what he felt without feeling like he was being judged.”
“I don’t see how writing can help.”
“I agree it doesn’t make much sense at first, but try it. It works. Will you try, Trish?”
“I—I’ll see. Maybe I will.”
“Let me know when you do, and what you think of it.”
Trish stood to her feet. “Is that all?”
“I think that will do for now. Thanks for coming, Trish.”
Why is he thanking me? “Thank you.”
Once outside, Trish felt free as a swallow in the spring. Maybe it was just the fresh air. She remembered her father suggesting journaling to her. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, talking to Pastor Mort did make her feel better.
At home, David greeted her with, “Patrick thinks Miss Tee may have torn a ligament in her shoulder—because of that run on the road.”
Chapter
12
Gatesby didn’t want to leave home.
“Do you always have to be a jerk?” Trish muttered as she clamped her hands tighter on the lead shank. Her shoulder already ached from the force of the gelding’s high jinks.
“Walk him around and we’ll try again.” Patrick planted both hands on his hips. “Sure and he can be an ornery beast.”
“You got that right.” David glared at his charge. “Okay, Trish, let’s take him around again and then right up the ramp without slowing or stopping.”
This time Gatesby walked in without a snort. David kept up his muttering while tying the horse in place. “Anderson didn’t do us any favors when he brought you back.”
Gatesby nosed David’s gloved hand. “Knock it off.”
“You really gotta watch him when he does that,” Trish told Patrick. The bay swung his hindquarters and trapped David in the stall.
“Move over, you miserable hunk of horse,” David ordered, slapping Gatesby’s shoulder. The horse squeezed him tighter. “Trish!”
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