Chapter Five
Maggie, Zoe, and I watch as Dr. Mac examines King’s Shadow. The horse stands cross-tied in the aisle of the barn, remarkably calm and unfazed by all the fuss. Dad slowly strokes King’s shoulder. I glance quickly at my dad. I’d be totally ashamed if I’d just done what he’s done, but his face is unreadable.
Mr. Quinn’s mouth is set in a hard line. Nothing makes him madder than people who foolishly endanger a horse.
“We’ll need X-rays of the leg,” Dr. Mac says, giving us kids a meaningful look. We go out to her van, unload the portable X-ray machine, and carry it back to the barn. It’s about the size of a toaster oven.
Dr. Mac and Mr. Quinn put on large lead-lined aprons and mittens. I’ve worn those before, and they’re heavy. The lead blocks the radiation from the X-rays.
Then Dr. Mac slides a thin metal case about the size of a large book into a wooden box. That’s the X-ray film. She hands the box to Mr. Quinn, who positions it behind King’s right foreleg.
“Everyone else, get back,” Dr. Mac orders. She aims the lens of the X-ray machine at the injured leg and pushes a button. She takes a couple more X-rays from different angles, just to be sure.
When she’s done with the X-rays, she examines King’s leg one more time, her hands moving gently as she glances up at the horse for any reaction. Then she has Dad walk him back and forth while she watches his limp, frowning.
“I’ll look at the X-rays back at the clinic,” she says at last, “but I’m pretty certain that there’s no fracture.”
“Thank God!” Mr. Quinn says under his breath.
Dad doesn’t say anything. He just looks relieved.
“However,” Dr. Mac adds as she begins to wrap King’s foreleg in a bandage, “there could be a serious stress injury. If he’s been doing a lot of jumping, you should take him to the equine clinic so they can do a force-plate analysis.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s a test performed on a special treadmill that measures the force each leg is putting down when the horse walks,” Dr. Mac explains. “The force-plate analysis reveals the degree of weakness in the injured leg, and it helps us plan his physical therapy more accurately.”
Mr. Quinn stands up with his hands on his hips and slowly shakes his head at my dad. “Operating on people-time, Charlie?”
Dad presses his lips together and glances away.
“What’s people-time?” I ask.
Dad doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me. I’m not sure he even knows I’ve spoken.
“People-time is the hurried pace we humans live by,” Mr. Quinn tells me. “We worked by horse-time when we got Trickster used to the trailer again. Remember how long that took?”
Do I! “Forever,” I answer. Every day we led Trickster a little closer to the trailer, sometimes only a step or two closer and only for a few minutes. It was tedious, and I got pretty impatient. I thought Mr. Quinn was being ridiculous. But he was determined to do it that way, taking baby steps. This went on for weeks.
And then, bit by bit, Trickster began to lose his fear of the trailer. Finally we had him happily eating his breakfast right in the trailer! Mr. Quinn sure knew what he was doing, and I really admired his patience when I saw how well it worked.
“You know, Charlie,” Mr. Quinn says to my dad, “you can’t force a horse onto people-time. He was not ready for that jump. Now he can’t jump at all.”
“How bad do you think it is?” Dad asks quietly.
Dr. Mac turns and studies my father’s face like she’s trying to read an X-ray. “Only time will tell,” she says. “Horse-time.”
Dad can’t hold Dr. Mac’s intense gaze. His eyes lower, and that look of confidence he always has evaporates. In fact, he looks miserable. He knows it was all his fault.
Boy, do I know how that feels.
“Hungry?”
I’ve just finished my chores around the barn, and suddenly Dad is standing there, leaning up against the barn door as if he just happened to be there and I just happened to walk by.
“Always,” I say.
He chuckles. “That’s the way I was at your age. Never could get enough to eat.” His smile fades a little but doesn’t disappear. “It’s all that growing you’re doing,” he adds softly.
Have I grown? Do I look different to him? I don’t feel any different since he left, at least not on the outside.
“Why don’t you call your mother and tell her you’ll be home after dinner,” Dad says. “We can go get a bite to eat.”
“Have you seen her yet?” I blurt out.
Dad looks at the nails on one hand. “I stopped by her office today, but she was out with a client.” He pauses. “She seems to be doing well there. Nice office.” He sounds almost surprised. Surprised that she’s doing well without him?
I almost say, It’s a good thing, because we need the money. But I don’t want to spoil the moment.
Dad hands me his cell phone, and I call Mom. “Hi, Mom, it’s David. Um, Dad’s here. He wants to take me out for something to eat.”
Mom doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, “Your father’s there? At the barn?”
“Yeah,” I say lightly, trying to make it sound normal that he’s been to the stable but not to his own house. “He says he came by your office today, but you were out.” I hold out the phone to him. “You want to talk to her?”
He steps back, not expecting that. Then he looks at his watch and waves a hand. “We’d better scoot.”
I stare at him. Is my dad afraid to talk to my mom?
“David? Are you there?” Mom asks.
“Oh, yeah, Mom. So can I go?”
“Sure, I guess so,” she says. Not Where is he staying? Is he coming for Thanksgiving dinner? Let me talk to him. Nothing. We let it go at that.
We climb into Dad’s car—actually a small truck that’s seen better days.
“What happened to your SUV?” I ask him.
Dad snorts as he pulls out onto the road. “Guy ran into me. Totally wrecked it. I got it fixed, but it was so messed up”—he shrugs—“I just sold it. A friend let me have this to drive, just till I figure out what I really want to get.” He pats the dashboard. “Gets pretty decent mileage, for a truck. And it hauls anything.”
We drive along, not talking much. At last we pull into the parking lot of Taco Bell. It used to be our favorite place to go. It’s been a long time since we’ve been here together.
We go in and order, loading up two trays with all our favorites. Then we slide into a booth and dig in. There’s a lot of “This looks great!” and “Yeah, here, want some of this?” We stay busy unwrapping straws and rustling papers and chowing down so we don’t have to talk.
The silence is heavy with all the things we aren’t saying. I slurp down some soda and shift in my seat.
Dad leans back and wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. He takes a little sip from his drink, then shakes the cup, rattling the ice.
Finally he says, “I’m really looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner.” Just like any dad who hasn’t been gone for a year.
Some kids might say something mean at this point. But when I look Dad in the eye, I can’t. He actually seems kind of sad to me. Maybe this has all been hard on him, too. Maybe he wants to explain.
Maybe he wants to come home.
“Yeah,” I say. “Turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie—Mom’s going all out.”
Dad nods. “Your mom’s a good cook.”
“Except for when she gets on a health-food kick!” We laugh. Suddenly it feels great to be with Dad after so long. “So what have you been up to?” I hope it’s OK to ask.
“Oh, you know…” He stirs a chip in a puddle of nacho cheese sauce. He talks about what he’s been doing, but he’s kind of vague. It sounds like he’s traveled some and has been “really, really busy.” I don’t get any specifics. Soon he steers the conversation toward something we both like: horses.
“Quinn told
me about you and Trickster,” Dad says. “Sounds like a fine horse.”
“He’s awesome!” I tell him. “My riding’s really improved, too. But jumping—man, that’s a lot harder than it looks.”
Dad leans forward. “What you need is a teacher who understands you. Quinn is good, don’t get me wrong. But he’s a little…” He searches for the right word. “Easygoing. You know? Slow-paced. You’ll never get anywhere if he doesn’t push you a little. You have to challenge yourself in order to grow, David. That is, if you really want to be a champion rider.”
“I do!” I insist.
Dad smiles at me with a strange look on his face, one I can’t quite read. “I remember that first time I put you on the back of a horse.” He laughs. “Your mom just about had a fit! I was afraid she was going to call the authorities.”
“How old was I?”
“About ten months old.”
“You’re kidding!”
“You grabbed right on, though,” Dad says. “I was so proud of you! I told your mom you were a natural.”
Proud of me? A natural? My heart leaps over a hurdle.
“I have high hopes for you, David. You’ve got the talent; you just need a little more fire. But I expect you’ll be riding a real jumper—like King’s Shadow—in no time.” He wads up some food wrappers and stuffs the ball into his empty cup. “Say, how would you like me to give you some jumping lessons?”
Would I! “Really?” I exclaim. “That’d be great, Dad! You’re the best rider I’ve ever seen!”
He smiles the biggest smile I’ve seen since he got here, one that goes all the way up to his eyes. “You’re on!” he says. “What do you say we start tomorrow—meet at the stables after school?”
“You bet!” I tell him. It’s an offer I can’t refuse.
Chapter Six
When we get home that night, Dad pulls up to the curb but keeps the motor running.
“Aren’t you coming in?” I ask.
“Sorry, David, I’ve got some important calls to make.”
“But what about Ashley? She’s dying to see you!”
“I’m going to see her tomorrow, I promise,” he insists.
Yeah, right. I climb out of the truck.
“It’ll be a surprise for her!” he adds lamely. “And tell your mom I’ll call her.”
As I walk in the door, Mom looks up expectantly, but when she sees I’m alone, her face quickly goes blank. I deliver Dad’s message, and she nods. Then she puts me to work polishing the silver for the big Thanksgiving dinner she’s planned.
She’s invited Dr. Mac, Maggie, and Zoe to join us, plus a few people from her office. So we’re all working like crazy to get everything ready. Despite all the work, I can tell she enjoys the hustle-bustle of holiday preparations.
Right now she’s making her special cranberry relish while Ashley works at the table beside her, coloring name cards for our guests. Brian is bringing in firewood to have ready for Thursday. Even I start to feel cheerful and excited about the holiday, in spite of my worries over Dad being here.
Brian dumps his load of wood by the fireplace in the family room, then turns to Mom. “Do you need any more stuff from the store? I can swing by on my way home from work tomorrow.”
Mom beams at his thoughtfulness but shakes her head no. “I’ve got everything I need,” she says with satisfaction. And as she looks around the kitchen at me and my brother and sister, I think maybe she’s not just talking about ingredients for the meal.
Wiping her hands on her apron, Mom leans over and kisses Ashley on the top of her head. Everything feels peaceful and contented, kind of like in one of those holiday commercials for stuffing.
I just hope nobody changes the channel.
When I get to the barn after school the next day, Dad’s waiting for me. He grins at me, and I smile back. It’s starting to feel like it used to. Not nervous, the way you feel around company. As if we’re remembering how to be together.
At first it feels just like the old days, when Dad used to give me lessons. He seems really happy to be here with me, and it feels wonderful to have all his attention like this.
He watches as I trot around the practice ring on Comet.
“Tighten up your reins a little, David. That’s right—let the horse know you’re in charge.”
I adjust my reins for more control, then press Comet into a nice, steady canter. I’m trying hard to please Dad. At least my seat feels balanced for once, like I’m moving with Comet, not just on her.
“Looking good out there!” Dad calls. “Keep that up, and you’ll be in the 2012 Olympics!”
My heart swells in my chest, and I feel almost as if I could fly. I’m so glad Dad’s back! I tell myself to quit worrying so much about him. Everything’s going to work out fine.
“It’s time for Air David to take flight,” Dad announces with a grin. But instead of setting up the practice jump, he walks to the far end of the ring and opens the gate to the big outdoor jumping arena. “You might as well start learning on a real jumping course.”
I’m not sure I’m ready for this, but I take a deep breath and follow him into the arena.
Dad must have caught my look of doubt. “Lesson number one: act confident, even if you’re not, to psych out the competition,” he tells me with a wink. “Don’t worry, Comet’s jumped this course before. She’ll show you how it’s done.”
Despite Dad’s encouragement, I can’t help feeling nervous about the jumps. My lesson yesterday was a total disaster, and I don’t want to repeat that in front of Dad. But I’m his son, I remind myself. I must have some of his talent.
Dad sets the jumps low, and Comet takes them with no trouble at all. It’s actually kind of fun going over one jump after the other, getting into a rhythm. When we finish the course, I’m feeling good, but tense. The sweat from my palms has soaked through my riding gloves. You can do it, David, I tell myself. Make Dad proud of you.
“Hey, kiddo, you’re making this look too easy!” Dad says with a smile, raising the crossbars higher. He’s setting them nearly three feet off the ground, higher than I’ve ever jumped before.
He’s testing me. Challenging me. Comet watches Dad with interest, her ears perked forward.
I want to take that challenge, but something holds me back.
“I—I’m not sure we should try those yet,” I say.
Dad stands with his hands on his hips, feet apart. “Are you afraid of the height?”
“No!” I swallow. “But Comet needs to build up to that height,” I try.
Dad’s eyes bore into mine. “Trust me, son. That horse wants to go over these jumps. Look at her—she’s champing at the bit! These jumps aren’t that high, to a horse. But of course you can’t do it if you tell yourself you can’t. Come on, give it your best shot.”
What am I supposed to do—say no?
I take a deep breath, press my heels to Comet’s sides, and point her toward the first jump. My nightmare flashes across my mind, and I fight to send it packing. Can’t think about that now.
Comet speeds into a canter, but her strides are short and jerky. My heart sinks—she can tell I’m nervous.
When we reach the first jump, her stride is totally off, and she swerves around the jump instead of leaping over.
“Whoa!” Dad hollers out.
I pull Comet up and glance at Dad. He’s got the look of someone who’s good at something and impatient with those who aren’t.
“Sorry, Dad. Comet just wouldn’t go over,” I try to explain, cringing at the whine in my voice. Dad hates excuses.
He shakes his head. “Comet’s not the problem, David. Never blame your horse.” He sighs. “This is where Quinn would simply lower the bar, and your mother would probably tell you to quit and go home.” He looks me straight in the eye. “But I know you’re not a quitter.”
I try not to flinch under that commanding blue gaze. I want to say, “Come on, Dad. Let’s go play mini golf or watch a football game—anything
but jump!”
But I can’t. Not with that look on his face. He wants to believe in me—to believe that his son is a champion in the making. I can’t let him down.
“Right,” I say loudly, trying to force some confidence into my voice. I adjust my helmet, wipe my gloves on my pants, and turn Comet back around for another try.
We halt for a moment while I stare at the jump. Dad once told me that Olympic athletes use mental imagery to help them nail a performance. A gymnast might visualize a little movie in his head of himself running, leaping, hitting the vault, twisting high in the air, then sticking the landing. That’s what they’re doing when you see them on television just standing there, staring at the vault before they start to run.
So I picture myself and Comet cantering in perfect rhythm, flying over the fences together, landing smoothly like pro jumpers…Dad beaming proudly as I ride up to the winner’s circle. That’s my boy! I imagine him saying.
OK. I’m ready.
With a new burst of determination, I approach the first jump again, focusing on my vision of success. Go, go, go!
Against my will, my pathetic jumps from yesterday suddenly fill my mind, and my confidence seeps away with each hoofbeat as we draw closer to the jump. I feel as if I’m on a runaway train, heading for disaster—and I don’t know how to stop.
I can’t do this! I’m going to make a fool of myself in front of Dad!
Comet senses my fear—I can feel the change in her gait. Right before the jump, she ignores my feeble kick, plants her hindquarters, skids to a halt, and sends me flying through the air like a catapult.
And then I fall, fall, fall…just the way I do in my nightmare.
Only this time I know it’s for real.
I hit the ground—oof!—and lie there, wondering why I can’t seem to breathe.
Chapter Seven
When I wake up, I’m not sure where I am.
In bed, having one of those dreams?
My shoulder hurts, and I groan.
A high-pitched whinny splits the air. Trickster? The fog in my head slowly clears. No—it’s Comet.
Fear of Falling Page 4