9. Bonnie
BONNIE
Beryl arrives on Sunday with a thermos of coffee for herself and a bag of breakfast sandwiches for me.
I have packed two suitcases, a box of personal things and the baby clothes I bought before we knew she was a girl. Most of the baby clothes are yellow. I can’t look at the little folded sleeves for long, so I put a towel over the top of the box.
My jacket is in the smaller suitcase. I have wrapped it in an old pillowcase so the fringe won’t catch. My chipped blue mug is in there too, rolled in a dish towel.
Gage is in the kitchen when I carry the last bag down. He has made coffee but hasn’t poured any.
“I’ve told Dewey to put Tawny on the gray,” he says.
I set the bag by the door.
“You could have done that yesterday.”
“I’m doing it now. There’s no reason for you to take off.”
“Is that all you think this is?”
He looks toward Beryl’s truck. “I think you’ve made a decision when you’re tired and angry.”
His phone lights with Tawny’s name. He silences it, then types a reply when it lights again.
“What did you tell her?”
“That I’m dealing with this.”
This. My suitcases by the door. My husband at the kitchen counter, telling another woman he will be available as soon as he has handled me.
“Tell her you won’t be discussing me anymore.”
“She’s worried.”
“About you.”
“Someone has to be.”
I look at him until he glances away.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then tell her.”
He puts the phone facedown. He does not send another message.
I go back upstairs for my phone charger. I cannot stay in the kitchen waiting for him to decide whether our marriage belongs in his conversations with her.
Our bed is made on his side and tangled on mine.
I pick up the glass from my bedside table and carry it to the bathroom.
The ordinary movement nearly undoes me. I have slept here for five years.
I know which board creaks on the way to the door.
I know how the afternoon light falls on the wall where we intended to put a family photograph.
I sit on the bed because I have started to cry and need to finish before I go downstairs.
Gage appears in the doorway. He doesn’t come in.
“I don’t want you to leave,” he says.
“Then why do I have to apologize to her to stay?”
“Nobody said that.”
“You said it in this room on Wednesday. You said it in the yard yesterday.”
“Because you accused her of wanting me. She’s been doing a job.”
“And taking your calls after it. And hearing what I say to you in bed.”
“I can’t take back a conversation.”
“You can stop having them.”
“We’re committed through the championship next spring, Bonnie. Nearly another year. I can’t unravel all of it because you don’t like her.”
Next spring. Our daughter will be months old. He is asking me to stay here, have our baby, and accept Tawny in the middle of our marriage. I feel a fresh, frightened urge to agree, because the other choice is going downstairs and leaving him.
Then I think of Tawny repeating what I said in bed. There will be more frightened nights. I cannot keep handing her the words.
He takes a step into the room. “The baby’s due in August.”
“I know when she’s due.”
“Your doctor’s here. Everything’s here.”
“I can make arrangements.”
He studies the half-empty wardrobe behind me. “How long are you planning to be gone?”
“I don’t know.”
It frightens me to say it. I have called Cleo and told her I am coming. I can pay for her cottage from my own training income. On Thursday I asked my doctor’s office what transferring care would involve. None of those things tells me how to wake up without wanting the life in this room.
Gage sits on the far end of the bed. “Stay at Beryl’s tonight if you have to. We’ll both have had some space by tomorrow.”
“I haven’t asked for a night off.”
“I’m trying to give you what you want.”
I stand before I begin explaining again.
“Beryl’s waiting,” I say.
Downstairs, Beryl has put the food on the counter and carried the bags she can manage to her truck. She looks at my face and asks whether I have eaten.
I take half a sandwich. Gage watches me chew. I finish because I will need the food, then go out to the barn.
The groom on duty meets me at Mercy’s stall. We have already spoken about the horses remaining at Redfern. The care notes are where they have always been. I have taken my own training files, leaving the working copies the staff need.
Beryl checks Mercy’s travel papers while I bring the mare out. The trailer is the one that brought Mercy home on Friday night. She sniffs the ramp, waits while I stand with her and walks up when I ask.
Gage arrives carrying the last suitcase.
“Leave Mercy here,” he says.
I step down from the ramp. “No.”
Tawny’s car turns into the yard before Beryl has shut the doors. She gets out and stops between her car and Beryl’s passenger door, taking in the bags and the trailer.
“Are you serious?” she asks.
Gage says, “I told you I was dealing with it.”
“I know. I wanted to see if you needed me.” She looks at him, then at the trailer. “My father’s calling every ten minutes.”
I take my suitcase from Gage. He lets go slowly.
Tawny stays beside Beryl’s passenger door. “You know what this does to him, don’t you?”
“Move.”
“He’s trying to keep a whole season together.”
“Tawny.” I look at the space between her and the door. “Get out of my way.”
She moves from beside Beryl’s passenger door.
Gage follows me to the truck. “At least call me when you get there.”
“Beryl will tell you I’m safe.”
“I’m your husband.”
I look at him then. He is wearing the shirt I washed on Thursday, with the cuff I folded back because the button was loose. His wedding ring has a line of dirt beside it. I love him so much that getting into the truck feels like doing something to my own body.
“I need some time when I don’t have to answer you.”
He takes a step back. I climb into the passenger seat and fasten my belt below the baby.
Beryl asks whether I have my phone and medication, and I check my bag. Gage stands by the gate while she starts the truck.
He does not wave. Neither do I.
Halfway down the lane, I look back once. Tawny has crossed to Gage. She puts her hand between his shoulders. He is watching the trailer, and he lets it stay there.
I cry before we reach the end of the lane.
Beryl gives me the guest room at her place and leaves me alone long enough to shower.
Afterward, I find her in the kitchen making soup. Mercy is settled in the barn; I have checked on her twice. My suitcases stand against the guest-room wall, still closed.
“I told him you arrived,” Beryl says. “That’s all.”
“Thank you.”
“Cleo says she’ll have the stall ready tomorrow. We can leave after breakfast and take our time.”
I sit at the table. The soup smells of onion, and for the first time all day I am hungry.
“You don’t have to drive all that way.”
“I’ve arranged cover here. I’ll stay the night with Cleo and come back Tuesday.”
I put my head down on my folded arms. Beryl sets a bowl beside me and waits until I sit up.
“Eat a little,” she says.
I do. When the baby moves, I put my hand against my stomach and tell her quietly that we have a place to go.