Sunday, December 26th
Ronan
I’ve always loved winters in Montana, even though they can be brutal. I just love the way the snow quiets the world and silences the noise, including the noise in my head. There’s no purer existence to me than being out here, inhaling the clean air, surrounded by mountains and woods and pastures, the only other breathing things around me the few people and livestock who call this ranch their home. I feel small out here, insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe, but not in a bad way. It makes the shit that weighs me down less heavy. It feels like New York and everything that has happened to me is a million miles away.
Thomas, Elias, my grandfather, and I have been spending the hours since sunrise corralling cattle, which will be loaded up and transported to town for culling and the meat will be sold. It’s the main aspect of my grandparents’ business—raising cattle, then selling it for… for consumption. I’m perfectly aware of how this business works, but I try not to think about the details. I’m too much of a bleeding heart, I guess. As far as I’m concerned, the cattle my grandparents raise is sold to live out the rest of their lives on endless green pastures.
Today is the first day I’ve been back on a horse in over two years, and the moment I sit in the saddle I feel at home.
Reaper has been my horse since I was ten, when my grandfather bought him at auction. Reaper was only two and completely green. My grandfather and I broke him in, teaching him to accept a bridle, a saddle, and eventually me. Reaper moves beautifully underneath me, easily transitioning between a trot, a canter, and a full-on gallop. There’s something so freeing about being on horseback, the wind whipping in your face, and being one with the horse’s movements.
Reaper is a wiry Appaloosa, mostly black with white hindquarters adorned with black dots. He willingly responds to my commands, reacting to the slightest shift in my weight or tug on the reins, asking him to quickly change direction in anticipation of cattle breaking out of the herd.
By the time I dismount and lead Reaper back to the barn, my face is numb and my hands are frozen through my leather gloves, but I feel great. I should’ve gotten on that horse weeks ago, like my grandparents urged me to. I was hesitant because my knee still isn’t one-hundred percent, but they were right. Reaper is a great horse and I’m so in tune with him that there’s no way he’d buck me off or do anything crazy.
I unsaddle him and lead him back to the small pasture behind the barn, which is reserved for the horses in constant use or the mares about to foal. Reaper is such a willing horse that I only throw a lead rope over his neck—no need for a full-on halter—and pull it back off as soon as I close the gate behind us.
Once I climb back over the fence, pleased with how much more mobile I am despite the residual stiffness and pain, I trudge through the ankle-deep snow and back to the large two-story ranch house that’s my grandparents’—and currently my—home.
My understanding is that my grandfather built it from the ground up. It took him the better part of two years while he, my grandmother, my dad, and my aunt all lived in a small two-bedroom house already on the ranch when my grandparents bought the initial five hundred acres. They’ve since expanded dramatically, and my grandfather built my grandma’s dream home for her. It has huge windows facing both east and west and the open kitchen, dining area, and living room are always flooded with light. A wide staircase leads to the second floor, which remains largely unoccupied and is reserved for family. Right now, I’m the only one using one of the sizeable bedrooms—the bedroom that’s been mine all my life. It has three large windows, two of which overlook the mountains to the west and one facing north, giving me a perfect view of the driveway leading up to the house and the large barn.
My room here is way more spacious than my bedroom in New York, and it’s kept in a rustic ranch style with hardwood floors, a large wooden headboard, and a matching desk and dresser. There’s a box in the walk-in closet with some of my baby and toddler clothes, and a set of boots from when I was eleven. There’s also a small bag of weed taped to the underside of the second drawer of my dresser from when I lived here last time and was getting myself into all kinds of trouble. I know it’s there because I randomly remembered last week and checked. I have no intention of doing anything with it, but it’s weirdly comforting to have it here.
I enter the house through the mudroom, limping a bit. I take off my boots, heavy coat, gloves, chaps, and, finally, my ball cap. My grandfather keeps making comments about me not wearing a Stetson like everyone else, but my grandmother always comes to my rescue, sort of: “You can take the boy out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the boy.”
My grandfather always chuckles. “Doesn’t mean I won’t try.”
“Hi baby boy,” my grandma chirps the moment I emerge from the mudroom. “I heard you finally rode Reaper. Thomas said you looked like you never stopped riding,” she says delightedly, and I give her a smile. “How did it feel?”
“Pretty great.” I make my way into the kitchen where I turn on the faucet and stick my frozen hands under the water to thaw. “Definitely need to do that more often,” I say, enjoying the endorphins rushing through my body.
“I would say so.” My grandmother gives me a once-over. “Now we just need to fatten you up. You’re still too skinny.”
I chuckle. “I’m pretty sure you’ve been saying that since I was born.” I turn off the water and dry my hands, which have finally shed their blue, frozen hue. “I could be at my fittest and you’d still want me to bulk up.”
“True,” she says. “But this time you really are too skinny.”
She’s right. I’ve lost a bunch of weight and muscle mass. I was so immobile in the beginning and my appetite was almost nonexistent. It’s getting better, especially because I’m moving a lot more. In fact, I hear my stomach rumble right now and decide to make myself a protein shake, which is another thing that causes my grandfather to shake his head. “If you need protein, kid, just eat a steak,” he keeps teasing me.
My grandpa enters the kitchen and plants a quick kiss on my grandmother’s temple before warming his frozen hands under the faucet like I did a moment ago.
“Perry, please hurry and change so we can get to church.” My grandma turns her attention to me. “I’d like it if you joined us at the service today,” she says, like she has on Christmas Eve and just about every Sunday since I got here.
“No, thanks,” I say, repeating the same words I have each time she “suggests” I tag along to Sunday church service.
“Baby boy, I really think it could be good for you,” she says, warmth in her voice.
“Morai, I know that’s what you think, but God and I don’t have any sort of relationship. Trust me on this one.” I turn to leave the kitchen, eager to end this conversation before I say anything else to upset her.
I grew up in a religious household. Both sets of my grandparents are Irish Catholics, and even though we never attended church when we lived in New York, my grandmother was adamant about us attending every Sunday whenever we lived with her. There’s no Catholic church anywhere near my grandparents’ ranch, so they just attend the small church in town—about an hour’s drive away—with an “anything is better than nothing” mindset. I did go with them, dutifully, even the last time I lived here three years ago, though that was really an excuse for me to sneak off with the girl I was seeing. We’d have sex in her truck or get into some form of trouble.
I can hear my grandmother start to say something, but my grandfather cuts her off. “Leave him be, love,” he says with an assuaging tone.
I make my way through the open living space and toward the stairs when my grandparents’ phone rings. My grandmother answers it just as I start climbing the stairs, though I make it only a few steps before she calls me back down. “Ran, it’s your dad,” she says, her tone happy. “He wants to talk to you.”
I stop, momentarily frozen to the spot. I haven’t been allowed to speak to anyone the entire time I’ve been in Montana, and my heart beats overtime. Does this mean my communication ban is over?
I walk back down the stairs as quickly as my body will allow and expectantly hold my hand out for the phone.
She gives me a bright smile. “Here he is, Frankie. I love you,” she says and hands me the phone.
“Hey Dad.” I’m really happy to be talking to him after two months.
“Hi buddy. God, it’s so good to hear your voice!” He sighs heavily. “How are you feeling?”
“Pretty good today,” I answer truthfully. “Physically I feel about eighty percent. It’s mostly my knee that acts up, but I’m getting there.”
“I can’t even begin to tell you how happy that makes me, bud.” He sounds relieved, his voice light. I wonder what he was expecting to hear after not having talked to me since he dropped me off at the airport in October.
“And how are you doing otherwise?” I know he’s asking about my mental state, which is a whole can of worms I’m not eager to open right now.
“Fine.” It’s the standard answer. He’s silent, clearly not believing me. “But hey, how come I’m allowed to talk to you?” I ask, desperate for a subject change. I know my therapist wouldn’t be happy with my unwillingness to open up, but I push her out of mind.
“Well, I talked to Doctor Seivert on Friday and she said you did really well during your session on Thursday. She thinks you’re progressing in the right direction, so she felt it would be okay for me to give you a call. I actually have something to tell you,” he says ominously.
My shoulders tense. My body is still so used to going straight into fight-or-flight mode, despite the months of therapy. I fully expect him to bring up my mother, the trial, or something equally unpleasant. “What is it?”
“You got a letter.”
“From?” I draw out the word, raising my eyebrows.
“Columbia University.” I can hear the smile in his voice.
Oh, shit. “Okay?” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Want me to open it?”
“Sure, I guess.” I close my eyes, listening to paper ripping. My dad stays silent for a few seconds. “Dad?” I ask when he still doesn’t say anything.
“Would you like me to tell you what it says?”
Fuck, he’s killing me. “That would be exceptional,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
He chuckles. “I didn’t know you had applied to Columbia.”
I groan. “Dad! Please, just tell me what it says,” I beg, making him laugh.
“You got in. You got into Columbia,” he says. “God, Ran, I’m so proud of you.”
“Are you serious?” I had fully expected a rejection. Shit, between the arrival of Cat’s letter yesterday and my acceptance into Columbia today, this is the happiest I’ve felt in months.
“I’m serious, bud. It says they’re happy to extend you an offer of early admission. It also says that you’re expected to withdraw any applications you’ve submitted to other colleges, and that early admission is pending your continued stellar performance during your senior year. And, damn, Ran,” he continues, his voice up an octave, “they’re giving you a scholarship covering your tuition! Son, I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of you.” He chokes up a little bit.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, uncomfortable with his heartfelt tone. It’s not something I’m used to.
“Oh, and they want to check your grades to ensure your performance doesn’t drop off. That reminds me,” he says. “I had a meeting with your principal and school counselor just before winter break.”
“Why?”
“To talk about next semester, what will happen when you come back and things like that. Well, it turns out you’re all done.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have enough credits to close out your senior year now. All your stuff is in and graded, and, Ran, seriously, I’m in awe of you.” His voice cracks again. “Despite everything, everything, you finished strong and are even done early. Admin said you don’t need to take any more classes; you can just sit out this semester and then walk with your class at graduation. The only bad news is that because you missed that first month and a half last semester, it looks like you got bumped from your claim to valedictorian,” he adds with empathy.
I know he probably thinks I’ll be disappointed, but this news makes me laugh. “Oh shit, Vada did it, huh?”
“Yeah. How do you know?”
“She’s been the ultimate competition. Honestly, Dad, I don’t care. Vada deserves it. She works really hard.”
“So do you, obviously,” he says, some guilt in his voice. He’s never actually seen me study, has never really checked in on my progress at school. What he doesn’t know is that I never really did it out of ambition, but to keep the peace at home. I always thought if I worked harder, if I did better, my mom would ease up on me. She never did, and in the end I just got good at being good, and it kept me distracted.
Truth is, the academic stuff always came easily to me. I learned quickly that I could be great if I just applied myself. Still, hearing my dad tell me he’s proud of me feels weird, and different, and… nice. It’s not something I’m used to hearing. My mother sure as fuck never gave me kudos for my grades or achievements; she always expected me to outperform myself each time.
“Yeah, well, I had some other stuff on my mind. Damn, I can’t believe I’m done with high school,” I sigh, relieved. The added burden of completing schoolwork these past couple of months has weighed on me. I tried to squeeze in a few minutes here and there when I was awake and lucid enough to concentrate, but I gave it minimal effort. I still find it difficult to sit silently and focus because my mind tends to veer to subjects that make concentrating difficult, and, honestly, I was already so damn behind that it felt almost impossible to catch up. But somehow I managed to get it done.
The only thing that sends a pang of disappointment through me is knowing I won’t see Cat at school when I’m back.
“So, when do I get to come home?” I ask my dad eagerly, my thoughts still on Cat.
“Uh, sorry bud, not yet,” he says cautiously. “But this might cheer you up…”