17. Jacinthe
Jacinthe
O n the Saturday after Thanksgiving, a miracle happens.
I end up with two free hours to myself.
Maman is having a good day today and felt well enough to drive into Saint-Jovite to do a huge grocery shop for us. Tess is out on a farrier call. Things are quiet at the inn, with most of the current guests signed up for an ‘autumnal watercolours’ course Natalie is running all weekend.
I’m keeping an eye on Shel until Tess gets home to drive her to a play date. She’s been up in the hayloft all morning practicing her guitar. I’m planning on bringing her some hot dogs for lunch soon, but between then and now, there’s nowhere I need to be.
I sit down on one of the rocking chairs on the front porch and stare out at the property.
The barn chores are done. The horses are all where they’re supposed to be.
There are about a million and one things I could be doing, but right now, in this moment, there is nothing I absolutely have to get done.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, stretching my arms above my head.
The trees are still bursting with red and orange like brilliant flames. The ground is coated with even more leaves, the whole yard covered with tufts and clumps, but for once, I don’t think about raking them up.
I just take a deep breath and let the scent of crunchy foliage, and crisp, clean air fill my lungs.
The sky is streaked with a few lines of clouds, almost like someone whipped an arc of white paint over their head. The sky itself is a deep, brilliant blue Natalie would probably have a dozen different names for.
I just think it looks pretty—prettier than it has in a long time, or maybe I just haven’t given myself many chances to look up these days.
I walk to the edge of the porch, where I stretch my arms up so high the edge of my jacket rolls up and exposes a strip of my stomach to the cold. I wiggle my fingers and imagine sweeping the clouds out of the way to turn the dome above me into one giant blank, blue slate.
I think about what Tess said that night she came out on a trail ride, when we sat side by side at Sunset Ridge and watched the day come to an end.
Out here, I feel like I could reach up and touch the sky.
I didn’t know what she meant then, but today, I get it.
The right sky can make anything feel possible.
I head down to the farmyard, whistling an old Québécois folk song Maman used to sing for me when I was a kid. The horses lift their heads like they’re saying hi as I stroll past the paddocks. When I get to the barn, Citrouille slinks out to twine around my feet.
“ Salut, minou ,” I say, bending down to give him a scratch behind his orange ears.
I can hear some janky-sounding chords up in the hayloft, so I don’t bother asking Shel if she’s all right. The last thing I wanted when I was learning guitar back in the day was people interrupting me.
I wander into the empty stall we use as a tack room, the smell of musty leather filling my nose.
The walls are lined with saddle racks and bridles on hooks.
I run my palm over the seat of the closest saddle.
The material is worn extra smooth from years of use, the cocoa brown colour faded to a tawny ring in the shape of a permanent butt print.
I check all the tack before every ride, so I know when something is no longer safe, but clean is another matter.
I try to remember the last time I did a good tack cleaning session and come up blank.
Ten minutes later, I’m out in front of the barn with my supplies set up: a bucket of warm water, some rags, a variety of sponges in different sizes, and a tin of saddle soap. I’ve hauled two saddle racks out, one for working and one for drying.
I keep humming the folk song while I get started on clearing out all the gunk from the different buckles, straps, and flaps of the first saddle.
A memory of doing the same chore with my dad decides to show up in my mind.
He’s the one who taught me how to clean tack when I was a kid.
He used to drill me on how fast I could take a bridle apart and put it back together like we were training for an Olympic sport.
He’d always give me candy and a pat on the back at the end.
I pause in the middle of my scrubbing and wait for the first flash of anger to hit.
I always feel the angriest when I remember the good things about him. If he’d left us with nothing but pain, it would have been easier. I would have been quicker to accept the truth: that we’re better off without him and can do just fine on our own.
The good stuff—like his whistling in the morning or the peppermints in his pockets—only made it harder. They left a hole we had to learn how to fill.
I jump when the sharp snap and squeal of a guitar string breaking echoes into the yard, followed by a shriek.
I’m bolting up the stairs to the hayloft before I even realize I’ve moved at all.
“Shel!” I shout, ripping the door open. “Are you okay?”
I stoop under the low doorframe and then blink hard to get my eyes to adjust to the dimness inside. Dust tickles my nose, along with the sweet smell of hay.
We still need to get our winter order delivered, so the place is barren.
Sunlight filters in through the doorway and a couple windows, catching on the dust particles in the air and the loose bits of hay scattered on the bare floorboards.
The few bales we have left are stacked along one of the walls.
I spot Shel tucked in among them. Her guitar is lying next to her, one of the strings curling. Shel has her face buried in her hands. Her tiny shoulders are shaking, and after listening for a second, I catch the muffled sounds of her sobs.
“ Ma petite !” I say, rushing over with my back hunched to keep from bonking my head on the low rafters. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
She jerks her head up, her teary eyes going wide. Her face is a splotchy red, and the skin under her eyes is all puffy.
As soon as she recovers from her surprise, the tears start flowing again. Her whole face crumples, and she hikes her knees up under her chin so she can wrap her arms around her shins. She looks like a sad little bean, all bundled up in a brown coat that’s a couple sizes too big for her.
I’m not exactly sure what you’re supposed to do with a crying ten year-old. It’s not like she’s a baby I can scoop up in my arms, but she does look like she could use a hug.
I settle for moving her guitar onto the floor and plopping down beside her on the hay bale. She sniffles.
“You don’t have to tell me what it is,” I say. “We can just sit here. Or I can go. It’s okay if you want to be alone. I just wanted to check that you are all right.”
She takes a shuddering breath, her body still rounded into a tiny ball, and stares straight ahead across the loft.
“I broke my fucking guitar.”
My eyebrows jump up at the force in her voice. I’ve never heard her sound so angry before. I’ve also never heard her swear.
I’m starting to get the feeling this isn’t just about the guitar.
She sniffles again. I fish a crumpled tissue out of my pocket and hold it out to her.
“It is clean,” I say when she gives it a dubious look. “It’s just been in there for a bit.”
She takes the tissue and wipes her nose.
“Thank you,” she says without looking at me. “Can you, uh, not tell my mom I said that? I’m not supposed to say the F word, like, ever.”
I nod at the guitar lying at our feet. “If I broke a string, I’d be saying a lot more than the F word.”
That gets her to look my way.
“You play guitar?”
I shrug. “Now and then. I’m no Jimi Hendrix, but I can play a few songs.”
She loosens her arms, letting them slide to her sides so she can stretch her legs out in front of her.
“Is it always this hard?”
I tap my chin while I think.
“It’s pretty hard,” I tell her, “but it does get easier, especially if you practice on the regular. I was all right when I was a teenager, but now I only play for a few minutes every couple months. I wish I was consistent like you.”
She scoffs and wrinkles her nose. “Like it’s even helping. I still suck.”
“Hey!” I jab my finger at her. “You do not suck, ma belle . You’re learning. Everybody has to learn, and you’re doing it all by yourself. I think that is very cool.”
She seems to teeter on the edge of smiling at the compliment, but before I can give myself a pat on the back, a shadow crosses over her face and her chin droops down towards her chest.
“I just wanted to be good for Thanksgiving,” she mumbles.
“Oh?” I prompt.
She pulls her knees up to her chest again. Her blank stare across the room is back too.
“For my dad.”
The loft seems to get a few degrees colder. I shiver and fight the urge to curl up into a ball myself.
“He plays the drums,” she continues. “He used to be in a band when he was a teenager. He always says he should make a new band, and I…I thought I could be in it.”
The first thing I think is that of fucking course Baron Von Shitstick plays the drums. I can just picture him showing off some dumb little flippy stick trick to Shel after he’s narrowly missed picking her up for a visit.
The second thing I think is that even though I’ve only known her a couple months, I would do anything to take away the pain and hopelessness of the little girl beside me.
“Of course you can be in it!” I urge. “I am sure your papa would love to have you in his band.”
She shakes her head.
“I’m not good enough. I tried to play him a song at Thanksgiving, and I just sucked .” Her voice cracks, and her eyes begin to turn shiny. “I couldn’t remember anything, and I just sat there, and everyone was watching me, and…and…I felt like an idiot. ”
She lowers her voice, and I get the sense that ‘idiot’ is another word on the forbidden list.
It would be cute if what she’s saying wasn’t making me feel like all my ribs are cracking.