28. Rory
Rory
Itiptoe down the stairs, my heart pounding in my chest.
I’m not sure how much more I can take of this.
Every day I wake up, wondering if Mom will wake up, too. If today will be the last day she wakes up. If she’ll be in pain, or too tired to get out of bed.
As I reach the bottom step, the living room comes into view, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the back of Mom’s head and a movement of her shoulders as she shifts in her seat.
She’s still here.
But the relief is short-lived, because the knowledge is still there that one day, she won’t be.
There’s guilt, too. Is Mom relieved that she woke up this morning? Is she grateful for every day she has with us, or is she ready for the pain to be over?
Like every day, though, I push away my feelings, making room for whatever she needs.
“Good morning,” I say, stepping around the recliner. “How are you feeling?”
The dark circles beneath her eyes are more prominent now that her cheeks are hollow. “I’m feeling pretty good today, love. How did you sleep?”
About like I do every night, tossing and turning in a haze of sadness and anxiety and guilt.
I miss Nate.
I’ve texted him a few times to let him know we’re okay, but I don’t want to burden him with this. It’s bad enough that he had to go through it with his dad. I can’t make him go through it all over again with my mom.
So I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks now, since that day. He’s told me to take the time I need, that he’ll be there for me, and I believe him.
“I slept okay.”
Mom studies me, and I almost forget that I’m the one who’s supposed to be taking care of her. It’s so easy to slip back into our usual roles as mother and daughter, to let her be the caretaker.
“I think you should go to the barn today,” she says, her voice stronger than usual.
“Really?” The word pops out as the suggestion takes me aback.
I haven’t been to the barn in a few weeks. Instead, I’ve been here, doing my best to spend time with Mom.
She nods firmly. “Or go see Nate. I think you need to get out of the house. Have you gone outside at all in the past week?”
I haven’t, I realize. I’m surprised she’s noticed. Maybe she’s more in tune with her surroundings than I realized.
“But…”
She moves her hands, like she’s shooing me away. “Go, Rory. I’m okay. I’ll still be here when you get back. I promise.”
The idea of seeing the horses and talking with Mandy is tempting. But…
“Are you sure?”
“Go.”
She doesn’t leave any room for argument this time, and Dad and Dylan are both here, drinking coffee in the kitchen. I let them know about my plans before I change into work clothes for the barn and set out.
A fresh coat of snow blankets the ground. The horses mill around the paddock as I pull into the drive, a couple of them wandering toward the fence to see who’s here.
Starfire follows my car along the fence as long as she can, and I wonder if she missed me as much as I missed her.
I find Mandy mucking stalls.
“Hey,” I say as I walk up, tugging my gloves over my hands. “Thought I’d come by and help out. My mom kicked me out of the house for a bit.”
Mandy laughs. “Good for her. What do you need?”
“I think that’s my question for you. Should I help with stalls?”
“Nah. This is the last one.” She picks up a pile with her pitchfork and adds it to the wheelbarrow. “It’s going to get colder later, so I started early to give the horses more time outside.”
The idea that the temperature is going to drop even more makes me shiver. I pull my wool hat farther down over my ears.
“Why don’t you go grab Starfire? She hasn’t done any lessons in a couple of days, so she needs to be lunged, and then you can brush her.”
I give Mandy a grateful smile and head for the paddock.
Starfire lumbers over to the gate as I approach.
“Hey, girl,” I say, ducking beneath the fence lines. “I missed you.”
She nuzzles my hip.
“Sorry, I didn’t bring any carrots along. Next time, though.” I make a mental note to remember to bring her a treat as I clip the lead line to her harness.
Mandy has an indoor arena set up, with a dirt floor that doesn’t freeze the way the outdoor arena tends to, because it’s protected from snow and rain. It’s shielded from the wind, too, so it’s slightly warmer.
Slightly.
I get Starfire set on the lunge line then get her moving.
Lunging is to horses what treadmills are to humans. Using a long rope, the person exercising the horse makes them walk, trot, and canter in circles, the rope keeping the horse from deviating from its circular path.
It’s good for exercise, but I can’t imagine it’s any more exciting for the horses than running in place is for us.
Starfire listens well, transitioning from one gait to another like always.
“Good girl,” I say, slowing her down to a walk for the final time.
I keep her moving for another minute to cool off. It doesn’t take long when it’s twenty degrees out.
Mom was right. I didn’t say that enough when I was a teenager—God knows I never thought she was right—and I’m not sure I say it enough now. But she was right on point with me needing to get out of the house.
Even a few minutes in the sunshine and fresh air have done wonders for my mindset.
I’m feeling lighter, happier. Maybe it’s that I needed to remember everything that’s out there, away from our house. That there are good things in the world.
I lead Starfire into the barn and clip her to the crossties, making sure she’ll be comfortable while I brush her.
Grooming horses has always been one of my favorite things. There are a lot of people for whom this is just a necessary evil, something you have to do before and after riding. But it’s also a time to talk with the horse, to rub its neck and lean into its warm side and kiss its nose.
“I’ve missed you, girl,” I tell Starfire as I unclip her blanket and pull it off.
She tosses her head, probably more in gratitude that I’ve removed the heavy garment than in response to my words.
It gets cold enough in the mountains that even animals need an extra layer to keep them warm, but Starfire is always trying to get out of hers.
She’s gotten close a couple of times, and once even managed to roll on the ground enough that the blanket was hanging by one strap when we went to bring her in.
I pick up a brush and run it along the length of her back. “I hate being away from you. But I feel guilty leaving Mom. I don’t know how long she has left.”
The strokes with the brush are meditative, one long line after another.
“What am I going to do when she’s gone, Star? I spent so long not visiting, too. I wish I could go back and change that.” I run the brush along her neck, then lean my head against her warm body. “It doesn’t seem real. This has to be a dream. Right?”
Starfire rests her head against my shoulder.
“How can all of this be happening at once? Mom and Nate and everything. Life is changing too fast. I need it to slow down.”
A tear squeezes out of the corner of my eye, and once it leaves, more follow in its wake. I cling to the mare as I let everything go—the fear, the guilt, the sadness, everything.
Star just stands there, steady and sure, while everything pours out, and I whisper into her mane.
“I just need everything to slow down.”
When I climb into my car to drive back home, my fingers are frozen to the point that I can barely move them. I flex them back and forth until the blood starts to flow again.
But the cold didn’t affect my heart, which is blanketed in warmth. Crying on a horse will do that for you. It’s better than any antidepressant out there.
As I take inventory, I realize that I feel lighter, too. Everything seems to be more in perspective.
Maybe it was just needing to get out some of those emotions I’ve been carrying around so I could see clearly.
I start the engine and turn the heat to high, then I shift into drive.
I’m going to call Nate when I get home, make sure he knows that everything is still good between us.
Maybe I can even find a time to go over to his house, if Mom is still feeling okay tomorrow.
She was right, of course. Getting out of the house and getting some fresh air made a world of difference.
I bet having sex with Nate would be even better for my mental state.
I should also call Allie, I think as I turn onto High Street. And Stacey.
I’ve left everyone kind of hanging, with short answers and few updates. I’ve given them enough to know that I’m still okay, but it’s been too long since I had a real conversation with anyone outside my immediate family. I hate to burden them with my problems.
But as I think about sharing my struggles with any of my friends, I realize that if they shared their problems with me, I’d want to be there for them. I’d hate if they were having issues and kept them from me.
That’s exactly what I’ve been doing to them.
Mandy is always saying that there’s a lesson in everything. Even the shittiest situations, the ones that no one would say happened for a reason, have something we can take from them.
It’s the pressure that makes a diamond, she once said to me. And there’s always something you can learn from every situation.
At the time, she was talking about the nasty fall I’d taken during a jumping competition. The horse I was riding balked at a jump, which isn’t that unusual, but I lost my balance and fell, flying over the horse’s head and over the jump to land painfully on my butt, right in front of everyone.
The lesson she was talking about then was about making sure you’re always balanced and that you read your horse as you’re approaching a jump.
This situation is different, obviously. I’m not a kid, embarrassed about falling off my horse and nursing an ass bruise. I’m an adult facing the death of my mother. But somehow, her words still apply.
With my newfound clarity, I wonder if the lesson here is that I need to learn to rely on my friends. To realize that they’d extend the same support and love that I’d give them in the same situation.
I pull into one of the parking spots that line High Street, pick up my phone, and scroll to Allie’s number.
I’m feeling better already as the phone rings, but it goes to voicemail.
Huh.
It’s the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday, which means she should be at work. Maybe she’s in a meeting or something, but Allie always answers her phone at work. Her clients call her twenty-four hours a day, and she’s always available.
I’ll try again later, though. I scroll to Nate’s number and call him instead.
He answers on the second ring.
“Hey, babe,” he says. “How are you doing?”
The sound of his voice threatens to break me and hold me together, all at once.
“Hi. I, um…” My voice is ragged as I search for the right words.
“Rory? Are you okay?” Nate’s voice is gentle.
I have so much to tell him, so many things I wish I’d said in the last week since we got back together, and before then, even.
But when I open my mouth, all I can say is: “I need you.”