Chapter 14 Audrey #3
“She lives in Germany now, and we’ve never gotten along so well.
I mean, Mom wasn’t bad, you guys know that.
Just not warm and fuzzy. And seriously, we’re probably closer than ever now.
Now that I don’t actually need a mother, we’re almost friends.
” She takes another piece of bacon. “How’s your handsome dad, Audrey? ”
“Still handsome. He got married a few times since Mom. He and his latest live in upstate New York. I’ll probably see him at Thanksgiving.
” When was Thanksgiving? Would I be able to pull it off this year?
Would I be able to shield Dad from my diagnosis?
I roll and dunk another pancake. Somewhere in my brain, I realize this is wrong, but I’m not sure why. “So you want to get going? Saddle up?”
An hour later, Clay is off at his kiln in town (I’d drawn the line at buying one for here, given all the detritus from his previous hobbies stored in the barn).
Jasmine and I saddle up the horses, with Jasmine double-checking that the girths are tight enough.
But I’ve been riding since I was four years old, and maybe it’s because I learned this at such a young age that I haven’t forgotten how to do it.
I help Beck get onto Starlight, our oldest horse, show her how to hold the reins.
“If anything, he’ll just come back here and eat,” I tell her.
“Lean the reins left to go left, right to go right, pull back to stop.”
“I remember that part,” she says. “I just don’t want to fall and reinjure my leg.”
A worry she must live with every day. “You won’t,” I say, patting her knee.
It hits me how attractive she is, with that good bone structure and nice skin.
With Micah around, it was always hard to think of anyone else in terms of beauty, but Beck’s looks have improved with age.
There’s an intelligence in her eyes, a sense of humor in the way she always seems about to smile.
I mount Chase, a handsome bay gelding and the youngest horse of the three.
Jasmine is already on Ember (bought for Mathilda in another failed pet-bribe), a sweet mare with a white blaze on her face.
“If I do fall off and break something, can I sue you for the farm?” Beck asks, adjusting her helmet.
“Sure,” I say. “Take good care of it.”
“I absolutely will.”
We start off, three abreast. The sky is that shade of blue so deep it feels sacred, and the pond sparkles back under the sun.
The squeak of the leather saddles, the soft snuffling and grunts of the horses, the gentle breath of the breeze fluttering the leaves are the song of my childhood, and tears are suddenly spilling from my eyes.
That’s okay. I’m grieving, I realize. This will be my last October.
I remember Mom and me on these trails . .
. Stephen didn’t like to ride as much, and it was such a treat, having Mom all to myself.
“I’d reach over and hold your hand,” Beck says, “but I’m afraid to let go of the reins.”
Jasmine looks over, sees the tears and does the honors, giving my hand a squeeze.
“I love your new nose,” I say, and Beck barks out a laugh.
“Thanks,” Jasmine says, smiling. “It was the first thing I bought myself when I got hired at Goldman Sachs.”
“You were plenty pretty before,” Beck says, and they keep talking, but my mind drifts back to my mother.
The last time Mom and I rode together was my senior year, during that limbo between classes ending and graduation.
Mom was in a rare bad mood for some reason, and she spoke sharply to me about something .
. . holding the reins wrong, saying I was hurting Monte, my sweet white gelding.
“No, I’m not,” I said, and she snapped back, “You are, Audrey, and who would know better? You or me? I’ve been riding a lot longer than you. ”
It was so uncharacteristic of her, one of the few times she was sharp with me.
It didn’t last, but I wish I remembered more of that day .
. . the happier parts, because I have no doubt she didn’t leave it at that.
I wish I could conjure up every minute of it and press it into my heart, if not my brain.
The air smells of woodsmoke and changing leaves, the warm, earthy aroma of horses.
A line from a book or movie floats in my brain: Today is a good day to die.
It would be, too, with the blue, blue sky, the brilliant yellows and reds of the birch and maple trees trying to woo my soul out of my body.
I’d die to the sound of blue jays and chickadees, dark-eyed juncos and woodpeckers.
If Canada geese were flying overhead, I’d hear their sweet calls, and I’d want to fly up with them, on to whatever is next.
Please let my mother be there, waiting for me, arms outstretched.
I wipe my eyes and shake off the melancholy.
I may never ride again, and I want to be here, in the right now.
We get to the edge of the woods where the meadow begins, divided by Bitter Creek, which burbles and gushes in the springtime from the snowmelt but is now just a gentle shush.
The horses pick their way through the water, then into the meadow.
Up ahead is a four-foot-high stone wall, and I know from experience—even if it’s been a few years—that Chase can jump it.
“Well, then,” I say. “See you back at the barn.” With that, I push my heels into Chase’s side and off he flies, his powerful shoulders and neck reaching forward.
I tighten my knees, lean forward and rise a little in the saddle, and he jumps, flying neatly over the stone wall and onto the grass on the other side.
I whoop with joy and give him his head. He surges ahead, his pace as smooth as glass, the rhythm of his hooves a clock ticking away the last weeks of my life.
I’m not sad. I’m alive right now, and I’m me.
We race through the fields, up the gentle hill, down the other side, a rabbit dashing across our path, the creamy clouds tumbling in the deep-blue sky.
It’s so beautiful, this life. How could there not be a God who loves us when we have towering clouds and blue skies and red maples?
As we approach the barn, I rein in my horse, both of us panting. Then I see the navy-blue Volvo, leap off Chase’s back to run into my brother’s arms.
“Is it Derby Day?” Stephen asks, the smile warm in his voice. “Aren’t you too feeble to be riding like that?”
“God, I missed you,” I say. “Even if you are incredibly ugly.”
“Ugly? What about how bad you smell? You ever hear of a shower?”
My little brother is a strong, handsome man, but whenever I see him, I still want to smooch his cheeks and rub his head, give him a piggyback ride. I do the first two, then hug him again.
Then we hear the sound of the other two horses behind us, and I turn to look. “I trotted!” Beck says. “I mean, the horse trotted, and Jasmine had to hold on to its bridle—but I didn’t fall!”
Then she sees Stephen, and the high color in her cheeks drains away.
“Stevie!” Jasmine cries. “How are you? Look how tall you are!”
“He’s a doctor now,” I say, ever the proud sister. I maybe told them that already.
“Excuse me. Dr. Stevie,” Jasmine says teasingly.
“You’re as beautiful as ever, Jasmine.” Then he turns and looks at Beck.
“Rebecca,” he says, and his voice sounds deeper than usual.
Rebecca? We never call her . . .
“Hey.” She looks at the reins clenched in her hands. Her face is now turning red. “Stephen. Hi. Good to . . . Good to . . .” She can’t seem to finish the sentence. That’s usually my party trick.
I look back at my brother, then again at Beck.
Oh.
“When were you guys a thing?” I ask.