61. If I Could Stay, I Would
IF I COULD STAY, I WOULD
brIGHTON
I turn my Jeep onto the gravel drive, watching the sun rise over the ranch. Barbara Mandrell sings my mantra, and I sing along. I feel Barbara. I was country when country wasn’t cool, too. I still am and have no plans of changing that.
My windows are down. My hair is strewn over my face; my dashboard is covered in dust. I’m one with nature.
Besides, there’s no point in showing up for work primped and with coiffed hair. I’m going to be sweating within the hour, no doubt smelling a bit rough, and, if history is anything to go by, probably covered in some kind of juice or byproduct.
But Barbara understands.
So does Dolly.
My brothers say on repeat that I was born in the wrong decade. They’re right.
They’re also wrong.
I was definitely born at the right time in history. Got to play outside and have cell phones. I know how to relate to humans, have decent, meaningful conversations, but appreciate the ways technology connects us. At almost thirty, I’ve had the best of both worlds.
But the music is shit. That’s not in question.
And since I grew up listening to Willie, Hank, and Johnny, I can unequivocally say that their music is art. There was no autotune, no repetitive, uninspired songs that took eight people to write and one hundred to digitally master.
No. I need the real stuff. The oldies. I need Austin City Limits before it became Coachella. I need the Grand Ole Opry before it sold out to rock and roll. I need Don Williams and Patsy Cline. And no one can convince me otherwise.
Barbara croons, and my tires crunch as I pass my brother’s house.
Braxton runs this ranch. It all lies on his shoulders and at his feet.
Or at least, he’d have you believe that.
He manages a multi-million-dollar corporation that is the Ranger ranch.
And he feels that burden. But we have hands.
We have multiple lines of revenue—from breeding to breaking and more. He’s not alone.
And there’s me—the staff equine veterinarian. I am the medical team and the head of this business unit.
I refuse to live onsite. I won’t allow myself to get swallowed up by ranching life… Well, any more than I already have. I’m here practically seven days a week, and when I’m not, I have access to monitor it remotely.
I need my privacy. I don’t want everyone knowing when I get laid. Or how long it’s been since I’ve gotten some.
And it’s been way, way too long.
I don’t want to end up on a compound where our lives are so enmeshed, we forget to knock on doors. I don’t knock, mind you. But I’d expect others to.
And with my three brothers, it would take being busted naked for them to ever take the hint. I’m not willing to go to that extreme. Though, despite my embarrassment, it would serve them right. I’d get over it way faster than they would. They’d bitch and moan.
Softies.
So, I have my house in town. Well, out of town, technically, so I can have a little space. Luna, my yellow lab mix, is riding shotgun. She’s a farm dog. She’s a Jeep dog. She’s unequivocally the best good girl ever. That is not open for debate.
I come to a stop and park in front of the barn, hopping out and heading to the office as Luna does the same. I throw on some music over the speakers, deciding this morning it’s Clint Black. He’s a later generation, but he can kick off today’s playlist as I check on Marron.
“Good morning, Mama. How are you feeling?”
She nickers and tosses her head. She’s early on, not due until August or September. Foal is healthy and growing on schedule. It should bring a great price and the wait listers are champing at the bit to see her babe.
I give the mare a good check, rubbing my hands down her gorgeous body. Lustrous coat, solid muscle, wise eyes. “Want a treat?” I grab a carrot and an apple and give her both before leading her out of the stall and into the paddock to stretch her legs.
Me: Marron looks great. Foal does too.
Exton: Do you know what time it is?
Me: Even earlier here. Have a great day, bro.
Marron is Exton’s horse. He lives in D.C. and works for the freaking FBI. He’s crazy smart, way too serious, and would have no qualms of waking me up for any old reason. He’s definitely not somebody who sleeps in.
Exton: How’s Mom?
Me: I haven’t checked today, but she’s fighting.
Exton: Keep me posted.
Me: Of course.
I snap a picture of the sun rising over the barn and shoot it over to him. I get a thumbs up in return. He’s not chatty, so when he does say something, people listen.
He and Brax are total opposites. Brax can’t shut up.
Speak of the devil, my oldest brother wanders into the barn just as I do. He spends much of his time in the office near the gate, but his soul is in the land. His mind knows the ranch is better served with him behind a computer, when he can force himself to sit there.
“Morning, Brax.”
“Morning. Clint Black? Are you feeling okay?” He chucks my shoulder and gives me a smile.
“Yeah, yeah.”
The look he gives me when I use his typical phrase against him is worth it. It’s humor and self-deprecation, and almost as if I’m audacious to use those words.
He’s handsome. All my brothers got good genes. But none of them need any fluff to their egos. I won’t even get started on Layton.
Brax turns to me, hands on hips, chin dropping to his chest. His voice goes quiet and controlled. “Pop’s calling Layton and Exton home. Mom’s decided to let go.”
Inside, I crumble.
My heart smashes into shards that will never be repaired. Outside, though, I dip my head once, clench my jaw. “When?”
“He’ll call them today. Betting Layton is home tonight; Ex probably tomorrow.
If you’re asking how long, though… That depends on her.
” He looks away. His Adam’s apple visibly bobs, and the notch in his jaw protrudes as he clenches his teeth.
When he looks back, he demands, “Put me to work. I can’t sit behind a desk today. Need to do something… Anything.”
We’re alike in that way, he and I, so I sort through more than we could ever accomplish and dole out the first few tasks. No doubt, we’ll both end up at the big house soon enough. But for now, doing something physical will save both of our sanities.
We spend the morning killing time. Clint was right—it is killing us instead.
Two days pass, and I’ve slept maybe six hours of it. Of those, most have been fitful. I hear her voice in my head and am haunted by her too-thin face. I try to hug her in my dreams just for her to become a vapor that I can’t hold onto. I’m chasing a ghost that eludes me.
I’m constantly on the verge of tears. They won’t fall, but the well between my eyes has no more room.
It stays full and warm as if one more thought, one more feeling, and the dam will break, and they’ll never stop flowing.
It might be cathartic, but it scares the shit out of me… not knowing if they’ll ever stop.
Layton and Exton have both arrived, and while I haven’t asked, I assume with fair certainty they’ve had some goodbye time with Mom. I don’t want to call it that, but, brass tacks—that’s what it is.
She’s saying goodbye. Not that I’d want any of us to miss out on that moment with her, but I wonder if she would hold on even a few moments longer if we hadn’t made it so easy to see her off.
Pop is haggard. He is thinner than I’ve ever seen him and the shadows under his eyes rival mine. He’s taking every last moment he can and holding on, hoping against hope, for a few extra minutes or an hour or two more.
Pop: It’s time.
I hope this group text is burned to a cinder. And soon. Yeah, it’s efficient, but it’s there in black and white, digitally preserved, blinding me, screaming that my mom is dying and there’s fuck all I can do to stop it.
“Be right back,” I say to Marron. It’s a lie, but her gentle nuzzle says it’s okay.
I make my way to the big house from the stalls yet again. I’m wearing a path in the earth, almost scarring it with my booted footsteps.
I’m the only one not here, apparently. My three brothers stand, milling about the living room and kitchen. They turn in unison when I walk in the door, knowing looks on their faces.
Well, Braxton and Exton have resignation written in their features. Layton looks like a deer in headlights or like a man waiting for a bomb to explode. He’s uncomfortable, obviously so, and, like the rest of us, unwilling for this to be the end.
The door clicks in the frame behind me, and Pop quietly emerges from the hall. I can count on my two hands when I’ve seen him in socks with no boots. Maybe two hands. He’s a rancher through and through and is always prepared.
I stare at his feet.
Immediately, I know. I know that no matter how many times I remember this day, those fucking socks will be burned in the image of mom’s last moments.
Braxton, shoulders slumping, chin tipped back, taking deep breaths…
Exton tugging on his neck with one hand, staring at the floor…
Layton glancing around, fidgeting, as if ready and waiting for a surprise attack…
And Pop standing in socks with no shoes.
He holds our gazes and communicates what none of us want to hear. And as if we trained for this, we move silently, falling in line behind him, heading to their room.
It’s warm and stale in here, and I fight not to think of the smell. It’s off, like sickness, and… and, death.
Mom opens her eyes. They’re glassy and dull.
She lifts a hand from the mattress, just enough, as if beckoning us to come closer. We do, almost mechanically, and circle her bed.
She drags in a rough breath. “You are the best gifts I’ve ever been given. I wouldn’t leave you—” Her voice is forced and airy. It’s taking a huge effort from her. She’s pulling deep on her reserves.
“If I could stay, I would.” She draws in another ragged breath, visibly wracking in doing so. Her hand wiggles against the sheets, and Pop walks to her side, taking her hand in his, looking down on her. His eyes are red-rimmed and swollen.
“Emilia, my love,” he whispers and kisses her forehead. “You do what you need to do. We’ll be okay.”
Layton’s hitching breath and hiccupping sob behind me is my undoing.
The dam breaks. The warm tears spill over my cheeks and flow, not one at a time, but in a stream.
My older brothers sniffle, and the silence is broken by those watery sounds and those of Mom struggling to drag oxygen into her lungs.
“I love you,” Mom says and looks at each of us in turn.
When she looks into Pop’s eyes, a small smile flits across her mouth.
It’s hers only for him. I’ve seen it a million times and can’t imagine never seeing it ever again.
“Thank you for a wonderful life,” she whispers to him and closes her eyes, exhaling everything she has left to give.
He kisses her gently, and his tears spill onto her face.
On her own terms—because she’d have it no other way—Mom takes three ragged last breaths and lets go.
I want to scream.
I want to ask her to wait.
I want to tell her I need her.
I want to beg her to keep fighting.
I want to wail and plead and bargain with God, the universe… hell, anyone who will listen.
I’m twenty-nine-years old. I need my mom. I’ve always needed my mom. Even when I was a teenager, pushing boundaries, and being a bitch, I needed her.
Make peace with yourself. Then give that away to someone you find worthy.
Her last words to me—her last private words to me—rattle around my head and chest and fight to find a place to land. The walls inside me keep them ping-ponging back and forth.
My brothers turn into robots. There are things to do, people to call, and arrangements to be made, even though Mom had many outlined since she knew this was coming. Regardless, those plans need to be set in motion.
But not by me.
Exton and Braxton step in for Pop where they can, since he won’t leave Mom’s body. When Layton takes off for Brax’s house to hit the weights, I do what I need to do.
I head to the barn, saddle my three-year-old stallion, Strait, climb on, and turn him loose.
We run.
As fast as we can.
As hard as he’ll go.
For as far as our land takes us.
The wind blows my hair and dries away the tears that flow. It’s rare for me to do it, much less let them show. Being raised with brothers, crying showed weakness. I ride. I cry and wail until the numbness in my chest takes over. I let the afternoon sun burn my face and the wind kiss my cheeks.
Being in the saddle on a beautiful beast like this fellow is my best therapy. I want to run away, but the specter of today will follow, so I might as well stand my ground, look that ghost in the eye, and deal. Even though what I really want is to buckle.
I fight to stand, but instead brush down Strait after we return and finish my daily tasks. If this is my new normal, I might as well embrace it. No amount of bargaining can bring her back.
Make peace with yourself.
I wish the words would stop flashing like a neon sign in my memory. I’ve had forty-eight hours of hearing them and forty-eight hours of wishing she would explain or clarify or take them back.
From the outside looking in, I probably look cold and uncaring. Who goes back to work on the worst day of her life? Who leaves the comfort of family to spend time in a barn?
Me, that’s who.
Because this barn is home. These horses are family, and that shit up at the big house is a reality I’m not interested in living.
Mom would understand.
When I’m done and the sun wants to set, I head back to Pop’s with Luna on my heels. She’s been quiet for the last handful of days. Smart dog. She can read the room. We don’t deserve dogs. Like horses, they’re wise and kind. They get me.
After dinner of who knows what—I can’t taste anything and can barely swallow—we all meander our own ways.
Exton is staying here with Pop. Pop is…. Well, I can’t go there today.
“I’m going to head to the office and then home,” Brax says, tentatively, almost as if asking permission. No one knows exactly how to move around each other here.
Exton nods and lifts a hand.
“I’ll follow you out,” Layton offers. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Love you kids,” Pop says, his voice rough and quiet. “See you tomorrow.”
I walk to him and kiss his cheek. “I’m a phone call away.” I don’t say I’ll see him tomorrow. He already knows. I’m here at least six days a week already, and that won’t change. “Goodnight. Luna, let’s go.” I head for the door and into the cold, dark night.