My daughter has been sick all week at college. She is homesick and tells me she just wants to sleep in her own bed. I need to visit my mom this weekend, she has Parkinson’s disease, and I don’t visit her nearly enough.
I call my daughter and make sure she goes to health services to make sure she doesn’t have a sinus infection. I call her cell and it goes immediately to voice mail.
Hmmm….
She calls me back. “Are you coming tomorrow?” she asks. Her voice is still raspy and she sounds like she’s inhaled cement.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m coming. We’ll go to lunch, have soup, and go to the market to get you some stuff for the weekend.”
“Good,” she says. “You know you don’t have to.”
“I know I don’t. I love you—I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I don’t understand myself at all. One minute I miss her to the point of unpredictable tears, and the next I feel that I need to let her go, work through this. It’s just a cold; she’s seen the university’s health services. I have the day off tomorrow, and I could go see her, but I’m pulling back. I know it’s just a cold, but she sounds miserable and it’s only a three hour drive round trip. I’ll be home in time to have a cocktail and dinner with Dave. I can visit my mother the day after. I’m lucky I teach four days a week. I don’t know how women who work a full time job do this.
I fit a ride in today and I am beyond terrible.
I practically steer poor Flash into the side of the barn. Every time I get him up to a trot, I’m like a deranged jack-in-the box. I keep trying. I keep getting scared and failing. My left shin is killing me. I think my instructor must think I’m hopeless.
What if I just can’t do this? What if I never get this? I’m just tired and discouraged. I want to just walk with Flash at a slow gait and give up.
What a fraud I am. Truly.
When my lesson is over my instructor tells me to not take his saddle off. As if I’d even know how to do this.
“You can still brush him for awhile afterward, though,” she says. I think she senses my frustration. I walk Flash up to the barn.
But I forget all the things I remember now. Like how to dismount without holding on for dear life, like holding the reins properly, still, how can you ride a horse if you’re afraid to bring him to an even slow trot?
I bring Flash into his stall and we don’t stand in the corner for thirty seconds like we’re being punished. I turn him around Amber, a student at my school, comes in and tells me, “I’m supposed to show you how to take his bridle and bit off.”
“Okay, honey,” I say. I will myself not to cry in front of this child. I’ll frighten the daylights out of her. “See, it’s like a tiny belt buckle,” she says and begins to unfasten Flash’s bridle. She’s so tiny she can barely reach his muzzle, but she is all business.
I tell Amber, “I’m going into the tack room to get Flash’s brushes.” “Okay,” she chirps like the darling thing she is. I go into the tack room to get Flash’s brushes and take a few deep breaths.
You’re just discouraged I tell myself. Think of how far you come. I get discouraged all over again. What did you think you were going to be able to do in three lessons, become a jockey for God’s sake? That ugly, ugly voice whispers in my ear.
‘You’re never going to get this.’ Self-doubt clenches around my heart like a fist.
“All set,” Amber says. “Thanks Amber,” I say, “do you have a lesson now?”
“Not for awhile,” she says. “I just like being here and helping and stuff.”
“Well, you’re doing a hell of a job,” I say.
I have just cursed in front of a child that goes to the school where I teach. She looks at me and bursts into giggles.
“Mrs. DeWitt did not just say hell,” I say shaking my head.
“You said it again!” she squeals
“We both start laughing. “Oh Amber,” I say. “I’m so sorry; Mrs. DeWitt is just an idiot sometimes.”
“No you’re not,” Amber says with such earnestness I want to cry all over again.
“I’ll see you later, honey”
I begin to brush Flash. I rub his forehead and he drops his head close to mine. “Flash,” I say looking over both of my shoulders, “I am a F—king idiot. But I am your idiot this afternoon.” I brush him in long strokes. He nuzzles me much more today. “I’m falling in love with you, you know. Don’t encourage me.” I stroke his velvety ears and give his neck some long strokes. Flash pokes his nose in my neck and snorts softly. “I told you don’t encourage me. I think the donkey in the next stall could ride you better than I do.”
I bend down and brush his legs. I hear voices. I woman of about mid thirties comes in with a young girl and an older man.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she says smiling. “Is he your horse?” she asks.
“God, no,” I say. “I take lessons on him, though.” I look at her daughter. She has a riding helmet on. She looks about twelve or thirteen. I imagine the older man with them is Grandpa. I’m hoping anyway. These days you never know, and I’ve learned the very hard way not to ask anymore.
“Do you ride Flash too?” I ask the girl. “No,” she says. “I ride Pumpkin.”
“She cantered around the entire ring today,” her mother says. The mom says this almost shyly, not obnoxious at all. She is genuinely thrilled with her daughter. “I told her she could get new riding boots,” she says.
“I think that earns you your own horse,” I say winking at the little girl. The mother looks momentarily terrified. “I’m teasing,” I say. I look at her daughter. “But you certainly did earn those boots.”
The little girl smiles, and moves a hair closer to her mother. Her mother rubs her back. It’s a small thing really; it’s over in a blink.
Like childhood.
That catch in my throat comes back. I go back to brushing Flash.
“You seem so at ease with him,” the mom says to me. Something begins to flicker in my mind.
“With him, not on him, I’m afraid,” I say. She lifts her hand tentatively and drops it quickly back down.
“You can pet him,” I say. “He’s very gentle.”
“No,” the woman shakes her head. “He’s beautiful, but he’s awfully big.”
“He is at that,” I say. “And extremely handsome, aren’t you my love?”
The softest, most calm voice curls around my heart and then my mind.
‘You’re not afraid of him anymore.’
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