Flying Changes (18 page)

One by one, all the phones in the house fall silent.

One hour and two glasses of chardonnay later, I ditch my high heels by the back door and pull on my wellies. Then I cover my blue dress with my quilted vest and stumble down the drive to the stable.

When I get there, I head straight for Hurrah’s stall.

I am just pressing my nose into his neck when I hear a truck pull up outside. Dan’s, to be specific.

I slide Hurrah’s door shut and duck down under his water bucket.

The outside door of the stable slides open. Dan’s footsteps rush past me. They turn the corner and thump up the stairs. The door to the apartment opens and crashes shut. A few seconds later it opens again.

“Annemarie!” he bellows.

All around me, startled horses shuffle and blow. A few clamber noisily to their feet.

Hurrah snorts and takes a step sideways. I press a hand against his knee to remind him that I’m down here.

“Annemarie! Where are you?” Dan’s voice is deep and hoarse.

He crashes noisily down the stairs, pausing—judging from the
thunk
—to punch the wall.

The aisle lights come on, then the can lights in the
stalls. The horses are all awake now, pacing and huffing in alarm.

“Annemarie!”

I hear him check the lounge, the trophy room, the bathroom. I hear him go back upstairs and check the office. Then he comes downstairs and stops just outside Hurrah’s stall.

I hold my breath, still crouched in the corner. My head is pressed against the water bucket’s cold bottom, my back against the wall’s rough boards.

“God damn it, Annemarie,” he says.

He sounds forceful and angry and I’m about to stand up when he suddenly turns and leaves. His gait has changed. His footsteps are tired and slow.

Click!

The can lights go out.

Click!

The aisle falls dark.

He walks slowly to the outside door, pauses, and then leaves, sliding it shut behind him. Moments later his engine starts and he pulls away.

I climb to my feet and fall forward, bawling into Hurrah’s mane.

When my alarm goes off at six the next morning and I find myself alone on the leather couch, I nearly burst into tears. A few seconds later I do.

But since I have to be at Wyldewood in exactly an hour and a half for the “pre-event team meeting”—and I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that parental attendance is mandatory, showing support for the kids, rah rah rah—I slide off the couch and onto my knees. Then I drop my arms and head onto the musty wool blankets that constituted my bedding last night and have a good cry. The unusual sleeping circumstances were necessary because when I finally emerged from Hurrah’s stall last night, I discovered that while I was off getting gorgeous—or maybe it was later, when my relationship with the love of my life was being blown to smithereens—Freddie decided to move her kittens into the middle of my bed. They’re so tiny and helpless with their barely-there hair and their eyes and ears fused shut that there was no way on earth I was going to try to move them, particularly after the amount of chardonnay I’d had. And so I dug through the top shelf of the
linen closet in the apartment bathroom until I came up with these scratchy horrid blankets, installed myself on the couch, and sniffed and snizzled into the darkness. After three hours of this, I realized I simply wasn’t going to get to sleep on my own and reached for the rubber cosh—Thera Flu Night Time.

I had only just gotten to sleep when my stupid alarm went off.

But since I have a good hour’s drive in front of me and have not yet packed for the four-day excursion, I drag myself upright and into the washroom.

I stop in the doorway, five feet from the mirror, and observe the swamp creature that stares back at me.

That I spent most of the night crying is obvious—my face is puffy, my nose raw and pink, and my eyes seem to have both red and black rings around them. But to add insult to injury, my cheeks, chin, and forehead seem to have broken out into eczema, probably in reaction to the wool blanket.

I burst into tears again at the sight of myself, and then splash cold water on my face, too afraid to use anything else for fear of making the eczema worse.

And then I pack, because I have to be on the road in eighteen minutes.

I stop at the house to say goodbye to Mutti. She stops, startled, when she sees me.

“You look awful.”

“I feel awful.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Not really,” I say. “Did he come by here last night?”

Mutti shrugs.

“He did, didn’t he?”

“I kept the lights off and didn’t answer the door,” she says. “I assume that means he came to the stable?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And nothing. He tried to give me
earrings,
Mutti.”

“I know, I know.” After a moment, she pulls me into a hug. Because she’s shorter, I curl my spine so I can lay my head on her shoulder. She strokes my hair and makes shushing noises. After a while, I sniff and pull away.

“Are you okay to drive?” she asks.

“Probably not, but I don’t have a choice. If I don’t show up, Eva will kill me.”

“Even under the circumstances?”

I throw Mutti a look.

She sighs. “You’re right. Get in the car. I’ll get you some coffee.”

I do as she says—life is so much easier when someone else is directing—and start the engine.

Mutti comes out the back door with my travel mug. Harriet follows her out, her short legs tripping like a millipede’s down the ramp. She stands on two legs, with her front feet on my car door, asking to be let in.

I unroll my window. Mutti hands me the mug and then looks in the backseat.

“What’s that?” she says, pointing.

“It’s my stuff.”

“You packed in plastic grocery bags?” she says in disbelief.

“Eva took all the suitcases.”

“Oh,” she says. “Well, she’s had time to unpack now. Bring them back with you.”

“Okay.”

Mutti looks at me with eyes narrowed and arms crossed on her chest. “I’m not sure about this. Do you want me to come?”

“I’ll be okay,” I say.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Besides, the hotel doesn’t take pets.”

Mutti looks down at Harriet, who is staring up at me hopefully, her tongue lolling off to the side. Mutti reaches over and scoops her up so their faces are side by side.

“Well, call me when you get there,” Mutti says sternly. “And call to let me know how that girl of ours does.”

“I will, Mutti.”

She leans in the window to kiss me. Harriet wiggles and squirms, slurping the right side of my face gleefully with a soft twisting tongue.

So much for my moratorium on dog kisses.

I arrive a bit late. I was having a little weep near Bethlehem and missed the exit and was almost in Vermont before I noticed.

The parking lot in front of Nathalie’s barn is full of vehicles. The three crimson-and-silver gooseneck trailers are lined up in the center, backed up to the entrance.

I find a spot to park and wander through Nathalie’s sparkling clean barn. The horses who are going to Strafford are in their stalls, wrapped from head to foot in puffy red nylon shipping gear. They pace their stalls in anticipation.

I follow Nathalie’s voice to the lounge.

She’s sitting on a white plastic chair with her back to the door. The girls and their parents are arranged in a
semicircle in front of her, as though in an auditorium. There is no way to get into the lounge except straight past her.

Eva is at the back, an empty seat beside her. When she sees me, her eyes pop open.

I try to make myself invisible and slink past Nathalie, but the second I come into view she stops midsentence and turns to face me. “I’m glad you decided to join us, Annemarie,” she says, her voice glacial.

“Er, sorry, road trouble,” I mumble, facing the floor and snaking my way through the seats toward Eva. She’s in the back row, which is both bad and good: bad, because I have to pass every other person in the room on my way, and good because now that I’m here, everyone else is ahead of us.

I take a seat and sigh with relief as Nathalie continues talking.

“Naturally, the first thing you’ll do is get the horses situated. Only after they’re in the temporary stabling and you’ve checked each and every one of them for—”

Eva leans over and whispers, “Ma! What’s wrong with you?”

“I had a hard night.”

Her eyes widen and she keeps staring at me, her eyes moving up and down my body. “Are you okay?” she finally says.

Her concern nearly dissolves me. I was expecting her to call me a sea hag.

“I, uh,” I say. “I had a—”

“Annemarie! Eva! Are you paying attention?” barks Nathalie.

Eva and I exchange horrified glances. I straighten in my seat.

“Yes ma’am,” says Eva.

I’m too stunned to say anything.

“Good,” Nathalie says, leaving her eyes on us for a while before allowing them to continue sweeping across the rest of the assembled people. “Margot’s car went kaput, so we’re short a few seat belts. Some of you are going to have to catch rides with your parents. Eva, since you and your mother obviously can’t wait to catch up, you can be one of them. Kris, Colleen, Danielle—you too.”

The chosen girls swing their heads to regard each other in horror, and then turn to stare resentfully at their parents.

When Eva’s eyes light on me, I shrug and try to stammer an apology. But she doesn’t care: she purses her lips, turns her head to the arena, and folds her arms across her chest.

In the car, dead silence.

“Look Eva, a covered bridge,” I say, pointing out her window. “What’s the date on it? They usually have a little plaque right at the top.”

She turns to me, scowling.

“What?” I say.

“What do I care about some stupid covered bridge?” she says.

“I don’t know. It’s old. It’s pretty. It’s part of our heritage.”

“No, it’s not. It’s part of your heritage. I’m from Minnesota.”

“Not anymore, you’re not.”

She turns her head in disgust. “Whatever,” she says.

“Okay, fine—but when we get to the Old Man of the Mountain, I’m showing him to you and you’re looking.”

“Whatever,” she says, looking out the opposite window.

“Do you even know what he is?”

“No,” she says, folding her arms across her chest.

“He’s our state symbol. An old man’s face in the side of a mountain. Look,” I say, pointing at his profile on a road sign as we pass. “Heck, look at the license plate of the car in front of us.
That’s
the Old Man of the Mountain.”

“That thing? Then I’ve seen it a million times.”

“In person?”

She glances at me, her lip curled. “No.”

“Eva, why are you so mad at me?”

“Gee, Mom, why do you think?” she snarls.

“Because you had to ride with me?”

“Ya think?”

“Quit the sarcasm,” I snap. “I’m not in the mood.”

Eva looks momentarily surprised.

I grip the wheel and drive in silence.

“So what happened to you anyway?” she says, looking me up and down.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, to start with, you were nearly an hour late this morning. Plus, your face is covered in an oozing rash, you look like you’ve been crying all night,
and
you haven’t brushed your hair since last Sunday. Yet your fingernails look nice for the first time in your life.”

“Eva, just shut up. Okay? Just shut up.”

I hear her sharp intake of breath. Then she turns slowly toward the window.

We drive in silence for several miles. I’ve never told
anyone to shut up in all my life—I tell people to shut up in my head all the time, but never out loud, and never my daughter.

I’m fumbling about for some way to reopen the conversation when Eva suddenly leans forward and points across the steering wheel.

“Hey look, Ma, a painted frog,” she says.

Someone has painted a boulder on the side of the road to look like a frog.

I do a double take and chortle.

Another couple of minutes pass.

“Hey look, Ma! A library!”

I throw her a glance that’s part warning but mostly gratitude. She’s grinning coyly, slouched in her seat.

Half a mile later, her arm flashes in front of my face again: “Hey look, Ma! It’s a school bus! No, wait! There’s a whole yard of them!”

Finally I snort with laughter. “Okay, fine. But you’re going to look when we get to the Old Man. There’s a lake right beside him, and when the sun’s out, you can see his profile perfectly. In fact, it’s called Profile Lake.”

She shrugs. “Okay. So what’s going on with you, anyway? Don’t tell me nothing because I know something’s up.”

I glance at her, and then back at the road. “I had a bad day yesterday.”

She claps a hand to her mouth. “Oops. Happy birthday.”

I keep my eyes glued to the road ahead of me.

“That’s not it, is it?”

“What?”

“Why you’re upset? Because I forgot your birthday?”

“God, no,” I say, looking over quickly. “Well, it would be nice if you’d remembered, but no. It’s got nothing to do with that.”

“So Dan couldn’t make it, or what?” she says, looking around the car as though just this moment noticing he’s not here.

I take a deep breath and hold it against pursed lips. Then I exhale. “No, he couldn’t. He had to go pick up another load of horses.” After a pause, I add, “Actually, we’re not going to be seeing Dan anymore.”

Eva stares at me for a moment. Then her eyes spring open and she covers her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Ma—you guys broke up? I’m so sorry.”

My face crumples again. I sniff a couple of times to try to contain it, and then when that doesn’t work, I wipe my left hand under my lower lids. When it becomes perfectly clear that I’m going to have another full-fledged breakdown, I wipe my nose on my left shoulder and manage to croak, “Can we please just not talk for a while?”

“Sure, Ma. Yeah, no problem.”

I’m not looking at her, but I can see in my peripheral vision that she’s watching me closely, her brow rippled with worry. And that worries me, because Eva doesn’t worry easily. Especially about me.

I’m so lost in my thoughts I don’t notice that we’re coming up to the Old Man until we’re right beside Profile Lake. And since my voice still feels as though it will splinter if I try to speak, and within seconds we’re past the lake anyway, I say nothing.

About twenty minutes later, Eva says, “So where’s this Old Man, anyway?”

I clear my throat. “We, uh, we passed him.”

She turns to stare at me.

“He doesn’t look like much from this direction,” I say, making a concerted effort to act more normally before I actually scare her. “We’ll catch him on the way back.”

When we get to the hotel, I find that I either have to park at the very back of the lot or pay ten dollars for valet service. When I called to make the reservation, they said I was getting the last room. Apparently they weren’t kidding.

I splurge for the valet service since I’m embarrassed by my plastic bags and oozing face rash and want to travel the least possible distance with them.

As I pull our things out from the backseat, Eva climbs from the car and stretches and yawns. It never dawns on her to help.

I pull the retractable handles out of her suitcases and loop the handles of my plastic bags over them, hoping that this will keep them relatively stable and perhaps even render them slightly less conspicuous. I’m actually a little afraid I might be mistaken for a bag lady. Of course, if there are any embarrassing episodes in the lobby, I can just flash my beautiful ringless fingers. Itinerants don’t have perfect French manicures.

As our little car disappears behind a long row of SUVs, I struggle to a brass luggage caddy, shove my shoulder in front of the other woman heading for it, pile
on our suitcases and bags, and drag it into line at the reception desk.

“Looks nice,” says Eva, looking around. “Think they’ve got a pool?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

“Ooh! Colleen! Kris!” Eva squeals. “Are you headed out already?”

A group of girls headed up by Maureen is crossing the lobby. They nod assent.