Flying Changes (21 page)

I gasp. I can’t help myself.

I feel Maureen’s arm go around me. I hold the icy
umbrella handle so that we’re both covered, and slide my other arm around her waist.

“She’ll be okay,” says Maureen, giving me an encouraging squeeze. “She’s an excellent rider and, Lord knows, that horse can jump anything. He’s taken out more fencing at Nathalie’s place than any horse she’s ever had.”

“And Johanna Daniels is over the brush table now, over nineteen and headed for twenty…” the man drones. I half expect to hear him yawn.

Maureen’s arm tightens around me in excitement. “Oh, look! Here’s Johanna!”

A dark bay Thoroughbred comes crashing into view. His ears are plastered back, he’s soaked through, and his front legs are slathered with blue grease to help him slide over the top if he hits—it’s not much, but it’s the only possible defense you can offer a horse against solid obstacles. The girl is riding in forward seat, with rain pelting against her face. She’s breathing through an open mouth, her front teeth clearly visible.

The long-legged Thoroughbred gallops right up to the overturned boat and shoots over the top of it. He lands cleanly in a spray of water and continues on at a full gallop.

A small group of people to our right scream in encouragement, their voices raw with excitement and anxiety.

“Woohoo, Johanna!”

“Yeah! Way to go!”

“That’s my girl!”

And then they rush off to the next vantage point.

“Good God, she took that fast,” says Maureen. “I
mean, I know they’re riding two-star, but still, considering…”

I lean forward, examining the ground in front of the jump, checking to see if the Thoroughbred ripped the turf up. There are hoof marks in the shape of perfect horseshoes, but no skids. The approach and landing look as stable as they did before he came through, which doesn’t surprise me—he didn’t hesitate for an instant.

“Oh dear,” says the man on the PA in the most dismissive tone imaginable, and my heart plummets because the last time he said those words, it was right before he skewered Eva for her dressage test. “Looks like David Shykofsky has had two stops at the picture frame. One more and he’s…No, wait, it looks like he’s over and on to number fourteen. And it’s a good thing because Eva Aldrich and Smoky Joe are making unbelievable time, over the brick wall and on to the in-and-out and…uh-oh…it looks like maybe they’re…oh dear…sliding a bit on the approach…I can’t imagine…Oh my goodness!”

I clutch Maureen’s arm, panic-stricken.

“Absolutely unbelievable! Eva Aldrich and Smoky Joe just took the in-and-out as a single jump. Ladies and gentlemen, that’s a spread of more than nine feet, I don’t believe we’ve ever—”

Maureen and I gawk at each other, frozen to the spot.

“—fourteen…fifteen…sixteen, and, my goodness, they’re really flying. Oh! They’ve cleared the brush table with room to spare, and on to the picture frame. And here comes David Shykofsky to number twenty…”

A tall Dutch Warmblood careens around the corner
and into view. The young man on top—still a boy, really—is tall and thin, standing in his stirrups and pulling back on the reins with the weight of his body. The horse’s head is high in the air, his eyes wild. At the last second, the boy manages to pull him back into a canter. But the gelding has lost his sense of rhythm. He plants his hooves and throws his legs in front of him, skidding to a stop directly in front of the jump. The turf goes with him, rippling under his feet like carpeting, leaving nothing behind but slick mud.

“Oh God, oh God,” I say, clutching Maureen.

The boy is temporarily unseated, thrust forward onto the horse’s neck. He pushes back with both hands, leans back and yanks the horse around, circling around to have another go.

“And David Shykofsky has had one refusal at the canoe,” says the man on the loudspeaker. He has managed to dampen his excitement over Eva and Joe’s feat at the in-and-out. “He’s coming around again…”

As he approaches again, the young man rides hard, pumping his arms and kicking the horse’s sides with each stride. The ground is so saturated that the gelding’s feet splash each time they hit the ground.

I can tell from the horse’s ears that it’s not going to happen. The gelding locks his legs the second his front hooves hit the mud. He skids to a stop almost on his rear within inches of the overturned canoe.

“A second refusal for David Shykofsky,” says the announcer.

David Shykofsky flicks his hand against the rim of his cap and trots off around the jump, shaking his head in frustration.

“And that’s number seventeen, David Shykofsky on
Devil’s Angel, withdrawing after two refusals at the picture frame and two more at the canoe. And just in time, because here comes Eva Aldrich on Smoky Joe!”

Eva crashes into view. She and Smoky Joe are a study in concentrated unison—she stands in her stirrups with her legs bent, leaning slightly forward. They’re both soaked through. His legs hit heavily and he’s blowing hard with his head raised. The reins are taut, but he’s not fighting her. He’s asking her.

I glance at the ground in front of the canoe. Devil’s Angel has left skid marks of raw mud six feet long.

When Eva sees the long, bald approach, her expression changes to alarm and she pulls back. Joe responds instantly, shortening his stride to a fast canter and lowering his nose, but it’s no use—when his front feet hit the mud he slides like a car on black ice. He tries to adjust, but it’s too late. He glides almost sideways, his hindquarters coming closer to his shoulders with each stride. He’s folding like an accordion and twisting so that he’s almost parallel to the jump.

“Sweet Jesus—” I croak as Joe crashes into the canoe.

The noise is terrible—the hollow sound of wood cracking and splitting, muted by the padding of flesh.

Eva lurches forward, off-balance. Then, impossibly, Joe shoots from the ground, attempting the jump even though he is pressed up against it.

He springs upward, almost perpendicular to the ground, catching the top of the jump with both forelegs and somersaulting over top. Eva disappears just as Joe achieves perfect verticality. As his wide belly, hind legs, and tail slide from view like the upturned stern of a sinking ship, I topple over the rope, landing on my hands and knees in the mud.

“Eva!” I scream. “Eva!”

I scrabble forward and up, staggering around the far side of the jump.

“—we have a horse down at twenty…Eva Aldrich and Smoky Joe are down at the canoe—”

Eva is on her back, her arms and legs spread. One knee is slightly bent. Joe lies beside her. Both are utterly still.

I am too—it can only be for a split second, but it feels like forever because I’m watching in vain for signs of life.

My mouth opens in a wail. I drop to my knees beside my motionless daughter.

“Eva!”

My hands flutter, my breath coming in short chops through an open mouth. My eyes move from her face to her chest, and then back to her face, seeking movement of any kind.

I turn my head and scream, “Help! We need help! Where’s the ambulance?”

Maureen appears beside me. She makes the sign of the cross. “Oh dear Lord. Oh dear Lord.”

“Eva! Eva! Can you hear me?” I say, sliding my fingers up and down her wrist, trying to find a pulse with frozen fingers. I can’t feel anything—her skin is slick with rain and mud. I switch to the side of her neck, pressing two fingers into the flesh just beneath her chin. I turn my head, bellowing, “Where’s the ambulance?”

“Oh sweet Mother of God,” says Maureen. She gets to her feet and crashes off through the tree line.

My eyes shift from Maureen’s broad back to Eva’s pale face. Her eyes suddenly spring open, glomming onto mine.

Something inside me shatters. I drop my head, weeping openly. “Eva! Oh, Eva! Don’t move!”

Beside us, Joe comes to life. He heaves and shudders and scrambles to his feet, his stirrups flapping. His entire left side is covered in thick mud.

He takes a couple of steps. Eva turns her head to him, watching with shrewd eyes. Then she reaches for me, her fingers digging into my upper arm. “Help me up, Ma.”

“What? Eva! No! Lie still!”

“No way,” she says, turning onto her side and pulling her knees up. She struggles onto her elbow and winces.

The crowd behind us claps and whistles.

“Eva! Lie still!” I shout.

“Ma!” she barks, red-faced. “I’m fine!”

“No you’re not. That’s the adrenaline talking. Lie still and wait for the ambulance.”

“Ma—”

“Eva! If something’s broken you’ll make it worse by moving! Please listen to me. You’ve got to believe me here. I know what I’m talking—Wait! What do you think you’re—stop it!”

She claps her other hand on my shoulder and climbs to her feet, using me as unwilling support.

There’s an upswell in the applause behind us. I know they’re just glad she’s not dead and trying to tell us that, but I wish they’d shut up because I’m afraid they’re encouraging her.

I consider, briefly, pushing her back to the ground—for her own good, of course—but decide against it on account of the audience.

Eva stands leaning over, panting, her hands braced against her thighs.

I lean over, searching her face. “How do you feel? What hurts?”

“Catch Joe,” she says through clenched teeth.

I glance over. “He’s fine. He’s not going anywhere. Don’t worry about him. Someone else will get him. Come on,” I say, taking her elbow. “Let’s get you off course.”

She jerks her arm from my grasp. “The hell with that,” she says, turning from me.

I am filled with overwhelming dread and perfect foresight. “Eva,” I snap. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m getting back on.”

“WHAT?”
I shriek. “No. No way. Over my dead body.”

“Whatever,” she says, limping toward Joe. Scattered whistles and clapping erupt from behind her.

I turn to them.
“SHUT! UP!”

I feel the spittle fly from my mouth.

I’m momentarily horrified by the expressions on their faces. Then I snap out of it and spin on my heel.

“Eva,” I hiss, stumping along beside her. “Eva! I told you to stop! You are
not
getting back on!”

She ignores me completely, gathering the reins, leaning over, and surveying Joe’s body.

“Shhhhh,”
she coos. “There’s my boy. Are you okay?” She lays a hand on his neck.

“Eva!”

She leads Joe a couple of steps, watching his legs carefully. Then she becomes all business, slipping the reins back over his head and taking her place by his left shoulder.

“No! No! Absolutely not! I will not allow—”

When she turns the stirrup toward her and lifts her
foot, I grab the iron and yank it backward and out of reach. “I said no!
NO!
”

Eva turns to me with smoldering eyes.

“What’s going on? Eva, are you all right?” It’s Nathalie, from out of nowhere. She’s right beside us, taking Joe’s reins.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” says Eva with clear relief. “Give me a leg up.”

“No,” says Nathalie.

“What? Why not? We’re fine! I want to complete the course.”

“No!” Nathalie repeats. “Eva, it’s over.”

“But—”

“But nothing. It’s over,” Nathalie says firmly. “Come on—we’ve got to clear the course.” She thrusts the reins at me. “Annemarie, take Joe.”

I do.

Nathalie worms her way under Eva’s arm and grabs her around the waist so that Eva is resting on her. Then she steers her toward the rope, which several spectators are holding high enough for them to walk under.

A golf cart pulls up to the jump and three men hop out with tool kits. They kneel in front of the overturned canoe, nailing the loose boards back onto the jump.

I turn away to the sound of their hammers.

Bang bang bang.

Eva and I head toward the car, both of us muddy, both of us limping.

As we weave our way through the parked vehicles, she makes sure she stays several feet ahead of me. The result is that I’m always staring at the back of her bald head. The few times I try to catch up, she immediately buzzes ahead again, and since both my knees hurt, I decide to accept the single-file formation rather than risk yet another increase in speed.

Although it’s still raining, I’m so wet there’s no point in opening the umbrella. Instead I use it as a cane, stabbing it into the muddy earth and then leaning on it as I catch up. I haven’t bothered wrapping the little strap around it, so it flaps like bat wings with each stride. My knees are killing me, both from toppling over the rope and also from dropping to the ground beside my prostrate daughter. Thank God the ground was as saturated as it was, because the water provided significant cushioning. I think I’d be in serious trouble if it hadn’t. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why Eva and Joe both fared so well. Then again, if the ground hadn’t been sat
urated, maybe they wouldn’t have taken a fall in the first place.

My poor, sweet Eva—I know she thinks she’s thirty-six, but she’s really just a child, and her pain and humiliation make her seem so small and vulnerable. She has no defenses whatever, and it makes me desperate.

Is this what I was trying to protect her from when I didn’t want her to come? Partly. It was this and a broken neck. But I don’t feel vindicated. Instead, I feel like an enraged mother bear, lumbering toward whatever is threatening my child, which at the moment is a feeling of failure.

She reaches the car before me and lowers herself tenderly onto the front seat. Apparently I forgot to lock the doors. Not that there’s anything to steal anyway, and if anyone wants the car they’re welcome to it.

I had been going to suggest that we look in the trunk for blankets or feed sacks to put between us and the seats, but since she’s already inside, I go around to the driver’s side and climb in. I’m only muddy on the front and side, unlike Eva, who’s slathered head to toe.

Eva waits until I close my door, and then sets her muddy boots on the dash. I open my mouth to say something—and then shut it again.

When I stick the key in the ignition, she says, “I want to go home.”

“That’s where we’re going.”

“I don’t mean the hotel. I mean home.”

“But…are you sure? There’s a whole other day.”

“Well, obviously I’m not riding tomorrow.”

“No, but your friends are. And besides, what would Nathalie say?”

“I said I want to go home. What part of that don’t you understand?” she snaps.

I gaze at her for a moment and then turn the key. “There’s no need to be rude, Eva. If you don’t want to be here, fine. We can hang out at the hotel tomorrow, and then you can go back the next day with the others.”

“I’m not going back.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m not going back to Nathalie’s.”

“Eva,” I say, broaching the subject delicately for fear of galvanizing her position, “you’ve just had a terrible disappointment. But that’s no reason to give up on the whole enterprise.”

She’s silent. But I’m not stupid enough to mistake this for acquiescence.

“If you want to come home for a few days, I have no problem with that. I’ll bring you home. But please, don’t make any snap decisions about this.”

“It’s too late. I already have.”

I raise my voice in exasperation. “You’re going to give up just because you had one lousy show?”

“Lousy show?
Lousy show?
” She pivots in her seat so she’s facing me. Her face is red as a beet. “I got the lowest dressage score in the history of the show, and I didn’t even complete the endurance test.”

“That wasn’t your fault! The weather was terrible. People were withdrawing all over the place. Hell, Colleen’s mother was on her way over to the start box to pull her too.”

“It wasn’t the weather. It was you.”

I blink, stunned. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was your fault.”

“What? Are you crazy? I’m responsible for the weather?”

“No, but you prevented me from completing the course.”

“That is totally unfair. Nathalie didn’t want you to complete the course either.”

“Yeah, but if you hadn’t delayed me so much, I would have been up and gone by the time she got there,” she says accusingly.

“Eva! Your horse somersaulted over the top of a jump. I couldn’t see the far side—for all I knew, he’d
landed
on you!”

“But he didn’t, did he?”

We drive in silence for a few minutes.

“For once, I wish you
had
closed your eyes,” she adds.

“Eva!” I shout. “Enough! Honest to God, I don’t see how you can blame me for this!”

“You never wanted me to do this in the first place. And Dad couldn’t even be bothered to show up. I hate you both.”

I bite my tongue and drive. There’s no point in responding. Besides, I can’t even remember the exact kernel of what we’re arguing about. We seem to have progressed from deciding whether to stick around for the final day of the show to whether Eva is going to continue training with Nathalie at all because clearly everything’s gone wrong and somehow it’s
my
fault—

This final irony, this reversal, would be funny if so much weren’t dependent on it. Whoever would have imagined that I—the one who didn’t want Eva to do this in the first place—would find myself encouraging her to continue? But what other choice do I have? If she comes back to Maple Brook, she’s still expelled from
the only school in the area, that damned Eric Hamilton will come sniffing around again, and even if she only kept the condom for the novelty of it, I can well imagine where that would lead.

Oh look! Wanna see what it looks like? How about when you put it on? Oh, my!

My mind cuts to black at this point, can’t even carry the thought through.

No. As much as I used to be against the idea, somehow I have to persuade Eva to continue at Nathalie’s. The alternative is just too dreadful to consider. In fact, the alternative may well be packing her off to Roger’s, which is the last thing either of us wants. Right now, our shared fury over his failure to appear is the only thing uniting us.

When we get back to our hotel room, Eva heads straight for the bathroom and locks the door behind her. Less than a minute later, the shower starts. It goes on and on and on, and I find myself thinking gratefully of industrial-sized water heaters.

My clothes are so muddy and wet that I can’t even sit down while I wait my turn in the shower. I strip and then stand holding my cold, stiff clothes, not quite sure where to put them. In the end I spread them out across the table and wooden chair at the far end of the room. They’ll dry by tomorrow. They’ll be stiff as cardboard, too.

I’m in my wet bra and underwear and am in the middle of removing the Dreaded Bedspread—which the housekeepers keep insisting on putting back on the bed—when Eva comes out of the bathroom.

“Nice, Ma,” she says, glancing in disgust at my near nudity.

“Well, you didn’t exactly give me a shot at the bathroom, did you?”

I stand beside her at the dresser, choosing a new outfit from my plastic bags.

Eva stumps around with one towel around her body and one on her head, shoving things into the suitcase. She crumples clothes like Kleenex—even the ones that are still folded. I open my mouth to say something, and again bite my tongue. The muddy boots on the dash, the crumpling of the clean clothes—all of it is designed to draw me into an argument.

“Eva, knock it off,” I say walking behind her into the washroom.

“Knock what off,” she says.

I set my clean clothes on the counter and lean over, rubbing my aching knees. They feel three times their normal size. “The packing. We’re not leaving tonight.”

“Yes we are!”

“No we’re not,” I say. “I’m not starting a drive of that length this late at—”

I’m cut off by a furious pounding on the door.

“Eva! Eva! Are you in there?” shouts a muffled voice.

“Oh shit,” Eva hisses, spinning in desperation.

“What?” I whisper.

“It’s Nathalie.”

I snatch a towel from the rack and fling it over my shoulders. “Open the door!” I say. A quick glance in the mirror shows that I am still not sufficiently covered. I wrap the towel around my middle, choosing to let my bra straps show.

“No!” cries Eva, her eyes panicked.

“Then I will,” I say, heading for the door.

“Eva, I can hear you in there.
Eva.
Open the door.” Nathalie’s voice is a growl, and at the end of it, she resumes pounding.

Eva smacks her face with both hands as I open the door.

“Hi, Nathalie,” I say, as she marches right past me without any acknowledgment whatever. I sweep my arm toward the interior. “Please, come in.”

She stops beside Eva, who has returned to scrunching up clothes.

“What do you think you’re doing?” says Nathalie, putting her hands on her hips.

“I’m packing,” says Eva. She spins and goes into the bathroom. She returns with bottles of shampoo and conditioner, which she tosses into the suitcase.

Nathalie glances around the room, takes in my wet clothes on the table, and my current state of dishabille. I blush and look down.

She turns back to Eva. “You left without taking care of your horse today,” she says quietly.

Eva continues packing.

“I know you were upset, but that does not excuse you from your duties, and your very first duty—before anything else, ever—is to make sure that your horse is settled.”

“He’s not my horse,” says Eva.

“That’s right. He’s my horse. And you’re my student, and I assigned him to you. And you walked away from him out of temper, leaving others to pick up your slack. That won’t happen again. Do you understand?”

Eva grabs a plastic bag, wads it up, and stuffs it into
the suitcase. She has run out of her own things and is now packing mine.

“Is this all you’re made of? One bad ride and you quit?”

“It wasn’t a bad ride, Nathalie, it was a complete disaster.”

“No, it wasn’t. Everybody lived. You want to hear about really bad rides? Ask your mother.”

There’s a silence, long and terrible.

“You’re not riding tomorrow,” Nathalie continues, “but you
will
show up to support those who are.”

Eva’s chin juts. She lifts her face to Nathalie’s, challenging her.

“I’m finished here,” Nathalie finally says. “I don’t have time for spoiled brats. You have two choices. You adjust your attitude and show up tomorrow, or you pick up your things from Wyldewood on your way past.”

And then she’s gone, slamming the door behind her.

Eva stares at the back of the door for a few seconds, and then drops onto the edge of her bed, her face buried in her hands. Then she starts to bawl.

I walk over and sit next to her. Then I try to take her hands, but she covers her head with her arms, batting me off like an insect.

“Oh, Eva,” I say. I rest my hands in my lap, thinking I’ll wait her out, but when her sobs get deeper and her breathing more ragged, I pry her arms from her head and take her face in my hands.

Tears stream from her swollen eyes. Deep, body-wrenching hiccups follow. She’s huffing with the effort of trying to breathe regularly. She fails miserably and explodes, spraying me with spittle.

“Look at me, Eva,” I say. “Come on now. Get a hold of yourself!”

“She hates me!”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“She just fired me!”

“No, she didn’t. She gave you a choice. She expects better from you, and quite frankly, so do I.”

She looks horrified. “You what?” she says, her voice tinged with the deepest betrayal.

“Nathalie’s right,” I say. “You’re acting like a spoiled brat. Pull yourself together.”

Eva stares at me for a moment. Then she rises from the bed and continues packing.

“Eva. Stop it,” I say.

She ignores me.

“Eva! I said, stop it. We’re not going anywhere tonight.”

She turns to me, her face purple, her fists clenched at her sides. “I want to go home!”

“Forget it.”

“I’ll call Oma.”

“Go ahead.”

“Fine. I’ll call a cab.”

I laugh outright, a short, sharp noise. “Yeah, right.”

Eva freezes with one hand on top of the suitcase.

I’ve had enough. I grab my purse, a beer from the minibar, and swing into the bathroom.

Eva’s mouth drops in outrage. “Ma! Jeez, you don’t think I’m going to
steal
from you?”

“Gee, I dunno. You just threatened to call a cab, and you do have a history of running away.”

She stares at me with burning hatred, and then reaches for the clicker.

“—a frothy cocktail of rancid cow’s blood, frog’s legs, and pig eye—”

I rush the final few feet and slam the bathroom door, because I really, really don’t want to know the rest of the ingredients in the
Fear Factor
cocktail du jour.

Fortunately, Eve didn’t pack the hotel’s shampoo and conditioner. I linger in the shower, both to give myself some time alone and to give Eva some time to calm down. This is promising to be a very long evening, particularly if I can’t persuade her to go out for dinner.

Since the outfit I took into the washroom with me was the only one that didn’t receive the Eva treatment, I pull the rest of my clothes from the suitcase and lay them flat on the bed, running my hands over them, trying to smooth them.

“You didn’t have to crumple all my stuff, you know,” I say.

Eva remains unresponsive, a bed-lump.

“Okay, fine. I’m going for dinner. Want me to bring you back anything?”

“Yeah. A cheeseburger.”

“A
what
?” I say, spinning to look at her.

“You heard me.”

“Yes, I know I did. But do you think maybe you can choose something that won’t make you hate yourself in the morning?”

“I’m already going to hate myself in the morning.”

“What do you really want?”

“I want a damned cheeseburger!” she screams. Then she punches her pillow and rolls over.