Riding Lessons

  I eat silently, keeping my eyes on my plate, but I doubt very much that Mutti will let it go at that.

  And I'm right. A minute later she says, "Aren't you curious?"

  "About what?"

  "About whether he's married? About what he's been doing for the last nineteen years?"

  I slam my fork down and look at her, cocking my head to the side. "Fine, Mutti," I say, crossing my arms in front of me. "Is he married? Tell me, what's he been doing for the last nineteen years?"

  She looks at me pointedly--I mean, really pointedly, as though she's somehow managed to make both her nose and chin pointier than they really are--and turns away in disgust.

  I can't believe I let her get to me so quickly. It was not supposed to be like this. Every time I come here--which isn't very often, as she would be the first to tell you--I am determined that this time, I will force her to deal with me as an adult. That this time, I won't let her drive me into acting like a teenager. And I didn't last a day. If we're like this at thirty-eight and sixty-seven, what possible hope is there for Eva and me?

  The rest of the dinner didn't exactly pass in silence, but it certainly passed without any further conversation between Mutti and me. And since Eva's still angry and I couldn't bring myself to look at Pappa, it made for a relatively uncomfortable evening.

  I retreated to my room as soon as was humanly possible. Now I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, holding my nightgown loosely in my lap. I look over at the computer on its table by the window, and instantly dismiss the idea of dialing in. In the background, I see the stable. There's a light on in the upstairs apartment and a figure moving behind the curtains. I'm not used to the idea of having someone in the stable apartment. I'm going to have to remember to keep the curtains closed.

  I shift my hips so I'm facing the bed, and then stare at it blankly. It's queen size, with four pillows. It seems vast. I can sleep in the middle if I want. I can stretch my arms and legs out into all four corners and sleep spread-eagled. I can scrunch up the eiderdown and use it to buffer my knees, can thrash as much as I like--even take up snoring. I wonder how to arrange the pillows, and then decide that there is no configuration for four pillows that will accommodate a single person sleeping in the middle of a bed. And then I wonder if I'll always sleep alone now, if there will ever be anyone else.

  I suppose there's always Harriet.

  Chapter 5

  When Mutti comes around the corner the next morning, I'm waiting at the kitchen table. I've been here since six-thirty, honing my words.

  I'm determined to have it out with her, to let her know how it's going to be. But as soon as she rounds the corner in her quilted turquoise housecoat, I lose my nerve. Something about the way it's zipped up to the base of her throat renders me mute.

  "You look tired," she says, passing me on her way to the counter. She turns on the baby monitor, and then fiddles with the volume as it crackles.

  "I am. I didn't sleep well."

  That's not what I meant to say. I stare desperately at her back, willing myself to continue. But I can't--the whole damned speech is gone.

  Finally, I close my useless mouth and stare at my hands.

  Mutti grinds the coffee beans, oblivious to my misery. After the coffee starts to gurgle, she comes to the table and sits opposite me.

  "So what are your plans, now that you're back?

  "What do you mean?"

  "Are you going to look for a job?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Then what will you do?"

  I blink at her in surprise. "I thought I'd help out around here. Manage the stable so you could spend time with Pappa."

  "Oh, I don't know about that," says Mutti.

  "What do you mean? Why not?"

  "You've never shown the slightest interest in the stable. Besides, there's more to managing it than you might think."

  I am silent for a moment, trying to decide if there's any good way of taking what she just said. Nope--even upon reflection, I'm pretty sure she just accused me of being a bad daughter and stupid all in the same breath.

  I shouldn't respond, I shouldn't respond, I shouldn't--

  "It's not exactly rocket science, Mutti," I say with undisguised irritation. "I think I'll be able to figure it out. Anyway, that's why I'm here."

  "Is it now," she says. Her eyebrows are raised, her expression imperious. She examines her wedding ring, twisting it on her finger.

  "What the heck is that supposed to mean?"

  "It doesn't mean anything," she says. Her fingers move on to a loose thread on her cuff. I stare hard, willing her to look up.

  "Yes of course it does. What do you mean?"

  "I'm just surprised, that's all."

  "At what?"

  "That you want to help at the stable."

  "Why?"

  She ignores me. She rises from the table and sails to the counter, the very picture of quiet dignity.

  "Why?" I ask again.

  She still says nothing, just stands with her back to me, pouring two mugs of coffee.

  "I asked you a question, Mutti. If you don't think I came back to help, why do you think I came back?"

  "I think you lost your job and your husband left you, and you needed somewhere to go. So here you are."

  She picks up the mugs and heads for the door and I realize that the second coffee is for Pappa, not me.

  I leap from my seat, and reach the doorway before she does.

  "Don't walk out on me, Mutti. I want to talk about this."

  She regards me coolly. All in all, she seems pretty unperturbed about finding me in her way. I'm starting to feel silly.

  "So talk," she says.

  "Is this how you want it? Really? Like last night, with you taking potshots at me at every opportunity? Because if it is, forget it. I'll take Eva and go back to Minneapolis."

  She looks amused by the threat.

  "You know damn well I came back to help," I continue, forcing my voice past the lump that has risen in my throat. "I came back to help and give you more time with Pappa. Jesus Christ, Mutti, why can't you ever take anything I do at face value?"

  She stares at me steadily through the steam that rises from the coffee. After an impossibly long silence, she says, "Fine then. Never mind that you've never shown the slightest interest in horses or the stable in all of living memory. You go ahead and run it. You've always done what you wanted anyway."

  And then she slips between me and the doorframe, taking the coffee into the dining room to where my father waits. I hear their voices through the baby monitor, and then, because I don't want to hear what she says about me, I leave the house, slamming the door behind me.

  Mutti has nerve, I'll give her that. I don't remember how I phrased it when I told her I was coming back, but I sure as hell didn't tell her I needed a place to stay.

  Roger didn't exactly leave me destitute: if I'd wanted to keep the house, I'd have kept the house. I'm the one who spent years massaging it into the perfect home. I'm the one who traveled to Maryland to choose just the right marble for the hearth, who consulted with experts about the right undercoat for the faux finish in the stairwell and had the entire kitchen gutted and redone in quarter-sawn oak when I could no longer stand all-white cabinets.

  Despite all that, I found I had no interest in keeping it after Roger left. I suppose it's no great surprise that Sonja also had no interest in living in a house that Roger and I had shared, so we put it on the market. It's about the only thing we have agreed on, and who knows? Maybe if Roger had wanted to keep it, I'd have fought him just to be bloody-minded. Under the circumstances, I think I'm entitled to a bit of bloody-mindedness.

  But all this is beside the point, which is that I'm not exactly a homeless wretch coming home to mooch off my parents. I came back for Pappa, for Mutti, and also for Eva--there were all sorts of reasons to come back to New Hampshire, but none of them was self-serving.

  I look up and find myself almost at the stable, which surpris
es me.

  There's the clip-clopping of hooves on cement, and a moment later a boy exits, leading two horses, one on each side. Not a safe practice, and one I intend to put an end to as one of my first acts of management.

  "Hi," I say, as he passes me. "I'm Annemarie. Zimmer," I add, as he continues to walk. He stops.

  "Hi," he says shyly. He's Latino--Mexican, probably, although that opinion is based on nothing more than the fact that almost all the stable hands I've ever known were Mexican. He seems very young, maybe sixteen, although he could be as old as twenty. The further I get from that age, the harder it is to judge.

  "What's your name?"

  "Jose Luis," he says, squinting into the morning sun. "But you can call me Luis."

  "Do you want help with turn-out?"

  He shakes his head.

  "You sure?"

  He shakes his head again, clearly hoping I'll just let him continue on his way.

  "Okay then. I'll see you around, Luis."

  When I enter the stable, it's clear why he refused my help. There are four other stable hands, all of them in the process of turning out horses.

  I stop at one of the stalls just as a gray gelding is led out. There's a laminated sign pinned to his door: PASTURE C, NORTHWEST. It's in Mutti's hand.

  So Mutti has the pastures grazed in rotation. I guess I'm not surprised. In her own way, she's as regimented as Pappa ever was.

  A few minutes later, I am once again in front of Harry's stall, although this time I don't feel his presence. This time, I'm making the acquaintance of the white stallion, tickling his whiskers. I have just decided that he's a lovely creature indeed when I hear booted footsteps coming up behind me. Then they stop.

  "Can I help you?" says a voice with a French accent.

  "Annemarie Zimmer," I say, turning and reaching out my hand. This is the second time in ten minutes that I've used my maiden name. I guess I'm reverting to it.

  "Ah, the famous Annemarie," says the man in front of me. I bristle.

  "Jean-Claude des Saulniers," he continues, taking my hand and bringing it to his lips. This startles me just a little.

  "I see you've met Bergeron," he says, stepping backward and placing one hand on the wall. He puts his other hand on his hip, which makes me notice his stance, and then, by proximity, his legs, which are immensely strong. He's wearing breeches, and his thighs are clearly visible through the taut material; thick, with well-defined muscles. Embarrassed, I look away.

  "He's lovely," I say, turning back to the horse. Bergeron swings around, presenting me with his rump. I laugh. "Although you can see what he thinks of me. Is he a boarder or one of ours?"

  "Neither. He's my boy," says Jean-Claude with obvious pride. "I brought two with me. Bergeron and Tempeste, the two I couldn't leave behind. The rest were school horses, and I left them with my former partner. Well, sold them to him, of course," he adds with a shrug.

  "He's beautiful," I say. "Do you really not turn him out at all?"

  "Sure I do," he says. "Every night, after dinner. But only when the other horses are in. Otherwise, he might decide to start jumping fences to get at the girls." He goes to the stall and stands facing it. "Isn't that right, Boo-Boo?" he says. "Only arranged marriages for you."

  "Where's your other one?" I ask, glancing quickly at the surrounding stalls.

  "The other side. But she's already gone out to play. You'll have to see her later. When is your horse arriving?"

  "My horse?" I ask weakly.

  "You don't have a horse?"

  "I don't ride anymore."

  He looks at me in surprise.

  "I had an accident," I say, watching his face carefully. "Years ago." His expression is still blank.

  It seems unfair for my parents to tell people about my past ("the famous Annemarie," after all) and not tell them about the accident. The accident is everything.

  "I'm sorry," he says. "It must have been very bad. But we will get you on again."

  Before I can protest, he strides down the aisle and I am left staring at his broad back and narrow waist.

  When I return to the house, I go online. There are more emails from Roger, with increasingly urgent subject lines, and one from my lawyer, which I open first.

  She's attached yet another draft of the marriage settlement, which I don't feel like reading, so I send a note back simply telling her that I'm in New Hampshire and that I'll look at it later. Then I send another note asking her not to tell Roger where I am. Then I select all of his messages and delete them.

  By now it's nearly eleven, and high time for Eva to get up. I cross the hall and knock on her door. There's no answer, but I'm not surprised, because like most teenagers, Eva is capable of sleeping through a hurricane.

  I knock again, then let myself in. Her bed is empty. Unmade, naturally.

  I head for the staircase. I'm almost a third of the way down when Mutti yells up at me. "Wait! Wait! Don't come down!"

  I rock back on my heels, startled. I hear the sound of a machine, of an engine running and bearings clacking. My mind goes blank and I retreat upstairs. I don't want to know what's going on down there, although from the sound I'm pretty sure it involves the ceiling track.

  I shout down, carefully averting my gaze. "Okay. I won't. But do you know where Eva is? She's not up here."

  "No," shouts Mutti. "She's probably at the stable."

  Since it seems I'm trapped, I grab a couple of towels from the linen closet and head for the bathroom.

  When I open the door, I see Eva lying in the tub. I step back, startled. She has her headphones on. Her eyes are closed, and she's resting her head on the rim.

  I haven't seen her naked since she was about ten, and I'm shocked at the sight of her. My God, her body looks like an adult's now, except that her breasts are impossibly firm. And then I realize that above one of them, with a radius of approximately one inch, is a tattoo of a unicorn.

  "Eva, oh dear God, what have you done?"

  Her eyes spring open in surprise and fright. Then she gets to her feet, sloshing water everywhere.

  I step forward, grabbing her arm. She pulls backward, wrenching free and falling into the tub with a huge splash. I turn my back, afraid that if I don't I'll strike her. I can't ever remember being so angry in all my life.

  "What were you thinking! You stupid, stupid little girl!" I scream, turning back to face her. She's out of the tub now, securing a towel around her body.

  There's a scrambling behind me, a commotion as someone runs up the stairs.

  "What on earth is going on?" shouts Mutti, coming into the bathroom. "It sounds like someone's being murdered."

  "How long have you had it?" I demand, staring at Eva.

  She says nothing, just looks down at the red marks my fingers have left on her upper arm. I'll hear about that later, I'm sure.

  "How long?" I repeat.

  "A month," says my daughter, eyeing me warily.

  I cross the room. Eva steps backward, but I take her by the shoulders and force her to face the full-length mirror.

  "You have no idea what you've done, have you?" I say, yanking at the tucked edge of the towel. It falls to the floor. She kneels instantly to retrieve it, then spins to face me.

  The sight of that abomination on her perfect, taut skin makes me want to weep. I stare at her, weighing my options, and I see her doing the same. When she realizes that I've got myself under control again, belligerence slides over her face like a shield. She smells victory.

  "You're getting it removed," I say, and then spin on my heels.

  "What? Where are you going?" Eva screams after me as I leave the room.

  "To look up plastic surgeons," I throw over my shoulder.

  My relationship with Eva has always been fraught with difficulty. Well, not always, I suppose. There was a window when she was a tiny baby, fat and golden, with my blonde hair and Roger's brown eyes, when we were in love with each other in a way that Roger might have found threatening were it not f
or the fact that he felt the same way. There was probably something significant in the fact that all of our energies converged on this child, and that neither of us had anything left for the other--and, perhaps more significant, that neither of us seemed to notice the lack. Of course, I'm prone to such retrospection now that he's gone. Now that I'm seeing through the prism of our impending divorce, everything seems to foretell of our demise.

  But after the initial ecstasy of infancy, things were never quite as they should be. Oh sure, until three years ago, Eva and I could talk. Occasionally we'd even have a good time together, actually enjoy each other's company, but I never felt the closeness that I've always imagined most mothers and daughters share.

  I remember one time when Roger and I took her to a petting zoo. I was looking at her wild curly hair framing her face like a lion's golden mane, and the folds on her chubby arms and legs as she approached a goat with outstretched hand. She was pure toddler perfection, and yet somehow I knew I was missing out. The way other mothers fell to their knees when their children cried, the way the fathers knelt down beside them and kept the oats from slipping through their fingers, the ease and happiness that oozed from these people--all of it eluded me. I could never relax into motherhood, could never really enjoy it. There was always something else that demanded my energy, something that kept me from just being in the moment; the kitchen, which fought back. The laundry, which grew organically. The bills, the isolation of staying at home, the stress of feeling as though Roger and I never quite connected. The weight that came on when I was pregnant and then stuck stubbornly to my once-athletic frame.

  On the rare occasions that Roger and I would go out without Eva, I would watch the people who'd brought their babies along with jealousy, even though I had my own child waiting for me at home. Somehow, I just knew that their experience was more complete than mine.

  I took great pains to hide it, this thing I couldn't put my finger on. I made dresses, I threw parties, I ferried her to lessons--even riding, although the sight of my child on a horse terrified me beyond belief. On each day of every weekend, we had some sort of family activity: hiking, riding our bicycles, going to the children's museum or botanical garden. She grew up loved and knowing it. Even when she got to be a teenager and the landscape changed, I was always paying attention, always vigilant.