The You I've Never Known

  limps into the room, aided by

  her aunt. She looks like hell—

  gaunt, pallid, and uncertain

  of her balance. But I keep that

  to myself and smile. “Hey, Hillary.

  How are you feeling?” Lame.

  Marginally better than I look.

  Peg guides her into a chair, says

  she’ll return in a few. I sit on

  the adjacent sofa, call Gabe over.

  “I don’t think you two have met

  officially yet. Hillary, this is Gabe.

  I’m not sure how much you remember,

  but he’s the one who found you.”

  She stares at him for several

  long seconds. I remember your eyes.

  Finally, she twists her attention

  in my direction. And I remember

  you telling me Niagara was okay.

  Things are blurry before and after.

  Well, I’m glad we found you when

  we did. Gabe has been studying

  her intently, eliciting a small barb

  of jealousy, an emotion relatively

  novel to me. I do my best to ignore

  it. “The team sure misses you. Syrah

  tries hard, but she can’t match

  your speed. We’ve got a tourney

  in two weeks. Wish you could play.”

  Me too. And ride. I’m turning

  into a regular slug. But I can’t take

  a chance on an accident, and my

  equilibrium will be off for a while.

  We Talk for Twenty Minutes

  All the time Peg

  Grantham will allow.

  Gabe and I learn:

  Only three people do,

  in fact, live there, in

  the eight-thousand-square-

  foot house—her dad,

  Aunt Peg, and Hillary.

  Her dad, who’s a high-

  powered lawyer, spends

  long stretches of time

  in Sacramento, where

  he practices. He’s also

  running for the California

  State Attorney General’s

  office. Which is why Peg

  is living with them.

  As long as she can keep

  up with her schoolwork

  despite her injury, Hillary

  will graduate in June

  and go on to Stanford,

  her parents’ alma mater,

  and where the two met.

  Her mother and older

  brother are dead.

  They Were Killed

  On September 11, 2001,

  when the twin towers of

  the World Trade Center

  were leveled by terrorists.

  I barely remember Mama,

  says Hillary, and if not

  for photos, I wouldn’t be

  able to picture Brent at all.

  I was only three when it

  happened. We were visiting

  Aunt Peg in upstate New

  York, and I came down

  with some virus, or I might

  have been there, too.

  Mama had taken Brent

  into the city to sightsee.

  They were staying at

  the Marriott at the foot

  of the WTC. When the towers

  fell, the hotel was sliced

  in two. Everyone on one

  side lived; but on the other . . .

  She shakes her head sadly,

  but her eyes don’t tear up,

  and it’s obvious many years

  have passed—enough for

  a young child’s grief to

  be swallowed up by time.

  Wow, says Gabe. It’s weird

  to know someone personally

  affected by 9/11. I was little,

  like not quite five, but I totally

  remember my mom glued to

  the TV, praying and crying.

  Not for anyone she knew,

  but just because of how many

  people died, including first

  responders. It hit her hard.

  I overheard my dad and her

  talking, saying how terror

  was not supposed to affect

  us at home, and no American

  would ever feel safe again.

  I didn’t get it then. It took

  years to understand.

  The only thing I can think

  to say is, “I’m really sorry,

  Hillary. That sucks so bad.”

  Gabe’s right. It’s strange

  to find out someone you know

  was personally affected by such

  an infamous piece of history.

  All I Know About 9/11

  Is what I’ve learned in school,

  usually on the anniversary.

  I asked Dad about it one time.

  It didn’t surprise me, he said.

  The only thing that did was

  that it took them so long,

  and that Saudi Arabia

  masterminded the whole

  dirty thing. I figured it would

  be Iran or Iraq, and shit, who

  knows? Maybe their stinking

  fingers were in it, too.

  In the years that followed,

  as American casualty counts

  grew in Iraq and Afghanistan,

  Dad commented once, Hell,

  it could’ve been me over there.

  And for what? Upsetting

  the power structure is only

  going to fuck things up even

  worse, you mark my words.

  Shit’s gonna get ugly, and,

  intelligence or not, the US

  of A is not immune. There

  will be more attacks at home.

  Guess he knew a thing or two.

  We Change the Subject

  And now we learn

  that Hillary’s new car

  is on order. It’s an

  all-wheel-drive

  Long Beach Blue

  BMW X6 M,

  not that I’ve got a clue

  what that is, except

  Gabe says, Holy crap!

  Those are beautiful

  cars. Definitely a step

  up from a Ford.

  “Hey, now, without

  that Ford, I’d probably

  be on foot forever.

  This is the first chance

  I’ve had to thank you

  in person for the Focus.

  No one’s ever given me

  a gift like this. Not sure

  how I can repay you.”

  The debt was mine to pay,

  Ariel. You and Gabe didn’t

  have to stop. A lot of people

  would’ve driven right past.

  So, thank you. Both of you.

  It’s a Natural Break

  In the conversation, and Peg

  must’ve been listening for one

  because she comes bustling in.

  Okay, we’d better let Hillary

  rest now. This is the most

  stimulation she’s had in a while.

  We say our good-byes and I

  comment, “Next time I see you,

  I’ll be driving a pretty red car.”

  Wait by the door, says Peg. I’ll take

  Hillary up to her room and then

  give you that tour of the barn.

  When they go upstairs, Gabe

  asks, So did your dad commit

  to signing off on your driver’s license?

  “Not yet. But I’m not taking no

  for an answer. You don’t happen

  to have any ideas about blackmail?”

  He grins. Maybe I could wait till

  he and Zelda are busy in the bedroom

  and sneak a pic with my phone?

  “I don’t think that would work.

  Where are you going to post i
t, for one

  thing? Like, who would care?”

  Just Stating the Obvious

  And Gabe can only agree.

  Peg returns, wearing riding

  boots in place of her earlier

  slippers. She gestures for us

  to come along with her.

  It’s kind of a hike to the barn,

  she says. If you’d rather drive,

  go ahead. I can use the exercise.

  It is a decent walk, but the sun

  has warmed the autumn air,

  which is scented with the sweet

  wood smoke that has escaped

  the chimney. For no other reason

  than to make conversation, I ask

  Peg, “Do you like California?”

  Well enough. I’ve been out here

  for fifteen years, so it pretty much

  feels like home. Why do you ask?

  “Just wondering. Hillary told us

  about her mom and brother.

  I figured that’s why you’re here.”

  You figured right. I’d probably still

  be in New York if Charles didn’t need

  me to take care of Hillary. When she

  goes off to college, I could leave, but

  I won’t. All that I am is right here.

  All That I Am

  Interesting turn of phrase.

  I’ll have to dissect it later

  because we’ve reached

  the barn, which is massive.

  In the center is a huge indoor

  arena with a decent block

  of seats. “Do you put on shows

  here, or just use it for training?”

  We used to host regular events, but

  then life got busy. Maybe we’ll do

  it again in the future. Who knows?

  Meanwhile, it’s good to be able

  to work the horses year round,

  not that Sonora rain can rival

  upstate New York snow. I would’ve

  killed for this facility in Albany.

  We follow her to the long row

  of stalls edging the barn. As we

  stroll, I ask, “So you trained

  horses in New York, too?”

  Oh, yes. I moved there to be with

  my fiancé. We were both Olympic

  equestrians and met at a competition.

  Love blossomed over dressage.

  She’s Human After All

  I’d love to know more of the story,

  but I don’t know her well enough

  to ask her to tell it. Shame.

  My curiosity is screaming, ASK!

  But my logical side wins out.

  We walk down the line of stalls,

  studying the horses inside them.

  Most are Thoroughbreds—tall

  and fine-boned, with chiseled

  heads and the quick tempers

  associated with hot-blood horses.

  But a couple of warmbloods

  stand out. Though a bit shorter

  than their stable mates, they’re

  obviously athletes, and strength

  is what makes them beautiful.

  “What breed are they?”

  Hanoverian. I brought the mare’s

  dam with me from the East Coast

  and bred her here. The stallion

  I found in Oregon. He’s amazing,

  not only handsome, but he has

  an unparalleled temperament.

  We plan on breeding the pair next

  time the mare comes into heat. These

  horses practically beg to do dressage,

  and they’re talented hunters, too.

  It is Gabe who asks, Do you

  show anymore? You, I mean.

  No. It’s a time-consuming hobby,

  and I don’t have a lot of spare time.

  The Thoroughbred breeding program

  is our bread and butter. Hillary

  showed Niagara, but most of the colts

  are racetrack-bound. Now Peg does

  a double take. You like horses, too?

  More like I put up with them—

  and the people I know who like

  them. He winks at me. Actually,

  horse lovers tend to be pretty great.

  We pass Niagara’s stall and

  the mare comes over, as if

  she recognizes me and wants

  to say hello. Maybe she does, because

  she sticks her nose over the door

  and nickers softly. “Hello to you,

  too. Sorry. Fresh out of carrots.”

  Funny, says Peg. She’s picky about

  who she relates to. Max said he offered

  you a job here. Hope you’ll consider

  taking it. Niagara would appreciate

  it, and so would I. Hillary won’t be

  able to ride for quite a while, I’m afraid.

  Job Offer Assured

  I ask what my duties

  would be if I came

  to work at the Triple G.

  It would come down to:

  exercising horses

  brushing horses

  feeding horses

  moving horses

  from stall to paddock

  and back again, no

  manure shoveling involved.

  Plus, if I’m interested,

  Peg is willing to

  teach me dressage

  teach me to jump

  teach me to hunt

  teach me cross-country

  which add up to eventing,

  something she did as a member

  of the US Equestrian Team.

  I’m not sure I’m equal

  to all of that, but I kind

  of want to give it a try.

  And that’s what I tell her.

  Once Again

  It comes down to

  convincing Dad to let

  me work, and allow

  me to transport myself.

  And, if I can manage that,

  to finding the time

  commitment. Basketball

  finishes in February,

  and that will free up

  my after-school hours.

  Meanwhile, it would

  just be weekends. Oh,

  one final question,

  “How much could I

  expect to get paid?”

  A pragmatist. I like that.

  I’d have to check in

  with Max, but I think

  we could start you at

  twelve dollars an hour,

  as long as you’re an able

  rider. Some of the colts

  are pretty green.

  “Sounds fair. I’ll talk

  it over with my dad

  and let you know

  as soon as I can.”

  We Wrap It Up

  Head back toward the house.

  But the rest of her story

  is gnawing at me, and I know

  it won’t let go unless I shake

  it off, so what the hell. “May

  I ask a personal question?”

  You can always ask. I can’t

  guarantee I’ll answer it, though.

  “What happened with your

  fiancé? I mean, when you

  decided to move out west,

  why didn’t he come, too?”

  She considers her reply,

  and her sigh is heavyweight.

  He and I had planned our

  future, start to finish, and

  for him that meant eventing,

  and New York, not babysitting

  in California. In his eyes, I chose

  family over him, and I guess

  that was accurate enough,

  though I didn’t feel I had

  a choice, and begged him

  to come along. I learned

  love can’t always weather

  the circumstances of ou
r lives.

  Such Loyalty

  To family is humbling,

  and also completely alien.

  The only family I own

  is Dad, and though of course

  he loves me, I’m sure of

  that, sometimes he makes

  me feel like a burden

  he’d rather not shoulder.

  Yes, he stepped up when

  my mother deserted us,

  but should he ever actually

  fall in love again, would he put

  me first? Could he love Zelda?

  I don’t know, and thinking

  back over the years, it’s odd

  he hooked up with so many

  women, but never connected

  on a deep emotional level

  with even one. Is my father

  really capable of falling in love?

  Maya

  For Casey

  I haven’t updated your journal in a while, but it’s been a hard few months. Your daddy was transferred to a new army base, so we’re just getting used to life at Fort Bragg. North Carolina is a long way from Texas, and part of me doesn’t mind that so much. I left a lot of bad memories in Texas.

  In North Carolina, the weather is different. The people are different. The twang of their voices is different from our gentle drawl. And there’s new stuff to see when Daddy puts us in the old Chevy he bought and takes us for drives. There’s even an ocean—the Atlantic.

  We’ve been to the beach a couple of times. You’re so cute when you sit on the sand and it shifts under you. Your eyes go wide, you coo surprise, and try to grab a handful. Of course Daddy cusses about that. “Keep her on the blanket, would you? That crap’ll get everywhere!”

  He uses worse words, but I’m cleaning up his language here in your journal. Too bad you have to hear it sometimes. I’ve asked him to please not swear in front of you. He tells me I’m “f***ing” crazy, that you’re too little to understand. To be totally honest, I had to scrub my own vocab, too. You listen to everything. I want your very first word to be “mama,” not the f-word.

  Our new house is a little bigger, a little newer. But it’s still just like the one right next door. Soldiers might be creative in how they fight, but not so much in how they live.

  I did change things up for you. Instead of the yellow I painted your first bedroom with, I chose bright green for this one because it reminded me of new grass. We moved here in March, right before the official first day of spring.

  Spring in Texas meant bluebonnets stretching as far as you could see. One day I’ll show you bluebonnets, but they don’t have them in North Carolina. Here there are columbines and bleeding hearts and wild geraniums. I hoped the blooming flowers would ease my growing depression, but they haven’t helped much.