Riding Lessons Page 3

  But it's not. It's the face of a woman with no job and no husband and a house that feels like anything but a home. All I have left is my daughter, and if I don't do something soon, I have the feeling I'm going to lose her, too.

  Chapter 4

  Two weeks later, we're on a plane to New Hampshire. Poor Harriet has been banished to the cargo hold beneath us because pets are no longer allowed in the cabin, no exceptions. The girl at the check-in desk assured me that it is heated and pressurized, but still, I worry about my cowardly dog down there in her crate.

  There is no question about how Eva feels. She slouches in the window seat, scowling like a singed cat. She has earphones on, the better to avoid conversation with me, and her nose buried in a Cosmopolitan. I hate that she reads those things--they're practically pornographic and I hope to God that she has no practical use for the advice she reads therein, but I'm simply too tired to argue.

  My mother meets us at the airport. She's late, so by the time we see her, we're moving toward the exit with our bags piled high on a cart. I have two others slung over my shoulders, as well as my laptop and purse, and am leading Harriet on a leash. I'm probably not supposed to let her out of her crate until we leave the airport, but I don't care. What are they going to do? Make me leave?

  Eva carries nothing but her backpack and magazine--didn't offer and pretended she didn't hear me when I asked her to help. That's the way my mother finds us, with me leading the dog and struggling to keep the straps of four bags over my sloping shoulders. I'm also trying not to run over anyone with the cart, which is impossible to steer because all its wheels swivel independently.

  Mutti frowns, and pulls me toward her by my shoulders. Before we make contact, she starts pushing me away again. At some point in this, her right cheek brushes mine. After five years, this is what I get?

  "You're too thin," she says, taking a bag from my left shoulder. She stares at Eva, who stares right back.

  "Eva, push the cart," she says. Eva's face hardens, and I cringe. Then Eva moves behind the cart and takes its handle.

  Mutti marches toward the automatic doors at the human equivalent of an extended trot.

  "Where's Pappa?" I ask, jogging a few steps to catch up.

  "He's at the house. He was tired," she says without looking back.

  Mutti leads us to the car, which is actually not a car at all, but a van with a hydraulic lift on one side.

  This is my first indication of how far things have progressed. The middle of the inside is reserved for a wheelchair, an empty space with parallel tracks and clamps for securing the wheels to the floor. I have a sick recollection of being the person for whom such a space was left, and panic flickers within me.

  "Eva, do you want to ride shotgun?" I ask, opening the passenger door.

  Instead of answering, she scuttles past and into the back, where she's safely beyond the range of conversation.

  We buckle up in silence, and as Mutti negotiates her way out of the parking lot, nobody says a word. At first I think she's just worried about missing the turnoff, but once we're on the highway, I realize she doesn't want to talk.

  I turn to look at her. She's staring straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel with bony hands. Then I sneak a glimpse at Eva in the side-view mirror. Her headphones are on again, and she's staring out the window, nodding angrily in time to Green Day.

  "How's Pappa?" I ask, looking back at Mutti.

  "Not good, Annemarie," she says. "Not good."

  I turn my face to the window to absorb this, watching the sun flash through the trees.

  I had forgotten how different the terrain is here. In Minnesota, all is flat and wide. Here, the road winds down through valleys and streams before suddenly cutting up the steep pitch of a hill. The trees come right up to the side of the road, broken only by jutting bedrock and the occasional clearing for a weather-beaten building. The buildings are long and flat, mostly wood frame, and sprawling with haphazard additions. I see a hand-painted sign advertising ammunition, and sit forward to follow it with my eyes.

  We pass a billboard, the first I've seen: PAMPER YOUR BABY, KEEP THEM HAPPY AND DRY.

  Good God. Go out on a limb, folks. Pick a gender.

  I take a deep breath.

  "How long has Pappa been in a wheelchair?"

  "Eight weeks," says Mutti.

  "How bad is it?"

  Mutti is quiet long enough that I turn from the scenery to study her profile. She looks thinner, tired. Smaller.

  "He still has some movement in his arms," she says finally.

  I am sickened by her words, and realize I have no idea what I'm going to find at the house.

  We drive the rest of the way in silence, even as we pull through the gates of our farm--or rather, the Maple Brook Riding Academy, as my father would insist I call it.

  It looks exactly as it did when I left. The wooden fence that runs all around the perimeter and on either side of the long drive is crisp white, as are the stable and attached arena. The pastures and lawns are as manicured as a golf green, and the two dozen or so horses that graze among them are sleek and dappled.

  The drive winds past the white-frame house, between the pastures, and dead-ends at the stable. There are cars in the parking lot, and when I see this, hope rises within me like a sprout breaking the earth. Timid hope, cautious hope. If Pappa can still teach, things can't be that bad. He may be in a wheelchair, but life still has some semblance of normalcy.

  Mutti pulls behind the house. The only hint that anything has changed is the ramp leading to the back porch. It could be the same one they had for me, but I don't ask. I'm already nauseated.

  "Is that a new car?" I ask as Mutti parks next to a blue Passat.

  "No. It's Brian's." She unfastens her seat belt and opens the door. Behind me, the sliding door rattles open along its track.

  "Brian?"

  "The nurse." Mutti disappears, and I'm left staring at her empty seat.

  Flustered, I scramble out. I set Harriet on the ground and then close the seat belt in the door.

  "But I thought..." I say, opening the door and trying again. "But it looks like someone's teaching a lesson."

  "We have a new trainer."

  Mutti is wrestling bags from the back of the van and setting them on the gravel. Eva loiters behind her, staring at the trees beyond the stable.

  I am frozen to the spot, watching Mutti and hoping that she will eventually look at me. I need her to, need her to impart some kind of knowledge or understanding or even comfort, but she doesn't. She's working out how to carry as many bags as possible, piling them onto her tiny, lithe frame like a mountain-bound burro. Then she hands Eva a suitcase and leads the way to the house.

  I follow behind with the rest of the bags and Harriet, straining on her red nylon leash.

  The back door leads to the kitchen. By the time I get there, Eva and Mutti have disappeared.

  There's a man--Brian, I assume--reading a magazine at the table. He's large and doughy, with soft-looking hands and a sprawling bald spot fringed with short, brown hair.

  "Hi," I say, looking around. A baby monitor on the counter catches my eye. A red light shoots across its display, apparently in response to random static.

  "Hi," says Brian. He barely looks up from his magazine.

  "Is my father around?"

  "He's asleep. He's tired," says Brian. This time, he pays attention, staring first at me and then Harriet, as though she were some kind of rodent.

  I despise him instantly and not only because of Harriet. Any decent man would have offered to help Mutti with the bags.

  I head for the hallway. As I pass the dining room, I see glass doors in what used to be open doorframes. The doors have curtains. There is a metal track in the ceiling and I pause for a moment, following its line with my eyes. Then I continue to the staircase.

  Eva and my mother are standing in the master bedroom next to the pile of suitcases. The room looks the same as it has for more than thirty
years, except that there are different lamp shades and the framed pictures are gone.

  Eva appears to be looking out the window, but I think she's just avoiding eye contact. She stands with her arms crossed in front of her and her feet planted squarely on the ground. Her toes point slightly inward, and her back is arched so that her belly sticks out in a way that reminds me of a toddler's, or a pregnant woman's. She'd be horrified if she knew that; might even give up the low-rise jeans that have become a sort of uniform. It would be an easy victory, but a cheap one. While I hate that her belly is perpetually bared, I won't intentionally hurt her.

  "Now which of these is yours, Eva?" asks Mutti. She leans over and checks the luggage tags. They probably all have Roger's name on them, something I mean to rectify. I probably can't completely obliterate him from my life, but I can sure try.

  "These." Eva points first at one and then another, and then waits, expecting Mutti to extract them for her.

  "Right," says Mutti, straightening up. "Take them to the room across the hall. You're staying in your mother's old room."

  Eva glares at her and once again I brace myself. But then she glazes over: her jaw goes slack, and her thin eyebrows, plucked into curved arches, assume a look of boredom. She slides her arms through the straps of her pink vinyl backpack, and then makes a great show of dragging her suitcases from the room. Harriet trots out after her, and Mutti stands watching, her hands on her hips. When the door across the hall shuts, she turns to me.

  "Looks like you have your hands full with that one."

  "Is this where you want me to sleep?" I ask.

  "Yes." She moves to the bed and fusses needlessly with the sheets. "Pappa and I sleep downstairs now, so there's no reason not to let you have the large room."

  "Will you have a room added onto the main floor?"

  "No," she says, fluffing a pillow and then smoothing it noisily with the flat of both hands. "There's no time for that."

  I nod as a lump rises in the back of my throat.

  I don't know why I thought I'd feel better when we arrived. In fact, now that I'm here, I don't have a clue what to do with myself.

  I lie on the bed for less than a minute, and then get up again to pace. There's unease in my soul, a vein of disturbance running through to my core. I was stupid to think coming here would change that. I can't imagine what I was thinking.

  So it gets me away from the scene of my defunct marriage. So what? It doesn't change what's happened. It doesn't mean I don't still have a divorce to get through. As for Eva--she hasn't said a civil word since I told her we were going to New Hampshire. As far as she's concerned, I've ruined her life.

  I pull a few drawers open to see if they're empty. They are, of course, because Mutti is nothing if not organized. I close the drawers again without putting anything in them.

  Just for the hell of it, I give the dresser a little shove. I am surprised at how easily it moves, but then I remember that its drawers are empty. I brush the dust from my hands. Then I brace them on either side of a corner, and push the dresser into the center of the room. It leaves behind a rectangle of dust and lint, a clear outline of where it used to be. I feel uncharitably smug at the discovery, and an instant later am filled with shame.

  I move to the corner of the bed. It's heavy and oak, an old four-poster. I yank half-heartedly at one of its posts. It bends a little, but the bed is resolute. I won't be beaten by a bed, so I squeeze myself between the headboard and the wall, put one foot up on the wall behind me, and push with everything I've got.

  The old headboard bends forward as though it might break, but I persist until the frame finally moves with a shudder and a screech. It's slow at first, but once it's in motion, I keep pushing until it slides against the wall where the dresser was. It's as though, having parted grudgingly with the position it occupied for the last three decades, the bed finally decided it didn't mind moving after all.

  I move the tall dresser that used to be my father's into the place left by the bed, and then the long dresser over to the space where the tall one had been. Finally, I pick up a small table with scalloped edges and place it by the window. The proximity to the window is coincidence, because the main thing is to get it close to the phone jack so I can set up my laptop.

  I hesitate before dialing in, because my mother could be expecting a phone call, but then I do it anyway. I forget to mute the volume, so my ISP says "Good afternoon, Annemarie," in its cloying, fake-cozy, fake-female voice, and in an instant the brief victory I'd felt over the furniture is replaced by irritation.

  There are a few emails from Roger, which I don't read, an email from the placement company that my ex-employer has apparently decided I need, and one from my lawyer, with yet another draft of the marriage settlement. Disgusted, I log off.

  Downstairs, Mutti is peeling potatoes in the sink. She looks over her shoulder when I come into the kitchen, and then returns to her task. Harriet is lying under the table, a sausage with legs. Brian is nowhere to be seen.

  "What was going on up there? It sounded like you were moving furniture."

  "I was."

  "What was wrong with the way the room was set up?" she says.

  "I wanted to see the stable from the bed. Also, the phone cord wouldn't reach the table," I say. All of which is true, but not the reason I rearranged the room. I don't know why I rearranged the room.

  "What was wrong with where the phone was?" my mother asks, persisting.

  "I need it to reach the computer."

  "Oh." She peels another potato in silence. "Are you all settled in?"

  "Not really. I still need to unpack."

  "Sit. I'll make coffee," she says. With her Austrian accent, it sounds less like an offer than an order.

  "No. I'm fine." What I'd really like is a drink, but she'll think it's too early for that. I could just go and get one, but I don't feel up to my first round with Mutti just yet.

  I wander over to the sink. "Can I do anything?" I ask, peering in.

  "You can help bring the horses in," she says. She rinses the peeler and sets it on the counter. "Two of the hands called in sick today."

  "Sure. Of course," I say, surprised at how relieved I am for an excuse to leave the house. "Is Pappa still in bed?"

  "He's getting up now," she says. She extracts a large soup pot from under the counter and sets it in the sink.

  "He can do that?"

  "Brian's helping him," she says, running water into the pot.

  "Ah," I say. "Of course."

  And then I close my eyes, because I'm starting to get the picture.

  As I pass the dining room, I hear the sound of a winch cranking. An involuntary shudder runs through me. I hurry past and climb the stairs, rubbing my forearms to smooth the goose bumps.

  I stand in front of Eva's door for a moment, gathering strength.

  "Eva, honey," I say, knocking politely.

  Silence.

  I knock again.

  "Eva," I say, putting my mouth near the crack. "Can I come in?"

  There's a muffled response.

  "I can't hear you, honey. Can I come in?"

  "I said, I don't care."

  I push the door open. She's sitting on the edge of the bed, slumped and forlorn. Her backpack is at her feet. Her cheeks are moist with recent tears, and when she sees me, she sniffs angrily.

  I sit next to her on the bed, and because the mattress sags, end up closer than I'd intended. My shoulder brushes against hers, and as it does, she shrinks away.

  "What do you think of your room?" I ask.

  She shrugs.

  "You can see the pastures from the window," I continue. "It's nice when the horses are out."

  Silence.

  "In a minute I'm going to bring them in. Do you want to help me?"

  "No," she says furiously, turning to face me. "I want to go home."

  "I know that, honey. But Oma and Opa need us here."

  "For how long?"

  "I don't know," I say.
I wish I could put my arm around her. I know this is hard on her.

  "Is Opa dying?"

  I hesitate for just a moment. "Yes, honey. I'm afraid he is."

  She doesn't miss a beat. "We'll go home afterward, right?" she says.

  I close my eyes in a sudden, visceral reaction to her selfishness. "Maybe," I say carefully. "I'm not sure yet."

  "Well, I am even if you're not," she says. "I'm leaving when I'm sixteen."

  I nod slowly, puffing my cheeks full of air. And then, because there's nothing left to say, I pat my knees for punctuation and leave.

  A couple of minutes later, I'm heading down the drive. On either side of me, horses are gathering near the gates of the pastures, milling around in anticipation of their evening grain.

  The stable is at the end of the drive, looming like Notre Dame. It's huge, made of stone at the bottom and whitewashed wood at the top. It's shaped in a cruciform, like the cathedral itself, except that there's an Olympic-size indoor arena at the end where the altar should be. It looks deserted, although I know from the parking lot that it is not.

  There are two outdoor arenas behind the stable, one with jumps, and one without. Beyond these are forested hills that follow the entire perimeter of the property. In the fall, the hills are spectacular--aflame with red, orange, and yellow--but right now the crowded trees have just the promise of spring on their branches.

  I haven't been outside five minutes, but my fingers and nose are already icy. I should have brought my jacket, but I left it in the kitchen, and when I went to retrieve it, I caught a glimpse of the back of my father's electric wheelchair from the doorway. So I backtracked through the house and slipped out by the front door instead.

  As I approach the entrance to the stable, one of the hands emerges, trailing a lead rope on the ground. He doesn't greet me, and I don't greet him.

  The main part of the building contains two aisles of box stalls. They are separated by a dark, narrow corridor filled with tack boxes, saddle racks, and bridles hanging from hooks. The transepts, the arms of the cross, contain slightly smaller box stalls, which are mostly reserved for school horses. These tend to get hotter in the summer because the ceiling is lower. There is a definite hierarchy involved: the smaller stalls cost less per month, but all have windows. For a little more, you can get into one of the larger stalls in the main part of the building. For a little more still, you can have a larger stall with a window. The prime stalls, the ones that cost the most, are right at the middle of the cross. They have windows on the outside walls, and face the wash racks and arena on the inside, providing plenty of entertainment for a captive horse.