Fear of Falling (6 page)

Would I!
“Really?” I exclaim. “That'd be great, Dad! You're the best rider I've ever seen!”

He smiles the biggest smile I've seen since he got here, one that goes all the way up to his eyes. “You're on!” he says. “What do you say we start tomorrow—meet at the stables after school?”

“You bet!” I tell him. It's an offer I can't refuse.

W
hen we get home that night, Dad pulls up to the curb but keeps the motor running.

“Aren't you coming in?” I ask.

“Sorry, David, I've got some important calls to make.”

“But what about Ashley? She's dying to see you!”

“I'm going to see her tomorrow, I promise,” he insists.

Yeah, right.
I climb out of the truck.

“It'll be a surprise for her!” he adds lamely. “And tell your mom I'll call her.”

As I walk in the door, Mom looks up expectantly, but when she sees I'm alone, her face quickly goes blank. I deliver Dad's message, and she nods. Then she puts me to work polishing the silver for the big Thanksgiving dinner she's planned.

She's invited Dr. Mac, Maggie, and Zoe to join us, plus a few people from her office. So we're all working like crazy to get everything ready. Despite all the work, I can tell she enjoys the hustle-bustle of holiday preparations.

Right now she's making her special cranberry relish while Ashley works at the table beside her, coloring name cards for our guests. Brian is bringing in firewood to have ready for Thursday. Even I start to feel cheerful and excited about the holiday, in spite of my worries over Dad being here.

Brian dumps his load of wood by the fireplace in the family room, then turns to Mom. “Do you need any more stuff from the store? I can swing by on my way home from work tomorrow.”

Mom beams at his thoughtfulness but shakes her head no. “I've got everything I need,” she says with satisfaction. And as she looks around the kitchen at me and my brother and sister, I think maybe she's not just talking about ingredients for the meal.

Wiping her hands on her apron, Mom leans over and kisses Ashley on the top of her head. Everything feels peaceful and contented, kind of like in one of those holiday commercials for stuffing.

I just hope nobody changes the channel.

When I get to the barn after school the next day, Dad's waiting for me. He grins at me, and I smile back. It's starting to feel like it used to. Not nervous, the way you feel around company. As if we're remembering how to be together.

At first it feels just like the old days, when Dad used to give me lessons. He seems really happy to be here with me, and it feels wonderful to have all his attention like this.

He watches as I trot around the practice ring on Comet.

“Tighten up your reins a little, David. That's right—let the horse know you're in charge.”

I adjust my reins for more control, then press Comet into a nice, steady canter. I'm trying hard to please Dad. At least my seat feels balanced for once, like I'm moving
with
Comet, not just
on
her.

“Looking good out there!” Dad calls. “Keep that up, and you'll be in the 2012 Olympics!”

My heart swells in my chest, and I feel almost as if I could fly.
I'm so glad Dad's back!
I tell myself to quit worrying so much about him. Everything's going to work out fine.

“It's time for Air David to take flight,” Dad announces with a grin. But instead of setting up the practice jump, he walks to the far end of the ring and opens the gate to the big outdoor jumping arena. “You might as well start learning on a real jumping course.”

I'm not sure I'm ready for this, but I take a deep breath and follow him into the arena.

Dad must have caught my look of doubt. “Lesson number one: act confident, even if you're not, to psych out the competition,” he tells me with a wink. “Don't worry, Comet's jumped this course before. She'll show you how it's done.”

Despite Dad's encouragement, I can't help feeling nervous about the jumps. My lesson yesterday was a total disaster, and I don't want to repeat that in front of Dad. But I'm his son, I remind myself. I must have
some
of his talent.

Dad sets the jumps low, and Comet takes them with no trouble at all. It's actually kind of fun going over one jump after the other, getting into a rhythm. When we finish the course, I'm feeling good, but tense. The sweat from my palms has soaked through my riding gloves.
You can do it, David,
I tell myself.
Make Dad proud of you.

“Hey, kiddo, you're making this look too easy!” Dad says with a smile, raising the crossbars higher. He's setting them nearly three feet off the ground, higher than I've ever jumped before.

He's testing me. Challenging me. Comet watches Dad with interest, her ears perked forward.

I want to take that challenge, but something holds me back.

“I—I'm not sure we should try those yet,” I say.

Dad stands with his hands on his hips, feet apart. “Are you afraid of the height?”

“No!” I swallow. “But Comet needs to build up to that height,” I try.

Dad's eyes bore into mine. “Trust me, son. That horse
wants
to go over these jumps. Look at her—she's champing at the bit! These jumps aren't that high, to a horse. But of course you can't do it if you tell yourself you can't. Come on, give it your best shot.”

What am I supposed to do—say no?

I take a deep breath, press my heels to Comet's sides, and point her toward the first jump. My nightmare flashes across my mind, and I fight to send it packing. Can't think about that now.

Comet speeds into a canter, but her strides are short and jerky. My heart sinks—she can tell I'm nervous.

When we reach the first jump, her stride is totally off, and she swerves around the jump instead of leaping over.

“Whoa!” Dad hollers out.

I pull Comet up and glance at Dad. He's got the look of someone who's good at something and impatient with those who aren't.

“Sorry, Dad. Comet just wouldn't go over,” I try to explain, cringing at the whine in my voice. Dad hates excuses.

He shakes his head. “Comet's not the problem, David. Never blame your horse.” He sighs. “This is where Quinn would simply lower the bar, and your mother would probably tell you to quit and go home.” He looks me straight in the eye. “But I know
you're
not a quitter.”

I try not to flinch under that commanding blue gaze. I want to say, “Come on, Dad. Let's go play mini golf or watch a football game—anything but jump!”

But I can't. Not with that look on his face. He wants to believe in me—to believe that his son is a champion in the making. I can't let him down.

“Right,” I say loudly, trying to force some confidence into my voice. I adjust my helmet, wipe my gloves on my pants, and turn Comet back around for another try.

We halt for a moment while I stare at the jump. Dad once told me that Olympic athletes use mental imagery to help them nail a performance. A gymnast might visualize a little movie in his head of himself running, leaping, hitting the vault, twisting high in the air, then sticking the landing. That's what they're doing when you see them on television just standing there, staring at the vault before they start to run.

So I picture myself and Comet cantering in perfect rhythm, flying over the fences together, landing smoothly like pro jumpers…Dad beaming proudly as I ride up to the winner's circle.
That's my boy!
I imagine him saying.

OK. I'm ready.

With a new burst of determination, I approach the first jump again, focusing on my vision of success.
Go, go, go!

Against my will, my pathetic jumps from yesterday suddenly fill my mind, and my confidence seeps away with each hoofbeat as we draw closer to the jump. I feel as if I'm on a runaway train, heading for disaster—and I don't know how to stop.

Comet senses my fear—I can feel the change in her gait. Right before the jump, she ignores my feeble kick, plants her hindquarters, skids to a halt, and sends me flying through the air like a catapult.

And then I fall, fall, fall…just the way I do in my nightmare.

Only this time I know it's for real.

I hit the ground—
oof!
—and lie there, wondering why I can't seem to breathe.

W
hen I wake up, I'm not sure where I am.

In bed, having one of those dreams?

My shoulder hurts, and I groan.

A high-pitched whinny splits the air. Trickster? The fog in my head slowly clears. No—it's Comet.

The jump…we fell…Comet must be hurt!

I struggle to sit up, but strong arms hold me down. I taste blood in my mouth. A gentle hand brushes the dirt from my face.

I squint, trying to see. Faces come slowly into focus. My father is on one side of me, Mr. Quinn on the other. Both of them look strangely pale. Their voices are calm and soft. “Don't move,” they tell me. “Lie still.”

I clutch at Dad's sleeve. “Comet—is she OK?”

Dad's face nearly crumples. “She's fine, son. I promise. I'm sure you are, too.”

A siren shrieks. Lights flash as an ambulance arrives. My eyes drift closed. Man, my head hurts.

When I wake up, I'm in a hospital. Darn! I always wanted to ride in an ambulance, and here I went and slept through the whole thing.

They wheel me into the emergency room. I've never been in a hospital before, except to see Mom when Ashley was born. All the nurses and doctors seem to be rushing, but calmly, like they've seen it all before and know what to do. It reminds me of being at Dr. Mac's Place, the way Dr. Mac moves so quickly when she's got an animal in trouble…I remember all those sick puppies, we had to work so fast…

My eyes drift shut.

When I open them again, the nurses and technicians hover around me, setting me up for X-rays. It hurts like crazy when they move me into different positions. I mumble something about Dr. Mac's portable X-ray machine being a lot easier on the patient, and they look at me like I've gone off the deep end.

Then they wheel me into a little room, where I wait awhile. Finally a young doctor comes in. “Good news, bud,” he tells me. “Nothing's broken. You're just a little banged up.”

“That's good,” I whisper.

“Yes,” he says, “you were lucky.” He pats me lightly on the arm. “Be prepared for some major bruises, though. You'll be pretty sore for a few days.”

The doc helps me up off the table—
umph!
—and leads me out to the waiting room. My parents are sitting there with strained faces, not talking or looking at each other. Several Styrofoam coffee cups litter the small table between them. I wonder how long I've been here.

Dad looks up and spots me. “David!”

Mom jumps to her feet and rushes toward me, her eyes brimming with tears. Dad is right behind her. They throw their arms around me.

“Ouch!” I yell before I can stop myself.

“Oh dear, did I hurt you, sweetheart?” Mom asks, stepping back.

“No, no—I'm fine.” I try to smile. “Just kind of bruised all over.”

It's the truth, but not the whole truth. Seeing them together like this, I realize how much more I'm hurting on the inside than on the outside.

Dad turns to the doctor. “How is he?”

“He's all right, considering. Pretty banged up, but nothing broken. I'll give him a prescription for painkillers if you want. But I think ibuprofen should take care of it.”