Golden Filly Collection One (61 page)

Trish sighed. She shook her head and left the room. What were they going to do?

In bed that night, Trish thought back over the day. Even her mother’s not talking to her didn’t dampen the thrill she felt. She’d gone to the Source for help and He’d answered. She could race again.

He always answers,
her little voice whispered.
You just don’t like it when He says no or to wait.

Trish thought about that. She turned over and snuggled the covers tight around her shoulders. So, how did you know when He said to wait? What about her mom? Had she been praying about her worrying? Would it help if Trish quit racing? Life sure could be confusing. Her prayers that night were half thank-yous and half what-do-I-do-nows. She fell asleep with a smile on her lips.

Thursday morning on the home track, Trish rode Spitfire for the first time since Santa Anita. His leg had been cool for two days. The blue-black colt crowhopped twice between the stable and the track. He tossed his head and danced sideways, tugging at the bit.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Trish kept a tight rein. “You’re not gonna go and mess up that knee again. We’ll take this morning slow and easy. Just listen to the birds sing. See, the sun’s even out for you.” She took a deep breath and let it out. What a four-star, incredible morning. Green, growing spring smelled like nothing else in the world.

By the second circuit of the three-quarter-mile track, Spitfire walked flat-footed with only an occasional high-step to let off some pent-up energy. Trish settled into the saddle and leaned forward to stroke his neck.

“You leave for the Derby in less than a week—I hope,” she told the twitching black ears. “So you gotta get back in shape.” Spitfire nodded. Trish laughed, her joy winging away with the robin that flew from the fence after serenading them.

Thursday evening they had a family meeting—without Marge.

“I’ll be honest with you kids,” Hal said sadly. “I don’t know what to do. The one thing I do know is that I can’t go off and leave your mother while she’s in this condition.”

Trish stared at her hands gripped together on the table in front of her. “You mean no Derby.” Once the words were out she clenched her teeth.
It just isn’t fair.
They’d worked so hard. Here her dad was better, Spitfire’s leg was cool again, and now this.

Hal reached over and covered her hands with one of his. “I know how you feel, Tee. Please try not to be angry with your mother. She can’t help what’s going on either.”

She doesn’t seem to be trying too hard,
Trish wanted to say but bit back the words.

“I’ll be here to take care of her—of things—if you think you could go, that is,” David said.

Trish looked from David to her father. Both of them looked worn down, tired.

“Thanks, David, but it wouldn’t work. I couldn’t concentrate on the horse when all I can think about is your mother. And, Trish, if some miracle happens and we do go, I’ve decided to not even consider taking Firefly. We just can’t handle the extra strain right now.”

Trish slumped on the edge of her bed a while later. Just yesterday she’d felt as if God were really there, and now He seemed to have slipped off again. She stared at the verses on the wall. Was this a no or a wait? She sighed. She’d settle for a wait until it was too late to go. And a wait meant keep praying. So she did. Even when she woke up in the middle of the night, and the first thing when she got up in the morning, and in disjointed moments after working Spitfire.
“Raise you up on eagle’s wings,”
floated through her mind while she brushed her teeth.

“Your mom any better?” Rhonda asked when they met at their lockers before lunch.

Trish shook her head. “But something’s gotta give.” She told Rhonda and Brad about the meeting the night before.

“You really mad?” Rhonda asked.

“I guess. Sometimes. And other times I try not to think about it. But we keep praying.” She plunked her tray down on the table. “I just know God’s gonna work this out—somehow.”

“You going to the track?” Brad asked around a mouthful of sandwich.

“Yeah, I have two mounts. David wants you to come help him get Final Command loaded and over to the track. He runs in the fifth tomorrow.”

“Sure. When’re you working at your place?”

“We’re not. After Saturday everyone is out to pasture except Spitfire. Dad says we’ll think about summer racing after the Triple Crown is over. All the horses will be better off with a good rest.”

When Trish got home, the pastor’s car was in the drive again. He and her father were sitting in the living room talking when she stepped through the door.

“Come here for a minute, Tee.” Her father motioned her over.

“Hello, Trish.” Pastor Mort smiled at her.

“Hi.” She looked back at her father. “What’s up?”

“I—we—” Hal nodded at the serious-faced man on the sofa. “We’ve talked with the doctor and decided on a pretty serious course of action. There were two choices—either put your mother in the hospital or…”

“The hospital? Is she worse?”

“No.” Hal rubbed his forehead. “Your mother has chosen the second plan. Tomorrow morning, with God and Pastor Mort’s help, we’ll all go to the track and talk about what happened the day of the accident.”

Trish sank down on the hearth. “All of us?” Her voice squeaked on the last word.
The nightmares have finally quit. Will they start up again?

Hal nodded. “I think it’ll help you too.”

Trish shrugged. “Okay.” She wet her lips. She could hear the fish tank bubbling away in the dining room. She stared at her hands clasped between her knees. “Um-m-m, I’ve gotta get to the track. I’ve got two mounts.” She rose to her feet as though she were pushing up barbells in the weight room. Her gaze flicked from one man to the other. “You’re sure this is the best way?”

They both nodded.

Trish fled to her bedroom.

Chapter

06

T
rish battled monsters all night.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” she answered David’s knock groggily. She could hear her brother go on down the hall. Instead of getting up, she flopped over on her back. Today they were
all
going to the track. Right after breakfast. The thought of food made her stomach turn over. What was going to happen to her mom? To all of them?

Trotting Spitfire around the track blew the cobwebs away from Trish’s mind. The morning air was brisk but without the bite of winter. Spitfire tugged at the bit and every few yards danced sideways, tossing his head and snorting.

Trish laughed. “You big goof. You know I’ll let you run again when you’re ready. Right now, Dad says jog, so jog it is.”

Spitfire shied at something only he could see.

“Knock it off.” Trish automatically clamped her knees and flowed right with him. “You didn’t see anything; you made it up.” Spitfire snorted again. He wasn’t even warm when they trotted back to the stable.

“You two looked like you were having fun,” David said with a grin.

“You should have saddled Dan’l and come too.”

“Naw. Need to get all this done so we can leave.” He waved at the pile of straw outside Spitfire’s and the gray’s stalls.

His comment brought Trish back to reality with a thump. “Yeah.”

“Look on the good side. This could be the thing that snaps Mom out of this.” David stopped stripping the tack off Spitfire and stared at her.

“I know.” Trish drew a circle in the dirt with her boot toe. Spitfire blew in her ear and nudged her shoulder. She reached up to scratch his ears and rubbed her cheek against the silky skin of the colt’s cheek.

“Well?”

“Well, it’s scary.”

“For you or Mom?”

Trish sorted through her confused thoughts. “Probably both. I just don’t want the nightmares to keep on forever.”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m your big brother. I’m paid to know these things.” David handed her the saddle and bridle. “Don’t worry, Tee. It’ll be all right.”

I wish people would quit telling me not to worry,
Trish thought as she hung up the gear.
I’m not a worrier.

Oh no?
She was sure she heard her little nagger chuckle.

Her mother was up and dressed, huddled in the recliner with her eyes closed, when Trish walked back into the house after pulling her boots off at the bootjack on the deck.

“Hi, Mom.” Trish started to go to her mother, then thought better of it.

Marge nodded and blinked her eyes open as if weights had held her eyelids closed.

Trish noted the hollows in her mother’s pale cheeks, the stringy hair. She changed directions and knelt by the chair. “You want me to help you wash your hair before we go? You know how much better that always makes us feel.”
Come on, please. Let me help you like you always helped me.
She bit her tongue to keep the words from escaping.

The seconds seemed to stretch to hours.

Marge nodded. “If you want to.”

“I’ll get the towels and shampoo.” Trish felt like tap dancing on the ceiling.

With her supplies in place, she walked back into the living room and picked up her mother’s limp hand. “Come on.” She tugged gently. “You’ll feel much better.” Trish felt like the parent as she led her mother by the hand into the kitchen. She adjusted the water temperature and drew the spray nozzle out.

“Lean over.” Trish patted her mother’s shoulder.

Marge followed Trish’s orders as though she didn’t have the energy to resist. “Umm-m-m,” she said as Trish massaged her scalp with her strong fingers. “Feels good.”

Trish felt like she’d just won the Derby. She rinsed and shampooed again. It seemed so strange to be on the giving end rather than the receiving. But it felt good.

“How about if I blow-dry it for you?” Trish asked as she toweled her mother’s hair.

Marge reached up and wrapped the towel around her head. She smiled at her daughter for the first time in what seemed like months. “Okay.”

Trish wielded dryer and brush like an expert. Her years of horse grooming were suddenly giving way to a new profession.

Marge closed her eyes. A deep sigh, as if from her toes, seemed to fill the bathroom and drown out the angry-bee hum of the dryer.

“You okay?” Trish stepped back to view her handiwork. She could see strands of gray that she was sure hadn’t been there three weeks ago. The dark waves of her mother’s hair feathered back on the sides and waved to the right on top. “You look nice.” Trish held her hand over her mother’s eyes and sprayed. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever done your hair.”

“Probably.” Marge sighed. “Thank you, Tee.”

The ride to the track was a silent affair. Each of the family seemed lost in their own thoughts. Trish stared out the window. Her mother’s eyes were closed again. She hadn’t said anything since the bathroom. Her father kept darting glances at Marge, as if afraid she might back out. David chewed on a knuckle.

Trish tried to picture the verses on her wall. They were so fuzzy she couldn’t read them. Good thing she knew them by heart by now. She repeated “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” under her breath—over and over.

The sun had gone behind the clouds by the time they parked outside the chain-link fence at Portland Meadows Racetrack. Golfers were still playing the nine-hole course on the infield. Morning works were over, so the tractor and drag were grooming the track. Pastor Mort’s white car was parked next to a pickup where a golf cart trundled up into the bed.

Trish felt like crawling under the seat and hiding as her father got out of the car and walked around to help Marge out. David followed his father, and between them Marge appeared smaller, as if she’d shrunk in the last week. The three of them walked toward the fence. Trish shoved open her door and stepped out. She felt anchored to the asphalt.

Pastor Mort turned, as if sensing her fear. He came over and took her arm. “Come on, Trish. It will be okay, I promise you.”

Trish gritted her teeth. She
would not
cry. Together they followed the others around the outside of the track.

When they reached the spot just beyond the first turn and stopped, Pastor Mort looked at each of them. “I’d like to start with prayer.” At their nods, he began, “Heavenly Father, you know how hurting we are. You made us and we are yours. Our minds and our feelings are gifts from you and today we ask…”

Trish’s mind tried to check out, but she clamped her jaw tight and forced it back to the present.

“…that you bring healing to this family, to Hal and Marge, to David, to Trish. You know what they need and we thank you for your healing mercy. Amen.”

Trish swallowed hard. “Amen.”

“Tee, why don’t you come over here by me,” her father said as he reached out his arm to her.

Trish nodded. His arm felt good around her, made her think she wouldn’t fly apart after all.

After a moment of silence, Pastor Mort continued. “Now, Marge, I’m asking you to go back to that day, that afternoon at the track. Close your eyes and picture the track.” He paused. “See the parade to the post.” More silence. “See the horses enter the starting gates. Can you see it?”