High Hurdles Collection Two (89 page)

“I guess.”

“Do you feel better?”

DJ took inventory. “I … I guess so.” She did indeed, like maybe she could sit or stand straight instead of feeling as if the universe were pushing her down.

But her nose stung and her eyes burned.

She checked again. Yes, she did feel better. She sniffed and tossed the tissues in the wastebasket before reaching for more.

“Now, why don't you go wash your face in cool water and come back. You want some iced tea, too?”

“I guess.” DJ limped into the bathroom and stared at the balloon face in the mirror. What a mess. She pushed the lever to Cold and dropped a washcloth under the flow. Using both hands she lifted the soaking cloth and laid her face in it. Water ran down her arms and the front of her clothes. She squeezed the cloth out the best she could and draped it over the rod before drying her face on the towel.

Now if only she didn't have to face the tutor again. Maybe she could fly out the window or something.

Taking a deep breath and letting it out in a sigh, DJ returned to her bedroom.

Debra stood in front of the framed horse pictures, all DJ's own drawings and many of them the originals for the DJAM card line. She turned when she heard DJ returning.

“These are all yours?”

DJ nodded. “But it's not all that I've done. There are plenty more in there.” She indicated the cabinet of wide, shallow drawers—enough to be the envy of many art teachers.

“I never had a chance to look so close before to see your signature. You have quite a studio here.”

“I know. My dad and Gran designed this all just for me.”

“They love you a great deal.”

“I know. That's what makes my being such a brat so much worse.”

“DJ, you are fifteen years old, you've had a terrible accident, and for a while life just isn't going to be the way you thought or planned. From everything I hear, you are one dedicated and determined young woman. But anyone can get depressed when facing the kind of obstacles you are.” Debra shook her head. “I have a feeling that someday parts of this will become funny even. But right now, I know, not much seems funny to you. And the concentration thing? It's not unusual with head injuries. I know you don't want to hear me say that things could be so much worse, but really they could. Your mind will get its act back together, your hands will heal, and according to the doctor's report, they haven't even mentioned long-term disability. That's good, too.” Debra tucked her hair behind her ear. “Your hands will work right again, and your mind will work right again. Please be patient with yourself. And let's keep you out of depression if we can.”

DJ studied her gloved hands.
God, please make Debra right. I know I'm not doing good, but it is so hard
.

“D-do you like cards?” DJ had to clear her throat to get the words past the frog that tried to croak in her throat.

“I love cards. Why?”

“Because I'd like to give you a set. Pull out the third drawer.”

Debra did and found packets of DJ's and Amy's cards in perfect order, ready to be shipped out. The young woman took up a package that was a mixture of photos and drawings. She untied the gift bow and looked at each card, smiling, nodding, and shaking her head.

“These are wonderful. Who is Amy Yamamoto?”

“My best friend. She shoots photos, I draw.”
At least I
used
to
. DJ flexed her fingers and tried to clench them into a fist. “We needed to make some money, so …”

“Can I buy some?”

“I want to give you a packet.”

“I know, but can I buy more? These would make great presents.”

“I guess.”

“Good.” Debra chose another mixed pack and then one of each of the others. After looking from one pack to the other, she turned to look at DJ. “Have you ever thought of letting groups sell these for fund-raisers?”

DJ nodded.

“Good. Let me talk to my women's group. We're always looking for ways to make money, and if we can help a business owned by women, so much the better, especially very
young
women.” She put the packets in her bag, counted out her money, and laid it on DJ's desk. “Now, let's get back to work. Since I didn't realize you were having memory trouble when I made these assignments, I'll revise the list before I come again. For now, I recommend that you study at your desk, sitting in your chair, to help you concentrate. No music or TV going during study time, and work in short bursts rather than long stretches. Taking deep breaths, like ten in a row, will help get more oxygen to your brain and help you think better. Get up and move around frequently.” She leaned forward and touched DJ's arm. DJ looked into her teacher's eyes.

“And most important, you have to think
up
. Understand?”

DJ nodded.

“Good. Now, let's get to work on what we have.”

By the time Debra left, DJ felt that maybe schoolwork wasn't the worst thing on the planet. At least she didn't have to do algebra this year.

Debra had just driven out of the yard when the doorbell rang again. Since DJ was downstairs, she answered it. “Bridget! Come in.” She stepped back and motioned her coach, trainer, friend, employer—all of the above at various times in DJ's life—into the house.

“Hey, I like the new hairdo. Do you think short-short would look good on me?” Bridget gave DJ a hug and stepped back to look at her.

“A rumor has made it to my attention, and I decided I had better come investigate.”

DJ felt the flinch that started in her foot and worked itself to the tender tips of her fingers. “A rumor?” The frog had hopped back into her throat.

Bridget nodded, her blue eyes serious, although a slight crinkle at the outer edges told of her hours in the sun and an incipient smile.

“Come on out to the deck. Maria will bring us iced tea.”

“I see you are walking well again.”

“Umm … I guess.”
What rumor? What did—or didn't—I do now?

Chapter • 10

“Is it all right if I steal away your daughter?” Bridget had tracked Lindy down in the kitchen.

Lindy nodded. “I guess, if you promise to bring her back.”

“Eventually.” Bridget finished the last swallow of her iced tea and nodded to DJ. “Come along,
ma petite
. I have something to show you.”

Wish I dared to say no. All I want is a nap. Why am I so tired all the time?
“Okay.” You did not argue with Bridget. DJ had learned that long ago. And you didn't make excuses, either. That was a lesson she'd learned not so long ago.

“So how are you—really?” Bridget shifted gears and checked the traffic both ways while waiting for DJ to answer.

You mean after I just spent an hour screaming at my tutor, or do you mean in general?
DJ almost said “Fine,” but Bridget could pick up on a lie faster than DJ's mother could. By the time DJ had argued every side of the question, all without saying a word, a sigh escaped.

“Not good?”

“No, I mean yes.” Though DJ had conquered the fingernail-biting habit that had plagued her for years, right now she would have given anything to be able to chew her cuticles. That is, if she would ever have cuticles and fingernails again. She curled and flexed her fingers, using the movement both as a distraction and because she knew it would help—eventually.

“Let me guess. You are scared you will not be able to ride again.” Bridget glanced at DJ for confirmation.

DJ nodded.

“You are angry that your hands are not responding as fast as you think they should.”

Another nod.

“Anything else?”

“What if I can't even draw?” DJ's voice squeaked on the final word.

“Of course, that, too. Anything else?”

DJ took in a deep breath and told Bridget about the session with her tutor.

“Ah, ma petite, do you still not know that you do not have to do it all alone? Talking this out with older and wiser heads is the only way to keep your sanity. Everyone who experiences major traumas and setbacks feels this way. It is normal. But withdrawing is the most dangerous of responses. I was hoping to see you at the barns by now, dreaming of riding, at least being with the other kids and the horses.”

“It hurts too bad.” DJ spoke into her shirt front.

“Your hands?”

“No. Inside.”

“Ah.” Bridget parked her truck to face the outside jumping arena at Briones Riding Academy. A woman DJ didn't know was taking her horse through the training jumps. “Annie is new since you have been gone. I am sure you will like her.”

The horse in the arena ran out to the left on the first jump of the triple, and the woman cantered around to bring him straight back at the jump. He ran out again.

“What is she doing wrong?” Bridget asked DJ.

“She's distracted. She didn't bring him in straight.”

“What else?”

“She dropped him on the takeoff, and she needs to keep him between her hands and legs. Might be using too much leg on the off side.” How many times had she heard Bridget tell her those very same words?

“Now, how do you know that?”

“Repetition. You kept telling me.”

“Did you conquer the bad habits?”

“Hope so.”

“Did you get Herndon to keep from running out?”

“Most of the time. I have to remind myself to concentrate, to count, to do all the things right.”

“Beating this new obstacle will take the same dedication you have always shown. This is a bump in the road, DJ, not an insurmountable chasm.”

Some bump. It feels more like a mountain. Make that a range of mountains
.

“I want you here starting next week. Your students are champing at the bit for you to return. I will give you one more class to teach until you are back to riding. When is Brad bringing Herndon back down?”

DJ shrugged. “Don't know.”

“Do you want to stop in and see the kids?”

No, not the way I am
.

“You do not have to, not today. But they really miss you. We all do.”

“Can I go home now?”

“Yes. But Monday you will be here, correct?”

“I guess.” DJ glanced up to catch a look—was it sorrow, pity, disgust?—that Bridget quickly erased from her face. “Thank you for bringing me.”

“You are most welcome. I have three more little girls who want to learn to ride, and there is also a beginning jumping class. Which do you want?”

“By myself?”

“Why not?”

Why not? Why not? I can't saddle a horse or even brush one. … I can't—

Bridget stopped the truck in the turnaround in front of DJ's house. “I will see you. And, DJ, this, too, shall pass.”

“Thanks. That's what everyone keeps telling me.” DJ tried to open the door but couldn't get her fingers around the handle, so Bridget came around to open the door for her.
Right, “this will pass.”

DJ waved and watched Bridget drive off before limping up the walk. Her ankle ached with each step, so by the time she reached the door, all she could think of was lying down with her friend the ice pack. She stared at the door handle. No way was she going to ring the bell for help. She tried with one hand but couldn't cup it around the knob enough to turn it. She tried the other hand. No better.

Some names for the doorknob strutted through DJ's head. None of them were names her mother would approve of. She gritted her teeth.
So ring the bell, gimp, and get help. They tell you to ask for help
.

Instead, DJ cupped both hands around the handle and, squeezing them as tightly as she could, slowly twisted the knob until the door swung open.
Yes! At least I did something!
No sounds in the house. Her mother must be taking a nap, and Maria … who knew what Maria would be doing.

DJ limped up the stairs to her room, one foot up a step at a time, and finally collapsed on her bed. She propped her foot up on the pillows and closed her eyes. No way could she take the pain pills by herself, and no way could she get the ice packs. Too bad. Sleep was one thing she could do on her own, by herself.