Pages 26-37. Through July 4.

. To: katie@dundee.net
From: sarah@sarahspage.com
Date: 6-27
Subject: Right Again

K-meister,

Thanks for the pep talk. You’re probably right. Mom probably IS worried that, with the horse and all, I will like it too much and want to stay. Whew! I feel better.

More later.

S


. To: katie@dundee.net
From: sarah@sarahspage.com
Date: 6-28
Subject: Sarah’s Equine Misadventures Part MCXVV (Is that a real number? You’re the one who took Latin.)

Kate-ster,

I had SUCH a horrible day! After I e-mailed you this morning, I went out to see Traverse. He had his back to me in his stall. And when I said, "Hey T," he turned to me and LIMPED over to the door. It was probably only two steps, but I could tell he was limping REALLY BAD.

It was like my heart stopped beating. He looked at me with his big round eyes like, "It HURTS." So I quickly got his halter on, tied him up and unwrapped his leg. It was puffed up like
a balloon.

I didn’t know what to do. I thought, "What have I DONE to this poor horse?" I bandaged him up again, gave him some bute and ran to the house to talk to Amy. Even Ellie had her tail between her legs.

Amy immediately picked up the phone to call Dave. I tried to stop her. I told her he would be mad that I had hurt the horse, and we weren’t supposed to be dragging him over here.

"Sarah," she said, "What are you thinking? You just want to bury this and pretend that the horse isn’t hurt because Dave will be mad?"

"I mean, I..."

"Sometimes you can be just like Mom," she said, and dialed the phone. I don’t know what she meant by that.

In ten minutes, Dave was there with Matt. Matt unwrapped the leg, saw the swelling and looked up at Dave with this LOOK. Dave turned to me.

"You haven’t kept him in his stall, have you?"

"I..."

"How far did you take him?"

"Just down the aisle a couple of days. He was so bored and he didn’t want to go back to his stall. He was being so good and coming along. Everything seemed fine..."

Then I did something I almost never do. I started to cry right there in front of people. And — except for Amy — people I hardly even KNOW. I just couldn’t help it. I had let them all down. Especially Traverse, who had been through so much, with his big sad eyes, looking at me like, "I know you tried your best, kid. You just weren’t up to it." I just wanted to help him sooo much. But it was all turning out like the cats again. I was trying to do the right thing, and I just ended up hurting him. And there he was with his leg and the neat rows of stitches that had been coming along so well — swelled up like a balloon. Just ruined.

Amy must have said something, because Dave came over to me, curled up bawling on the hay-bale-couch. He put his arm around me.

"Sar, I want to tell you something. Sometimes you can be too nice. Horses don’t live in a world where a new sweater can make things better. They can’t use crutches or wheelchairs. For them, life is a lot harder. If they can’t walk, they’ll die. We can’t spoil them because we feel sorry for them. They depend on us doing what’s best and what’s right — not what feels good. It’s better for them if we face reality. Does that make sense?"

I nodded yes. I was still doing that half-hiccuping thing you do when you’ve been crying too much.

"You can’t just look at the surface of his wound. Matt will tell you. His skin is healed nicely, but underneath all the muscles and tendons need time. Get it?"

"Yeah," I had my voice again.

"What did I say?"

"Face reality. Don’t be nice. Look past the surface."

"Right," says Dave.

"Sounds like a good recipe for life," says Matt from where he was applying a cold pack to Traverse’s leg.

"She doesn’t need a recipe for life right now," Dave answered. "She needs to get this horse healed."

"Hmmph," says Matt — kinda like the way Amy does when Jeff corrects her.

Matt gestured for me to come over to where he was working on Traverse’s leg. "Put your hand here," he said.

He placed my hand gently but firmly along the long bone of Traverse’s leg. He called it the pastern bone. "What does it feel like?"

"It feels tight, and big."

"Anything else?"

"It’s a little warm, but not too much."

"What else?"

I looked at him. I didn’t say it, but I thought, "What else could there be?" What I did say was, "What am I looking for?"

Matt said, "That’s one of the biggest mistakes people make — to wonder what they’re SUPPOSED to be looking for instead of just SEEING. Trust yourself. You know horses — more than you think. What occurs to you? What’s the same as it always is? What’s different? Ask yourself: ‘What am I thinking?’"

It’s a really weird experience to have to think, "What am I thinking right now?" But I was still for a second, and it occurred to me.

"My touch doesn’t seem to hurt him."

"Good. What does that make you want to do."

"I want to press a little bit and see if a little more pressure hurts him."

"Have at it."

So I pressed around — pretty gently. Traverse just looked at me. He didn’t jump or flinch.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay," said Dave, crouching down with Matt and me. "What’s your diagnosis, Dr. Sarah?"

"Diagnosis? How am I supposed to know?"

"You just asked all the right questions. You felt the leg. From the looks of things, you’ve turned this barn in to a dorm room and have been living with this horse. You know him as well as anyone. Ask yourself: what do YOU think?"

Okay, coming up with what I thought this time was much easier than before. When he asked before, it was like prying open an old rusted box that had been at the bottom of the sea for 10 years.

"Well, I don’t think anything is hurt or rebroken."

"Why not?" asked Dave.

"Because he doesn’t hurt in any specific area when I touch him. Like if I broke my finger and you touched it, I’d go OUCH."

"So what is going on?" asked Matt.

"Well, it seems like walking down the aisle was too much for him and it’s like his leg is filled up with fluid."

"Infection?" asked Dave.

"No," I said.

"Why not?" from Matt.

"His leg’s not really hot."

"Good," said Matt. "What’s your recommendation, Dr. S?"

"I think he needs to stay as still as possible and he should be okay." I thought for a minute. "Can you give him something to make sure if I’m wrong about the infection thing that he won’t GET an infection?"

"I already gave him a shot of penicillin," said Matt. "Well," he turned to Traverse, "you are obviously in capable hands."

"Good job," Dave patted me on the back.

I guess, after all, things didn’t end too badly. I’ve been thinking all night about Matt and the what-am-I-thinking thing. Gosh, it seems like such a simple question, but it’s really hard. Do you know, about 90% of the time, I have know idea what I’m thinking?

On the other hand, I always have a crystal clear idea of what Ellie is thinking. Right now, it goes like this: "Get your butt in bed or the stuffed bear gets it."

Nite,

S


. To: katie@dundee.net
From: sarah@sarahspage.com
Date: 6-29
Subject: Whose Reality Is It, Anyway?

Hi K,

You know, there are some things I really miss about home. The busy-ness of the city just gives you energy. Someone is always doing SOMETHING. And you feel like you’re IN it just cause you’re there. Out here I have just too darn much time to think. It’s not that I don’t like the country, but, as I remarked before, I used the think of the "country" as Westchester County. Lemme tell you. There’s country, then there’s COUNTRY.

You know when you go out driving — say around Connecticut or Long Island — there are so many trees. And then I swear there’s not 200 feet of straight road in the entire Northeast. There’s just much more of a sense of — well — closeness. Houses are really close to each other. And towns and villages are really close to each other. You know what Jeff told me: When the east was settled — in the 1600s or something like that — they ended up being just about what you could ride in a day. Isn’t that neat? Guess Jeff’s a lot smarter than he looks. >:-}

Out here it’s not TOTALLY flat, there are some hills, and like I said there are a lot of lakes, but everything is so spread out. And it seems like there are no trees. Of course there ARE trees, but so much of the land out here is in farmland that the trees just border the fields. They call them "hedgerows." They’re kind of neat, too. I like to wander the hedgerows with Ellie. They’re all wooded and brambly. Ellie loves it. She’s really fast and if she scares up a rabbit, it’s goodbye bunny. (Sorry. The blood-lust thing again.) Thing I like about the hedgerows is that they have that closed-in protected feeling. With so much farmland and Michigan being so much flatter than the East, you can feel pretty exposed.

Speaking of exposed, I feel like Matt and Dave unearthed this part of me I would rather had stayed hidden. I keep asking myself, "What do I think?" And "Face reality. Don’t be nice. Look beyond the surface."

Well, here’s one thing I think: MOST PEOPLE don’t live like you and me and the kids we know in New York. And what’s more, they DON’T WANT TO. I feel like a big doofus, but all of a sudden I’m realizing: there are lots of people who don’t HAVE New York apartments or houses in Southampton and, get this, WOULDN’T WANT TO LIVE THERE ANYWAY. They’d probably think, "Wow. Big, crowded place. Lotta snobs. How lame." On the other hand, around here they probably have their own Southamptons. Only it’s someplace you and I would probably think was really lame. AMAZING that people can see the world from such totally different points of view.

So the "What do I think?" stuff has actually brought up some interesting things. The problem is the other part. The "Don’t be nice. Face reality. Look beyond the surface."

You know how I’ve been wondering what’s going on with my parents all these weeks. Like, why are they acting so weird? And you and I keep blowing it off and coming up with explanations. Well, here goes facing reality: something IS wrong. And here’s the real kicker: Amy, the one Mom has never been able to get along with, my politically-correct, tree-hugging, liberal, herbal-tea-drinking, bean-sprout-eating, macramé-purse-carrying, tie-dye and sandal-wearing sister is IN ON THE SECRET. Mom has been confiding in her.

There. I said it, and the minute I said it I knew it was more true than ever. The only question is, what do I do now?

Profoundly,

S


. To: katie@dundee.net
From: sarah@sarahspage.com
Date: 6-30
Subject: Lack of Communication & Old Books

Kate-o-mation—

You know, I’ve decided that I’m AWFULLY GOOD at repression. Now that I’ve decided something really IS wrong at home I DON’T WANT TO KNOW. Weird, huh? I think being a kid is too weird in general, but this kind of freaks me out. Most of the time when you’re a kid, it seems, you go around like tell-me-tell-me-tell-me. And the adults won’t tell you ANYTHING. When you’re really little, they spell things out in front of you. Like, "Don’t talk about the P-A-R-K or S-A-R-A-H will want to go." Then, when you learn how to spell, they think they’re TOAST. My parents even sunk to the level of speaking pidgin French for a while. Both of them had been sent for summers in Europe to get cultured. When I got into Middle School, one of my teachers asked where I had picked up such terrible French. (I guess neither Mom nor Dad actually GOT cultured in Europe.)

So when they’ve used up all their secret codes, parents just STOP talking around you. And you go around a lot of the time with this sinking feeling like there’s stuff going on but you will never know about it. I guess it’s worse when they’re arguing, or something has REALLY gone wrong. Then you KNOW something is up, but no one will tell you. So with all the parental repression and not talking about things, I’ve picked up a really bad habit.

I know I have to ask Amy what’s going on, but I just can’t stand the thought of it.

I wish Traverse were well so I could start to train him. It’s nice, though, going out and brushing him and cleaning his feet and pulling his mane and stuff like that. I’ve put all that stuff on the Web site, like what brushes I use and how I trim his whiskers and stuff. Gotta tell you, he is the most spiffy looking, spit-and-polish sack of bones you ever saw.

I’ve been trying to think up some new ways to waste time. Amy tried to get me to join the local 4-H so that I could meet some local kids and hang out. I’m not into it. I’m going to be gone in a couple of months anyway. Why do I want to make new friends HERE? Still, I do end up with a lot of time on my hands. I can’t walk anywhere, except to the next field. Occasionally Amy and I drive into town (such as it is), but unless I develop a sudden urge to expand my wardrobe with overalls, the shopping is pretty limited.

I did do some rooting around in the attic. There was a pretty old trunk up there. It had some Laura Ashley-looking wallpaper lining the inside. The paper is really old, so it was probably there before Laura Ashley was invented, but it’s the same pretty pattern. It has a lot of old stuff in it like a box of lace handkerchiefs, some old jewelry, and a bunch of old books. I asked Jeff about it. He said it was his great aunt’s trunk and that I can do anything I want with the stuff as long as I treat it nice and put it back.

So I hauled out all the books and took them down to my tack room. They’re beautiful — leather bound with illustrated plates and tissue paper covering the illustrations and gold on the edges of the pages. And guess what books they are! All the "girl books" we read like years ago. There’s Little Women, Heidi, The Secret Garden, A Little Princess, Anne of Green Gables, and The Little House on the Prairie. Remember, we read all those things — like when we were 8 or 10.

I know you’re going to think it’s really babyish of me, but I’ve started in on reading them all again. It’s kinda cool knowing that this REALLY OLD WOMAN — I mean, so old she’s like DEAD — read these books just like we did years ago. Doesn’t that FREAK YOU OUT?

In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve put little plot summaries up on the Web. Here’s a pop quiz: match the character with the book: