I’m feeling full of myself.
Putting my own narcissism on display—because we’re all capable of it, just some more than others.
The thing is: I don’t know I’m doing it.
That’s …
Not bueno.
~
It’s been two days since Justin Fellowes squeezed his so-called healing hands around my throat.
And today I’m with Jonah Brown, my red-haired, consternation-browed, nine-year-old patient who might just grow up to be a narcissist himself, with possible hostile, even violent tendencies, because unfortunately, as the statistics show, the abandoned children in our world—or for that matter, most over-pressured, under-parented children—grow up feeling extremely insecure. Subsequently, they also grow up having an inner void to fill.
It can happen like this …
First, it’s the insecurity of having no safe place to go inside oneself. Second, it’s having no safe family; then, no safe society; and finally, adding the environment, no safe air, food, or water, which can lead them, as adults, to form a nearly insatiable need to feed that insecurity with “things.” Usually toxic things, polluting things, killing things.
Yep.
Sad but true.
Jonah could grow up to be just like Justin Fellowes: cultivating an all-powerful reflection in the mirror that’s the dying ocean.
Penelope is right.
There’s barely enough oxygen in the water off the coast of southern California—or the rest of the United States coastline, not to mention countries like Nigeria—to feed a single krill.
I’m standing in The Falling MP Stables, leaning against a wall, watching Jonah as he leads Sam from his stall and over to the crossties. He clips both sides of Sam’s harness, finds my grooming bucket on the side of the wide aisle, then reaches in for the hoof pick and gently begins cleaning Sam’s hooves.
I’ve been reading about Justin in the news—the story has been online, in the newspapers, and on TV, including KLAT. His history doesn’t sound unique: His father’s a retired engineer; his mother’s a teacher; there’s one younger sibling, a girl; and the family still has a nice, comfortable home in a middle-class neighborhood.
Other than that info, what’s been reported is that Majorca Point’s Lieutenant Brady was forced to shoot Justin Fellowes in self-defense, and that Fellowes was pronounced dead on the scene by Detective Suzy Whitney. There’s hardly been a mention of Joseph the butler’s role in all this, nor has much been said about Penelope De Vos, only that she was at the Fellowes mansion in Pacific Palisades and suffered a minor injury that is being treated at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles. I’m hardly mentioned either, and there’s been no specification as to exactly what Justin Fellowes was doing when he was shot.
It seems that someone’s keeping a lid on the media.
So, is it Detective Whitney or the De Vos family? I can’t help but wonder which one’s got the power in this instance.
I’m waiting for Hugo to fill me in on these details, and—perhaps because he knows too much—his assistant, Phaedra, called me yesterday morning to let me know he has been sent on assignment to Ecuador to cover a possible coup. Apparently, all communications are down, even the satellites that relay phone calls from the South American country.
Hmmm.
I’ve tried to call him—and it rings and rings—but I’ve gotten no computerized voice telling me of a system overload or breakdown or whatever a damaged satellite might constitute. Again, I wonder if the mighty hand of the De Vos family may be in this mix, and I’m becoming worried about Hugo.
Jonah looks up at me, his gray eyes confused, and I wonder just how long I’ve been immersed in my own world.
I make my way over to him, limping in Shelley’s two-sizes-too-big sneakers. My bare feet were scorched, cut by rocks, and are still aching. Shelley and Dove each helped me to wash and put on antibiotic cream and bandages. I can’t even get my boots on yet, and I have to step from one bandaged foot to the other. The right foot is the worst.
Now I focus my attention on Jonah, hoping I haven’t been unconsciously using him to hold up my own mirror while I congratulate myself about aiding in the solution to Abigail Pryce’s murder.
“Is everything okay, Jonah?” I ask. “You’re doing a wonderful job cleaning Sam’s hooves.”
He nods, agitated. “But look.”
I go over and crouch behind Sam’s bent right front leg and watch as Jonah holds the hoof against his left knee and carefully touches his child’s finger to an area inside.
Sam immediately snorts.
Jonah touches it again.
Sam tosses his head up and down, the crossties rattling.
Jonah tells me, “It feels like there’s a little swelling in there. Like it hurts. Like a cut might be there or something.”
I touch my finger there as well.
Sam snorts, louder.
I didn’t notice Sam was uncomfortable.
Jonah did.
Now this is where equine therapy, or any kind of therapy, can become most delicate and most fulfilling.
Because in my own ego-driven meanderings, I missed Sam’s pain.
Now, I could either go into a litany of self-recrimination because I feel terrible that I was so unaware that I missed my beloved horse’s injury.
Or …
I can put my own damn self aside and buoy Jonah’s self-worth.
I quickly say, “My gosh, Jonah. You saw something I missed. Injuries in hooves can lead to very big problems for a horse. If you hadn’t caught that, Sam could be in a lot of trouble. You’re an awesome horse observer. You could be a healer. In fact, you can start healing Sam right now. Let’s get a bucket of warm water, put in some Epsom salts, and we can—you can—soak Sam’s hoof today.”
Jonah’s eyes are wide with awe and something else I’ve never seen in him before: confidence.
That’s also where integrating the environment into a life situation can become … magical.
Because, maybe, I was supposed to be focusing on myself.
So Jonah could take over.
And maybe it was Sam who had fused with me the other day, instead of the other way around. Maybe he sensed I was in danger, running from Justin Fellowes’s villa, down the hill over bramble, rock, and hot tar. Because it’s unlikely he was cut in his stall or turnout.
Why not? I really do believe anything’s possible.
Bad … or … fabuloso.
I limp to get the bucket for Jonah to fill with water.
~
After Jonah’s session, we stand out in the dirt lot, the sun still beating down an extreme heat usually reserved for August, and Jonah turns back from a blank-faced Grandma Brown to … hug me.
I say, “You could be a vet, Jonah. You have a gift.”
He beams up at me, his forehead temporarily smooth, then runs to the waiting sedan.
I’m surprised to see Grandma Brown give me a hint of a smile with her usually expressionless lips.
I wave as they traverse down the winding road.
Then I get into my little red Ford because my feet hurt too much even to make the short walk back to my house.
I’m still recuperating.
I need to take a nap.