13

Okay

Saturday morning I open the window to my bedroom and let in the morning chill. My first thought is I miss you, Dream. But my second is Morning, Lord. How about we go for a ride?

When I walk into the dining room, Dad is already sharing his “office” with Mom and Ethan.

“Donuts,” Dad says, pointing to an almost-empty box at the end of the table.

I take the powdery one. “Thanks. You guys are up early.”

“Rhymes,” Dad says, not looking up from his laptop. “And jingles.” His hair is nicely combed, so he must be doing fine on his own.

“It’s the Doggone Drive,” Mom explains. “Thought I bit off more than I could chew. But it turns out my mouth is bigger than I realized. We’re chewing just fine. Drive on, little doggies!”

Ethan grins at me. We found Lucky. Some kid recognized the dog from the picture on the dog food cans. The owners were so grateful that they called the TV station to make a public thank-you.

Dad finishes the good news. “And your mother is going to be on television. Noon edition.”

“Wow! That’s great, Mom!”

Mom laughs. “And won’t they be surprised when I walk onstage! They actually told me to wear solid colors—black or navy.”

“They do not know your mother,” Dad observes.

“Pull up a sit-down, Ellie.” Mom taps the chair next to her. “The Doggone Drive marches on.”

Ethan waves a picture of a Chihuahua at me. They already have half a dozen cans of dog food with the little dog’s picture pasted on them.

“I’ll help later, okay?” I say.

“Going somewhere?” Dad asks.

“Horsemanship practice,” I answer.

All three heads snap toward me like I’ve just announced I’m going to Paris.

“Well, if that’s not the cat’s pj’s!” Mom exclaims.

“If wishes were fishes,” Dad begins, “then . . . hmmm . . . wishes, fishes . . .” He scribbles furiously on his yellow pad. Then he starts pounding his laptop keys.

Good for you, Sis, Ethan signs.

“Okay,” I say and sign. “Better hurry if I want to catch a ride with Bullet and Colt.”

I can hear their group sigh of relief as I leave the room.

“It’s about time,” Colt says when I show up in his barn.

“Yep,” I agree.

Colt mounts Bullet and helps me climb up behind him. The saddle slips a little, but not too much. Maybe Bullet is losing more weight.

Colt waits until I’m settled behind him to ask, “So are you okay?” I can’t see Colt’s face, but I can picture it. His eyes will be wide, and he’ll be biting his bottom lip, worried about my answer.

“I’m okay,” I tell him. “I just figured that out. I miss Dream like crazy, and I always will. But I’m okay, Colt.”

“Yeah?” he asks. And I get the feeling he’s also asking something else. Maybe it’s because Colt and I have had so much practice “talking” without words when we sign, but I can read him. I’m pretty sure he’s asking me how I can be okay without Dream. Like, what’s the secret of being okay when you’ve lost what you love? Colt has lost a lot this year with the divorce.

“It’s God, Colt,” I answer. “I figure that since God is still here, I’ll be okay. I am okay.”

For a minute, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. We just sit there on Bullet. I breathe in the smell of hay and horse. Sunlight streaks through the open barn door and splashes my back, warming it. Above us, in the rafters, a dozen sparrows tweet.

“Okay, then,” Colt says.

And we ride Bullet out into the bright sunshine.