At nine thirty Saturday morning, Margaret opened the door to check on her son. In D.C., where he lived, it was already eleven thirty a.m. She’d been up for two hours, finished the New York Times crossword puzzle, and done one load of the laundry he’d brought. His clothes were appallingly worn and faded, his pants shiny at the knees. Peter, always a clotheshorse, had come a long way from that, and she wondered why. After last night’s dinner, without asking, he’d fetched a bottle of wine and opened it up. This morning, she’d found the empty bottle in the recycling. Was he hung over? Was he still breathing? How did she summon the courage to ask him about his drinking? Was that even appropriate? He was twenty-five years old.
She found it consoling to see that the adult Peter slept the same way he had as a teenager, before the accident. Facedown, feet hanging off the mattress on her convertible couch, a stranglehold on his pillow as if it were a life preserver. Echo II had curled up between his legs, her head resting on his thigh. The dog looked up at Margaret, wagged her tail, but made no move to jump off the bed for breakfast.
Margaret didn’t mind. Peter had a way with animals. When he was a boy, he brought home nestlings, a baby chipmunk, and then one day, Echo, the puppy who waited by the front door until he returned from school every day. Peter wasn’t like that with people. Echo I had been the one to bring him back from the coma he’d suffered as a result of meningitis years ago, and his bond with animals had only grown. In Santa Fe, half the population would say it was being in the coma that caused it, that he’d come so close to the spirit world that he’d returned to the living profoundly altered.
Out the kitchen window she could see gray sky, overcast. No real clouds, just wisps of darker gray scudding along. Snow? Calling Glory might be an intrusion, but sending her an e-mail would not. Margaret was anxious to know what Joseph’s reaction was to the unexpected pregnancy. The Vigils were like extended family to her. She logged on to her computer to check her mail. There in her in-box was a message from Joseph with a link to his website. It was finally up—his cousin’s nephew’s friend had been building it over the last three months. Glory had said Joseph was tearing his hair out trying to get the kid to take down the raucous music he insisted would make their program appear “sick,” which meant, as near as Glory could figure, “cool.” Joseph said the music made him want to put a bullet into the computer monitor. Margaret laughed to herself. Nothing at the Vigils’ ever ran smoothly, but a messy, sprawling family in which someone was always laughing or crying was the kind of family Margaret had hoped to have herself. She clicked on the link.
Reachforthesky.org ran across the top of the site, with tabs for drop-down menus. In the background was a beautiful New Mexico sky, postcard blue as far as the eye could see. They’d posted a gallery of photos. Margaret clicked on one of RedBow, Peter’s horse. Red is a quarter horse/mustang and at age 22, our most senior citizen. From rodeo to trail horse to lesson horse, Red’s done it all. He loves tiny tots and trotting, and will dance for apples.
Margaret smiled.
Dressage wasn’t dancing; it was work and required hours of lessons, but dancing made for better copy. Peter had taken lessons from a trainer for four years. The horse seemed to thrive on learning. The passage and flying lead changes were beautiful to watch. Peter had looked stunning in his riding habit, and Red was handsome with ShowSheen emphasizing his muscles and his mane plaited into braided knots. With his tail braided, too, no one would ever guess he’d once been a team roping horse allowed to grow shaggy.
Next Margaret clicked on a photo of Aspen with her gap-toothed grin. She sat on Brown Horse and wore a pink riding helmet and matching gloves. Next to her stood her mother, Casey, one hand on the horse’s reins and the other at her side. She looked just to the left of the camera. She had a hard time making eye contact. The bandanna she wore around her neck looked perfectly appropriate. No one would ever suspect it hid the scar on her neck from her horrible injury. Glory had mentioned they were exploring surgical options to minimize the scar, which made people seeing it for the first time gasp out loud. But first came the delicate vocal cord surgery, which would hopefully return her voice to a normal range.
In another photo, Joe looked dangerously handsome in a pair of chaps, leading Juniper on a Palomino named Dollar Bill. Reach for the Sky took retiring horses, provided they had gentle natures, were not excessively lame, and could see out of at least one eye. There was even a photo of the two barn owls that made their nest in the ceiling of the barn. The whole enterprise sounded so exciting to Margaret. It was all due to Juniper’s sister, Casey, who’d benefited from this therapy when she came to live with the Vigils. Yet they made no mention of Casey’s involvement except as a parent and volunteer. The testimonials they posted focused on the results of the programs, not the traumas they served. She read on.
A handicapped child’s environment is a daily reminder of what he or she cannot do. At Reach for the Sky, we strive to show the opposite. From the first time a child is on top of a horse, looking down, he learns to see the world differently. Developing a relationship with a horse removes significant barriers and inspires mutual trust. Our staff psychologists are also riders. Through a unique combination of equine-related therapy, horsemanship, recreation, and fun, we are dedicated to improving the quality of life for adults and children with disabilities and physical and emotional trauma.
Margaret had met the psychologist who was responsible for Casey’s reunion with her sister. Ardith Clemmons had twenty years of social service experience, and given her conservative blazers and pearls, you’d never guess that in her youth, she’d been a trick rider on the rodeo circuit. Who better to tell someone to get up, dust yourself off, and get back on the horse than Ardith Clemmons?
Margaret saved Joe’s e-mail, bookmarked the website, and composed an e-mail to Glory.
How’d it go? Hang in there. Nausea can’t last forever. My son Peter showed up last night. I can’t believe you haven’t met him yet. If only he’d been able to come for Ellie’s funeral. Anyway, I’d love for you to meet him before he heads back to D.C.
XO Margaret
Margaret wasn’t usually one for hours of web surfing. She didn’t use Facebook other than to showcase her work, and the same went for Instagram, Twitter, and YouTube. But e-mail was essential, especially when it came to selling her prints. Gift shop orders came in weekly. She sold on Etsy, OOAK, and her website, margaretwood.com. She’d left off the “year” in her name, because she wanted this site to be about selling prints, not “art.” A dubious difference.
While she waited for Peter to wake up she had some time to waste, so she looked at MS sites and joined a chat room for newbies, though she couldn’t imagine what she’d say in one. I’m terrified? After a few minutes of reading scary medical histories, she took a walk down virtual memory late, looking up websites she’d bookmarked long ago. Advanced Bionics, Inc. The NIDCD. YouTube. She figured she alone was responsible for at least a thousand hits on the video “29-year-old hearing for the first time.” How she had longed to give that experience to Peter, and here he’d done it on his own, after ten stubborn years of silence. Now her son would hear it all: traffic noises, birds chirping, a voice whispering, “I love you.” She wondered if he’d told his dad about the cochlear implant yet. Maybe this would make a difference in their troubled relationship. If Ray became more a part of his son’s life, it would make her happy.
Next she visited another favorite video. Her fingers typed, “Extreme Sheep LED,” and hesitated over the arrow icon to start the video. Watching felt illicit, like drinking alone. Nobody knew how often she watched it except the computer’s browser history, but it was so frequent that she felt a sense of shame—there were much healthier activities she could indulge in than watch videos that reminded her of Owen Garrett.
The first time was right here, at the small desk in her front room. It was her first Christmas in Ellie’s place, sans Ellie. Margaret had pared down considerably when she left California, but in those couple of years in Blue Dog she’d acquired more stuff. Now that she was living in Ellie’s smaller house, she decided another paring down was in order. Nobody was going to come to a winter garage sale. Whatever wasn’t essential would go to Look What the Cat Dragged In, a thrift store that benefited shelter animals.
So there she was, by herself on Christmas Eve, culling shoes she hadn’t worn in years and old boot-cut jeans that weren’t in style anymore into a trash sack. There was no one to prepare an elaborate meal for; Bonnie and Peter were spending the holidays in D.C. and Margaret had sent out their presents a month ago. Her sister, Nori, was in London, working, and Margaret, usually just fine on her own, wondered where the tears were coming from. She sat at the computer to check her e-mail before she went to bed. Nori had sent her a link to a YouTube video, a cat climbing a Christmas tree or something. Nori was the cat person. Of course, once Margaret watched it all the way through, up popped a slew of video suggestions she might enjoy. Christmas carols, home movies, cats and dogs decorated with bows. Echo II sat at her feet, agreeable to whatever Margaret suggested. “Why not watch other people’s lives if you have none of your own?” she asked the dog, who beat her tail happily against the old wood floors. From Christmas carols to reenactments of Joseph and Mary’s trek to Bethlehem, she landed on a video of Welsh sheepherders who’d rigged their flock with LED lights. When they whistled, their border collies moved the sheep, creating a green Christmas tree with a white star on the top. The star wavered side to side, because the sheep wearing the white lights apparently did not relish their position at the top of the tree, and that made her laugh. Margaret thought about Owen Garrett on horseback. That three-legged heeler dog of his was responsible for knocking up Echo I. To allow the dog to run off his energy, Owen would saddle up his horse and whistle to the dog—his name was Hope—to move twenty sheep around the pasture until he was tired. She must have watched the video fifteen times that night. Outside it was blizzarding and everyone had hunkered down for the holidays.
It wasn’t as if her loneliness were self-imposed. She’d tried to make friends here. She’d joined a bookstore reading group, but the members of that group didn’t really talk about the books so much as they gossiped about whoever hadn’t made it to the meeting. She met a nice woman—also an artist—while waiting in line to pay taxes. They struck up a conversation and seemed to have a great deal in common, so Margaret impulsively offered her phone number, inviting her to have coffee sometime. The look the woman gave her in return was searing. Did she think Margaret was trying to hit on her? Anything Margaret said made the situation worse. She didn’t want to lose her place in line, so she spent the rest of the time pretending to check messages on her phone. Such awkwardness. It brought back the embarrassment she’d felt in junior high when she’d tried to befriend one of the popular girls. For a week, they’d pointedly shunned her, and even though it had happened long ago, she never forgot the unbearable feeling of being deliberately excluded.
Margaret attended a women’s networking luncheon at the Hotel Santa Fe, a lovely place with kiva fireplaces, soft leather armchairs, and excellent food. They also had a free parking lot, which was scarce in the downtown area. There was chicken salad for lunch, followed by panna cotta for dessert. During coffee, the various businesswomen introduced themselves to the group. This took over an hour, and by the time it ended, Margaret was dizzy. How many acupuncturists, massage therapists, caterers, professional organizers, and therapists who specialized in color therapy, the way of the whale, the dolphin mind, the wolf path, and phases of the moon she hadn’t known existed could there be in this town? Not to mention more yoga instructors, shamans (shawomen?), poets, novelists, biographers, ghostwriters, and filmmakers of every sort than she could imagine. There were twice as many artists as the rest of the women added together. Every single one of them had a story like hers. They sold their work at the flea market, but you had to get on a waiting list to join and pay a fee. The farmer’s market also allowed an opportunity for art, but the percentage they took made it not worth the effort. Become a museum docent or work in an art gallery, they suggested. Press your business card on every person you meet.
The art scene was so competitive that the other artists only seemed to be seeking valuable contacts and connections. No one else seemed to be interested in trying to build true friendships, and Margaret couldn’t imagine trusting any of these women with her innermost secrets. They weren’t the give-you-a-hug, be-there-for-those-times-when-you-need-an-ear type. Those kinds of friendships had seemed gone forever, until she met Glory, two years ago, when her family moved next door. And Glory was nearly a decade younger than her.
Margaret learned if you were a single woman in your fifties, either you had massages at Ten Thousand Waves, ate lunch out every day, or shopped your way into finding friends. That wasn’t Margaret’s scene. At the training schools in town, she took advantage of low-cost massages. The students needed someone to practice on, and Margaret felt starved for touch. She needed to tend to her body, remind it that kind touches existed, even if there were no soul-deep kisses or passion. She shared laughter with Glory, but Glory’s hectic life meant that sometimes weeks would go by where they said nothing more than hi and bye to each other. The thing she really missed—and there wasn’t a friend on earth who could provide it—was sex. At age fifty, how did you explain that to someone without sounding like a pervert? She was forced to rely on her memories of what it was like to make love with Owen Garrett ten years ago, on his creaky-spring twin bed in a bunkhouse that was so often visited by mice that in their afterglow they’d inevitably hear a snap when a trap went off. “Reckon I’m fighting a losing battle,” Owen often said in his bass voice. “The best I can hope for is reducing their numbers.” That was what she missed the most: being held in a man’s arms, satisfied, and happily discussing mice in the grain bin.
After the sheep video ended, she tried to come back to earth, but it was easier to let herself fall gently into memory. Her sheepherder may have been rough around the edges in appearance, and in trouble with the law, but he knew how to coax Margaret out of her head and lead her into her body. He didn’t have any tantric moves or engage in fancy tricks with his tongue. He made love the way he laughed, with a deep, rumbling pleasure that seemed to emanate from his belly and resound through his entire body, pouring joy into hers. Passion was different for every woman. She’d had her share of we-can’t-wait-let’s-tear-our-clothes-off-immediately encounters with her ex-husband, Ray, and even with the sheepherder at the beginning of their affair. But after that, she and Owen had settled into the comforting, routine, missionary-position type of lovemaking. When he ran his fingers through her hair, it was as if he ignited some hidden erogenous zone. They had always begun there. Then he’d kiss her, sharply, hungrily at first, almost crushing his mouth into hers, and move his hands down her body, so softly, his fingertips barely brushing her breasts. He teased her into a kind of fever with those slow touches everywhere. He’d take hold of her inner thighs, gently prying her legs apart and using his thumb to make circles where they met. And once he was inside her, he moved agonizingly slowly, the exact opposite of her ex, Ray, who rushed the whole encounter, wanted it over with in as little time as possible. How did men learn all that? she often wondered. Porn? Penthouse? Did they shut their eyes, picturing that perfect fantasy-woman’s body? What happened when they touched the ordinary one in their bed?
She pressed replay on the sheep video and paused it on the close-up of the Welshman on horseback. She could see his hands holding the reins gently, how he leaned forward to tell his horse which way to turn. That was the part that reminded her of Owen. They’d gone riding together only a handful of times, but she’d noticed the way he held his reins with the lightest grip, as if he carried on a constant conversation with his horse’s mouth. He listened and adjusted, probably could have let go and the horse would have continued on the way Owen wanted to go. That was what she missed, being touched by someone who was entirely in tune with her needs.
“Mom?” Peter said, yawning in front of her. “What are you thinking about? You were like a million miles away.”
She quickly turned off the screen, smiling at the sight of her grown-up boy in sweat pants and a Gallaudet T-shirt that had seen better days. “What to make for breakfast.”
It was rare she got the chance to cook for anyone besides Glory’s tribe, who seemed to live on Frito pie and spaghetti. She had a few Meyer lemons in the fruit bowl, so why not use them to make pancakes for Peter? While he read the paper, she grated the lemon rind and removed all the seeds, then squeezed juice into the mix and the remainder into an ice tray to save for another time. She rinsed blueberries, chopped pecans for the batter, and browned MorningStar Farms vegetarian sausages in a frying pan. The smell had always been what caught Peter’s attention, but now he could hear the cooking sounds along with the aroma. It was close to eleven o’clock when she set the plate down in front of him. He set aside the newspaper. Echo was parked under his chair.
“You sleep okay?” she asked.
“Like a rock.”
“Do you take your implant out, or do you sleep with it?”
“Out. It has to recharge all night. Plus, sleeping in silence makes for a better night’s sleep.”
“That makes perfect sense.” She took a pancake from the stack for herself and spread it with butter. “What time is it in D.C.?”
He handed her a napkin. “I don’t know, lunchtime?” He picked up his fork.
“Did you want to check in with Bonnie?”
He frowned at his pancakes. “Do you have any maple syrup?”
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “They’re so sweet, I usually just have them with butter. Sometimes Devon cream.”
“Have me arrested for liking maple syrup,” he said.
The comment surprised her. Was it meant as a joke, or was it as hostile as it sounded? She got up from her chair to go to the fridge. “It’s no problem,” she said, trying to distance herself from the tone in his voice. The fridge seemed to always be on the brink of empty when her son was around. She fetched the tin of Canadian maple syrup she kept on the lowest shelf. It was pricey stuff, but she splurged, because it would last her a year. Peter, however, would go through the tin in a week, especially if she cooked like this every morning. “Here you go.” Sure enough, he poured a rather large puddle over the stack of pancakes, drowning out the subtle taste of lemon and the tart blueberries. She watched him inhale the food and sipped her coffee. “What’s it like?” she asked. “Or are you already so used to it that you don’t think about it?”
He chewed and swallowed. “What’s what like?”
She pointed to her ear.
“Oh, hearing.” He smiled. “It’s incredible. When they turned the cochlear implant on, I bawled like a baby.”
Margaret warmed her hands on her coffee cup. “I wish I’d been there. I also wish you’d let me know you were going under anesthesia. You know, things can go wrong.”
“Mom!” he exclaimed. “For crying out loud, am I not an adult?”
“Of course you are, Peter, but it was a general anesthesia, right?”
“And you knowing that would have helped how?”
Echo whined beneath the table. Peter reached down to give her a neck rub. “Sorry. I just, you know, wanted to do it on my own.”
“I respect that,” she said. But it still bothered her. “Why now? Why not years ago when the doctors said—”
His nostrils flared and Margaret knew she’d asked too many questions.
He set his fork down. “I didn’t tell you because what if it didn’t work? If I’d gotten your hopes up, and then wrecked them all over again, I wouldn’t be able to take it.”
She could see the tears in his eyes. “I see. I’m sorry for pecking at you, Peter. Everything turned out fine. Let’s not argue while you’re here, okay?”
There were a million things she wanted to say, but she chose to be quiet rather than be honest and get her head bitten off.
Peter sniffled and the tears retreated. “That first night, I couldn’t bear to go to sleep. I was up until four a.m. on iTunes, listening to all the music I missed. And eating potato chips, listening to the crunch.”
She smiled. “I can imagine.”
“Yeah, but who knows if it will last? That’s why I signed up for the Stanford medical trial for my right ear. I know, I know. It’s a crapshoot, but what do I have to lose, really?”
Margaret set down her coffee cup and reached for the pot, to refill it. “What are you talking about, Stanford?” Had he told her already, and she’d forgotten? Was it the MS?
“I told you last night.”
“So tell me again.”
“Stanford’s got a stem cell program trial coming up. They’re already using the treatment in South America. It’s amazing, Mom. They harvest cells from your forearm, where the hair grows. They tweak them in the lab, and get this—they regenerate a pluripotent hair cell for the inner ear. I’m on their list for my right ear. There’s too much damage for a cochlear implant, and while the tooth cap helps, this could work all on its own.”
“It sounds thrilling. What was it like the first time you heard Bonnie’s voice?”
Peter blotted his mouth with a napkin. He pushed his plate away and looked straight into his mother’s eyes. “Jeez, Mom. Just come out and ask, why don’t you?”
Her cheeks flamed. “I didn’t mean to pressure you. But I noticed you weren’t wearing your wedding ring and I just wondered—”
He folded his arms across his chest, never a good sign. Echo got to her feet and plunked her head into Peter’s lap, watching his face nervously. “You’re a fine one to talk. You don’t tell me everything, do you?”
“What are you talking about? I—”
He cut her off. “Are you sure you really want to know?”
“Of course I do. I love you and I want you to be happy. You know that.”
Peter made that scoffing noise he used to make when he was fifteen. Translated, it meant, You hopelessly lame parent, I wish you could hear yourself like I do. “You were against us getting married in the first place.”
“Not against it, Peter. I just didn’t see what the hurry was.”
He shook his head and sighed.
“What?” she asked, dying to reach out and touch him, but knowing that with Peter, what felt right to her often turned out to be the wrong thing to him. “You can tell me anything. And if you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t bring it up again. Cross my heart.”
He unfolded his arms and picked up the Waterford crystal salt shaker. “You were probably right. The thing is—” His voice broke, and he set down the shaker and stopped speaking. He went straight back to signing. Arguments. Jobs. Children.
Margaret signed back, feeling that pit in her stomach widen. Sorry. Prying. I’ll shut up.
“Mom,” he said, “it’s not your fault. Marriages break up for all kinds of reasons.”
“What do you mean, break up?” This had gone further than she thought. “Are you contemplating divorce?”
“Actually, it’s already under way.”
“No counseling?”
He picked up the salt shaker again and turned it so that the sun reflected through the crystal, throwing rainbows across the yellow kitchen. “Too late for that. But don’t worry, we’re totally amicable. It’s just a matter of signing papers. It will be over before you know it.”
She couldn’t help thinking of her mother’s diamond ring she’d given to Bonnie. It was the closest thing she had to a family heirloom. Surely Bonnie would return it. “What if you separate for a while?”
He laughed and set down the shaker and looked out the window. There was a pine siskin in the tree outside, complaining that the feeder was empty. “Mom, she moved to Chicago. How much more separated could we be?”
“I knew she got offered that great job with Native America Calling, but I thought it was temporary.”
“This is why I didn’t tell you! I knew you’d act just like this.”
“Like what? Concerned for my son?”
He frowned, and she caught a glimpse of the burden he was carrying. “There’s a big deaf community in Chicago, and an even larger Native community.”
“But you teach at Gallaudet. Surely there are a few Native students there for her to make friends with.”
Peter sighed. “Mom, it’s kind of like it was with her reservation family. I’m welcome there, but I’m always going to be an outsider.”
“But isn’t that what marriage is about? You take vows and form a bond and you become each other’s family?”
Echo whined again, and Peter stopped talking long enough to reassure her with more neck scratches.
“Surely she still loves you.”
He winced. “Not anymore.”
“I don’t understand. What changed?”
“Look. Bonnie has a full-blood Creek boyfriend. He was also born deaf. Apparently she has had other boyfriends I didn’t find out about until recently. Other couples might be able to repair that kind of damage, but here’s the deal, Mom. She doesn’t want to.”
“But you love her.”
“Of course I still love her! I would have done anything for her!” He set down the salt shaker so hard that the white grains inside jumped.
“Peter, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, well, I was planning out when and how to break the news to you, but since you know, I guess I’ll just lay the rest on you now. I’m taking a leave from teaching. Could I move home until I get settled?”
Margaret was still processing the multiple boyfriends information. She guessed this was why she hadn’t received a thank-you note from Bonnie for her birthday present. Frankly, Bonnie wasn’t one for etiquette, which at first Margaret chalked up to cultural differences. Peter had written all their wedding thank-yous. Bonnie was a little spoiled, Margaret had confided in Nori, and Nori had said in that sarcastic way of hers, “Gee, ya think? She reminds me of those horrible children on Toddlers & Tiaras.” There were times Margaret watched Peter and Bonnie together and thought, Good Lord, she orders him around like he’s her servant. Is that how marriage is supposed to be? Because Margaret sure didn’t know. When she’d asked Bonnie to help her do something, Bonnie always refused, saying she was too tired. When they shopped, however, she had no problem at all asking for nice clothes or expensive belts to cinch in her already tiny waist.
“You’re always welcome here, Peter. Do you need an attorney?”
“No, she got one. All I have to do is sign papers.”
Margaret tried to hold her tongue but couldn’t. “Now you listen to me,” she said. “I’m your mother and I admit I’m prejudiced, but I have to tell you, I can’t think of a single divorce in history that went smoothly. It’s either a financial nightmare or an emotional nightmare, often both. Blame always rears its ugly head, and anger. Sometimes an angry spouse decides that money makes a nice Band-Aid.”
He snorted. “Bonnie’s not like that.”
She gave him her gimlet eye. “Even if all you have an attorney do is check over the documents, that is money well spent.”
“What if I don’t have any money to pay one?”
“What about your job at the university? Isn’t legal aid part of your benefits package?”
He pointed to his ears. “This has caused some problems. I was a term professor. The reason I’m taking a leave is because they didn’t renew my contract. So I’m officially looking for work elsewhere.”
Oh, my God. All those years he’d put in at Gallaudet. “Santa Fe’s a rough job market in the best of times,” she told him.
“I have an interview at Riverwall.”
That was the deaf high school Peter himself had attended. “Riverwall? I doubt it has the university pay scale.”
“Mom, you think I don’t know that?”
“Of course not. I was just thinking out loud. I apologize. But what if you don’t find anything here?”
“Then I’ll go somewhere else.”
“Such as?”
“Jeez, could you be any more negative? I’ll move back to California. I’ll go to London and mooch off Aunt Nori. There you go, plans B galore. Happy?” He stood up and pushed his chair in. It squeaked painfully across the floor. The dog inched farther under the table.
Margaret put her head in her hands and sighed, then looked up. “Peter, stop it. Since you’re an adult, and so am I, we’ll conduct ourselves like adults. You can stay here for as long as you need to. I think the guesthouse would suit you better than the guest room, but you’ll have to clean it out—it’s filled with boxes. And there’s one condition. I insist my attorney help with the divorce. No, don’t look at me like that. Aunt Ellie left me some money, so I can pay for it. You need counsel.”
“Fine. Now can we talk about something else? Because I’m kind of done talking about me.”
She felt ready to pop, she had so many questions. How was a mother supposed to parent an adult son? “Of course,” she said. “After breakfast, would you like to go shopping? I couldn’t help but notice you need some new clothes, and if you’re going to stay here”—she smiled and tried hard to mean it—“then we should shop for a new mattress. That pullout couch in my studio is old and lumpy.”
“No argument there,” he said, rubbing his neck. “After my shower, though.”
He waited until she stood up from the table and hugged her, kissing her cheek. He signed, I love you, and then he gathered his dishes and carried them to the sink. Margaret watched him wash them, using actual dishwashing soap, versus rinsing off the worst and leaving them for her the way he usually did. He set them in the drainer to dry, threw away his napkin, and shut the cabinet that held the trash can. Echo followed his every step.
From down the hall she heard the radio switch on. That was a first, too.
“Will you stop looking at me like that?” Peter said when they stopped for coffee at the Starbucks across the street from the Plaza.
“How am I looking at you?”
“Like I’m some poor rejected waif who’s lost his way.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are, Mom.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I’m having a hard time with all this.” What she didn’t say was, Thank goodness you didn’t have children.
“I’m grateful that she ended it. Why stay married to someone who cheats on you? Life’s too short for that. Wouldn’t you agree?”
You mean like I stayed with your dad, Margaret said to herself, wondering if that was the subtext of Peter’s words. Parents were supposed to set an example. She had held on to hope they could work things out until Ray got that girl pregnant, hadn’t she? But she also never married again, and maybe Peter thought his life was going to turn out like hers.
She thought all those things in the time it takes to lift a grande latte to her lips, sip, burn her tongue, and set the cup down. She’d ordered Peter a venti mocha, herself the latte, and a grande chai, suspended. “What’s that for?” Peter said as they sat at the table.
“The guy playing guitar outside, or any other homeless person who asks for it.”
“Seriously?”
“Chai has the most nutrients.” At Peter’s expression, she said, “Look, sometimes I do this, okay?”
“Why?”
“It makes me feel better, all right?”
“Mom, for crying out loud, the dude with the guitar probably lives in an apartment with a fifty-inch flat-screen.”
“I don’t care. He’s somebody’s son and it’s cold today.”
“Yeah, and he could always sell his guitar to buy his own coffee and get a job.”
She wanted to ask, When did you get so bitter? When had he gone from a smiling young man with enthusiasm in every step to this? When Bonnie cheated on him, that’s when. Instead of plying Peter with more questions, Margaret walked around the Plaza with him. Of course he wanted to stay there all day, listening to the musicians on the stage, a Spanish group trying to sound like Los Lobos, maybe back when they practiced in garages and performed at parties for free. Music had been a huge part of Peter’s life before he lost his hearing. It made perfect sense that he had a lot of catching up to do, so she sat with him and tried to reconcile everything he’d told her, obsessing a little over her mother’s ring. Could she ask for it back? Or was it better to let it go? It was one of two things she had of her mother’s, the other being a small Van Briggle flower vase, packed away since the move.
Maybe the divorce was a good thing. Peter’s life would be wide open in a way it hadn’t been since he was a child. Bonnie had always gotten her way. Had that held him back? A simple divorce, he’d said. He has no idea what he’s in for, she thought. They may own nothing but furniture and clothing and have their outstanding student loans, but Peter doesn’t see things the way someone who’s been through it does, she told herself. Beneficiaries to life insurance policies. Cobra medical insurance coverage from the college. Alimony. The word struck fear into her heart. For all he knew, Bonnie was preparing to whale on him for everything wrong with her life, punishing him for having the surgery. She might even be considering a move back to the reservation. The two of them in the same state. How would that work?
“I always thought you wanted children,” she blurted out between songs, while the musicians took a short break.
Peter looked straight ahead. “I did. I still do.”
“And Bonnie?”
“She hemmed and hawed and finally I confronted her. She told me she did want kids—just not with me.”
The mother in Margaret was instantly livid. “Why not?”
“Calm down.”
“I’m calm.”
“No, you’re not. You’re freaking out.”
Her heart beat like hammers in her chest. “All right, I’m calming down.”
“This might sound crazy to you, Mom, but I understand where she’s coming from. If Bonnie has a child, she wants it to be born deaf, you know, into her culture. I don’t have the gene that carries deafness. Because I can’t guarantee a deaf child, she doesn’t want children with me.”
They sat and listened to the music for another half an hour or so, though Margaret couldn’t tell what the band played. She was boiling with rage and sorrow and was, most of all, stunned that the girl Peter loved had hurt her son in such a cruel and selfish way. I want Mother’s ring back, she told herself. I want those beautiful earrings I splurged on. A coin-shaped place in her heart burned so hot over the stupid earrings she’d given Bonnie. She wanted to snatch them out of her ears. Margaret didn’t want to wear them—mauve glass trumpet lilies were much too frilly for her, but not on Bonnie, who had sloe-brown eyes and thick black straight hair Margaret coveted. She didn’t want someone who’d been unfaithful to her son to have any beauty in her life. She tried to take the long view, the old the-worst-people-need-our-compassion point of view, but maybe she just wasn’t that generous a person. All she could see was the head of a hammer coming down onto the glass earrings. I want back every kind word I ever gave that girl. How dare she hurt my son?
She looked around at the people wandering the shops. They were mainly tourists, because few people who lived in Santa Fe could afford to actually shop here. She herself visited Mimosa and Cowboys and Indians in order to get ideas for clothes, and then she shopped at Santa Fe Fabrics, the store next door to Dulce, a coffee and pastry place she loved. She sewed clothes up on her old Singer machine.
The sun had come out for a few hours. The trees were budding. Actual leaves were unfolding. But the still chilly afternoon wind whistled through the Plaza, causing her to tighten her scarf. Spring is a fickle lover, she thought, and turned up the collar on her coat. Nothing is ever guaranteed. She knew that as well as anybody. But somehow when it comes to your kids, that sort of acceptance goes out the window.
When the music ended, Peter said, “Mom? Would you mind if I dropped you back at home, and went to see my horse?”
Just like when he was fifteen, she thought. Embarrassed to be seen with his mother. “Sounds great,” she said, smiling, handing him the keys to her old Land Cruiser. “What do you want for dinner?”
“Anything,” he said.
“Come on. Let me cook for you. What are you craving?”
“How about your eggplant lasagna? I haven’t had that since the last time I saw you.”
Margaret was surprised. “I wrote out all your favorite recipes and gave them to Bonnie before you got married. I kind of thought Bonnie had learned how to make it.”
“I did the cooking. Hey, I’ll cook for you, too. You know, earn my keep while I’m here. I promise.”
Margaret bit her tongue as they walked to the parking garage. He beeped open the car doors and she slid into the passenger seat, reaching for the seat belt, her right hand suddenly weak and causing her a moment of despair. She pulled at the strap with her left hand and managed to get it latched.
It was a perfect time to bring up the MS, but she couldn’t bring herself to spoil his smile and the way he was singing along to the radio.
While Peter was at the stable, Margaret went onto Craigslist to look for a bed. The price of mattresses in local stores was insane, and maybe a used one would be in good enough shape. However, she accidentally clicked on employment instead of furniture, and what popped up first was Joe’s ad.
Reach for the Sky, a handicapped horseback-riding program, is seeking to hire a full-time barn manager. You will tend two dozen horses, be responsible for feeding twice daily, mucking stalls, grooming, arranging veterinary care, and shoeing. A background in social work, education, or related fields is a plus, as is being bilingual. Candidate must have a familiarity with horses. Experience working with youth, the handicapped, or challenged is desirable. A strong sense of ethics, and an understanding of the at-risk population we serve, is essential.
This position includes free board in our newly renovated bunkhouse and boarding/feed for up to two horses of your own.
To apply: Call for appointment. Bring a résumé outlining skills and provide a minimum of three references. Tell us why you want to work with horses and children to young adults.
Thank you for your interest in Reach for the Sky. Visit our website to learn more about our programs and other available positions.
Didn’t that sound like a terrific job? Margaret thought. You couldn’t find kinder employers than the Vigils, and there was a bunkhouse to stay in—she remembered the casita on the Starr ranch down to the tiniest detail. The picnic-style wooden table, mismatched salt and pepper shakers, a deck of cards, always a yellow bottle of horse liniment or a roll of Vet Wrap nearby. The bleached cow skull that hung on the wall was the real thing, not something you paid a decorator hundreds of dollars for. The blue tack box chest at the foot of Owen’s bed was always latched tight. She never once peeked inside it, but she’d always wondered what he kept in there. Pictures of his family? His father’s tools?
She remembered the careful way he made his bed every day and the worn Indian blanket he used as a bedspread. She could still hear the mattress springs creak their accompaniment while they’d made love there, when they were trying to keep their tryst a secret from Peter. She could almost feel the roughness of Owen’s hand against her skin. The scar on his face. The secrets he carried, including the one he’d left her over: I hit a man with a pool cue. I’m pretty sure I hit him so hard he died. I have to go away for a while so I can come back here and be Bill Sampson, not Owen Garrett.
But he hadn’t returned, had he? Not even for his horse. Then Peter went straight from high school to Gallaudet, and, needing company, Margaret had moved to Santa Fe and lived her life, such as it was, never putting herself in the position of being asked out on a date. She painted, tended her aunt, sold prints, and, except for the Vigils, kept to herself. Verbena Youngcloud’s rug in the doctor’s office had brought back so many memories. She should look for Verbena, even if it was just to thank her for being such a good friend all those years ago and apologize for not keeping in touch. Margaret sat down at her small easel and started painting a new watercolor that would reproduce beautifully, appear ordinary, and offer a springtime garden, a birdbath with a bird perched on the lip, or something equally pedestrian. Maybe a cow skull on an adobe wall, she thought. Those sell out quickly.
She worked, mulling over memories, until she heard a car pull up next door at around four thirty. Moments later, the phone rang.
“Margaret?” Glory said before Margaret had time to say hello.
“Glory? How’d it go?” In the background she heard kids playing, Sparrow fussing, and dogs barking, but somehow Glory was an island of calm in the middle of it.
“Joe went out of his mind. You’d think I’d brought about world peace instead of getting accidentally pregnant, for the second time.”
“So you’re going to have the baby?”
“Of course. If I can keep it.”
“You’ll keep it.”
“If I have to stop working, or be on bed rest, if it turns out anything like when I was pregnant with Sparrow . . . well, that’s why I’m calling. I’m going to need your help. But only if you’re up to it, okay? We fully intend to pay you a little each week.”
“Oh, hush. You know I’ll be glad to pitch in however much you need me to. Tell me what you want me to do. Babysit every day? Make supper?” It was so exciting that Margaret could hardly wait to start. “This is going to be so fun.”
“Now don’t you make me cry, Margaret Yearwood. Right now I am held together with tissues and hormones. So your son arrived out of the blue? What’s that mean? Good news, I hope.”
Margaret looked out her window. A blur of white zoomed by the forsythia. “Glory, she’s back! The albino hummingbird.” She stretched the phone cord as far as it could go to follow the bird’s path to the crook of her redwood tree. “I wonder where she’ll make her nest this year? I hope it’s in my tree.”
“No fair. You had her last year, so this year it’s my turn.”
“You make it sound like I bribed her. It’s up to the bird.”
“Can we forget the bird for a second? None of this is why I called. On the way home from school Aspen told me that you’re not well. What’s wrong?”
All it would take was two letters. It would be such a relief, having it out in the open. But if she told her neighbor before she told Peter, he’d probably be furious. She took a breath and looked for the hummingbird, but she’d flown out of sight, probably gathering the tiniest of twigs to build her thumb-sized nest. Maybe she’d already built it. After age fifty, Margaret simply could not cry and still have a productive day. “I meant to tell Peter first,” she finally said, “but I haven’t found the right time.”
“Margaret, you’re scaring me.”
“It’s only MS.”
The phone cord seemed to gather weight under all that silence.
“Only? Margaret, no. That’s serious.”
“This is why I wanted to tell you in person, Glory. It’s not even noticeable except on the MRI. Very early stages.”
“It sounds bad enough to me. What is the prognosis?”
How did she answer when she didn’t even know herself? “I’m fine right now. It was a shock to hear, initially, but really, there’s nothing major going on.”
“When will Peter be home? I want to meet him.”
“I suppose when he’s hungry. He’s gone to the stable to ride Red.”
“Joe just left for the stables. I’ll call and tell him to look for Peter. Come on over and bring the dog. I’ve got blackberry scones in the oven, and yesterday I made sweet-potato dog treats. Now that I have permission to get fat, we’ll eat butter and sugar and carb out.”
Margaret laughed. “I’ll be right there.”
Dolores smiled as she drifted from one yard to another. The hummingbird had done exactly as she asked. Now it was time to check in on the writer up the street.