The Blessings of the Animals: A Novel - By Katrina Kittle Page 0,56

a golf cart, and all of us would be at the finish.

The rider before Dad had fallen here at the water. She and the horse were unhurt but disqualified. Now, five minutes later, Dad could be approaching any moment.

When I heard Dad was “unseated” I wasn’t worried. He’d get back on. It would cost some points, some time, and perhaps his wide first-place lead after the dressage, but he’d be fine.

I expected the announcer to declare him “away,” but instead we heard, “Both horse and rider are still down at the Broken Bridge.”

I stood up. “Let’s go.”

Gabriella took my hand to stop me. “Are you sure?” We’d earned these perfect seats.

“‘Horse down’ means they’re done. They can’t finish the course.”

I was still thinking more of Cantata than of Dad as we picked our way down the bleachers.

It wasn’t until the announcer told us that the rider on course after Dad had been stopped, and that no other riders would be sent out until the accident was “cleared,” that my limbs went to ice.

I remember whispering, “This is bad,” to Bobby.

I remember him nodding and taking Gabby’s hand.

I remember running. It was more than a mile from the water to the Broken Bridge. An ambulance passed me, both of us cutting across the open pastures. For a while I almost kept pace.

I remember the splintered top rail, the demolished stone wall, my father and Cantata down inside the gap in the bridge. Cantata’s panicked breathing filled my ears as I took in Davy holding my mom out of the way of the EMTs.

An EMT unsnapped Dad’s helmet and it fell in two halves, like a coconut.

I see that helmet in my dreams.

Big David ran his hands over his bald head, saying, “It was that dog. This damn dog ran out from the crowd.” He pointed as if the dog was still there. “They tripped on the dog!”

My mother grabbed my wrist—so hard she left a bruise—before she got on the helicopter and pleaded, “Please. Cantata. If she . . . if she has to—” and I knew she was saying, I want it to be you who does it if it has to be done.

Cantata stopped thrashing when I crawled into the narrow ditch and stroked her head. With the official event veterinarians, I ran my hands over the bones of her legs and felt almost sickening relief to find nothing obviously broken. She was trapped, unable to extend her legs to get out of the ditch. They had to dismantle the entire bridge to free her.

It was only after Cantata stood and lurched to a waiting veterinary trailer on trembling, caving legs—the anxious crowd cheered—that I followed the others to the hospital.

Davy met me first. “They think he’s paralyzed.”

You could call that day hard, I’d say.

Or the week that followed while Dad lay in a coma.

You could call the next half year hard as Mom refused to accept that he’d never walk again. Dad’s physical pain, his emotional despair—she took it all with a consistent, giving-up-is-not-an-option commitment.

She taught him how to eat with silverware again.

She taught him words with flash cards.

In the first days after the coma, she’d had to remind him of her name.

“IT WAS THE HARDEST THING I’VE EVER DONE,” MOM REPEATED, bringing me back to the soapy Cantata. “And the best.”

Mom had taken that scarred Passier and set it on the gate. I replayed my parents’ exchange over the saddle. Dad was right. The repair proved the saddle’s worth.

The mare put her head down to sneak a mouthful of grass while the cool water ran over her. “I feel sorry for Bobby,” Mom said. “I managed to salvage my mistake in time. If he doesn’t, it will be a tragedy.”

Mom and I skimmed sweat scrapers over the mare, sweeping the water from her coat. “You have the hardest work,” Mom said. “Forgiving is the hardest. Regret isn’t hard, but you carry it forever. Once you forgive, though, then you’re free. You just have to be clear about what you want.”

The mare whisked her tail at a fly and wet horse tail smacked me in the face. I shut my eyes against the sting.

Chapter Seventeen

YOU JUST HAVE TO BE CLEAR ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT. MY TERRIER mind gnawed on the bone of my mother’s words.

What if . . . what if Bobby and I tried to mend our marriage? What would Gabby think of that?

I saddled Moonshot. And sat on his back. That’s all, I just sat. He