Golden Filly Collection One

by Lauraine Snelling

  “Lean over.” Trish patted her mother’s shoulder.

  Marge followed Trish’s orders as though she didn’t have the energy to resist. “Umm-m-m,” she said as Trish massaged her scalp with her strong fingers. “Feels good.”

  Trish felt like she’d just won the Derby. She rinsed and shampooed again. It seemed so strange to be on the giving end rather than the receiving. But it felt good.

  “How about if I blow-dry it for you?” Trish asked as she toweled her mother’s hair.

  Marge reached up and wrapped the towel around her head. She smiled at her daughter for the first time in what seemed like months. “Okay.”

  Trish wielded dryer and brush like an expert. Her years of horse grooming were suddenly giving way to a new profession.

  Marge closed her eyes. A deep sigh, as if from her toes, seemed to fill the bathroom and drown out the angry-bee hum of the dryer.

  “You okay?” Trish stepped back to view her handiwork. She could see strands of gray that she was sure hadn’t been there three weeks ago. The dark waves of her mother’s hair feathered back on the sides and waved to the right on top. “You look nice.” Trish held her hand over her mother’s eyes and sprayed. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever done your hair.”

  “Probably.” Marge sighed. “Thank you, Tee.”

  The ride to the track was a silent affair. Each of the family seemed lost in their own thoughts. Trish stared out the window. Her mother’s eyes were closed again. She hadn’t said anything since the bathroom. Her father kept darting glances at Marge, as if afraid she might back out. David chewed on a knuckle.

  Trish tried to picture the verses on her wall. They were so fuzzy she couldn’t read them. Good thing she knew them by heart by now. She repeated “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me” under her breath—over and over.

  The sun had gone behind the clouds by the time they parked outside the chain-link fence at Portland Meadows Racetrack. Golfers were still playing the nine-hole course on the infield. Morning works were over, so the tractor and drag were grooming the track. Pastor Mort’s white car was parked next to a pickup where a golf cart trundled up into the bed.

  Trish felt like crawling under the seat and hiding as her father got out of the car and walked around to help Marge out. David followed his father, and between them Marge appeared smaller, as if she’d shrunk in the last week. The three of them walked toward the fence. Trish shoved open her door and stepped out. She felt anchored to the asphalt.

  Pastor Mort turned, as if sensing her fear. He came over and took her arm. “Come on, Trish. It will be okay, I promise you.”

  Trish gritted her teeth. She would not cry. Together they followed the others around the outside of the track.

  When they reached the spot just beyond the first turn and stopped, Pastor Mort looked at each of them. “I’d like to start with prayer.” At their nods, he began, “Heavenly Father, you know how hurting we are. You made us and we are yours. Our minds and our feelings are gifts from you and today we ask…”

  Trish’s mind tried to check out, but she clamped her jaw tight and forced it back to the present.

  “…that you bring healing to this family, to Hal and Marge, to David, to Trish. You know what they need and we thank you for your healing mercy. Amen.”

  Trish swallowed hard. “Amen.”

  “Tee, why don’t you come over here by me,” her father said as he reached out his arm to her.

  Trish nodded. His arm felt good around her, made her think she wouldn’t fly apart after all.

  After a moment of silence, Pastor Mort continued. “Now, Marge, I’m asking you to go back to that day, that afternoon at the track. Close your eyes and picture the track.” He paused. “See the parade to the post.” More silence. “See the horses enter the starting gates. Can you see it?”

  Trish sensed rather than saw her mother’s nod. Trish closed her eyes tighter so she could remember too.

  “The horses broke from the gate and pounded in front of the stands. You were down by the rail.” Pastor Mort’s soft voice stilled.

  Trish could feel the clumps of dirt banging into her and her mount as they came up from behind. She’d already pulled down the first pair of goggles and the second pair was darkening with dirt. She felt her mount stumble and herself flying through the air. The cry she heard wasn’t from her mind.

  Marge buried her face in Hal’s shoulder, her sobs tearing at Trish’s heart. She turned and began rubbing her mother’s back. She could see the tears streaming down David’s face through the waterfall of her own.

  “And what do you see?” the pastor asked Marge quietly when the tears diminished.

  “They’ve lifted Trish onto the stretcher. They’ve covered her face! Oh no!” Marge thumped her hand on Hal’s shoulder, and the tears resumed in intensity. “They think she’s dead! No! Not my Trish. No! No!”

  “Mom, Mom, it’s okay.” Trish forced her words out around her own tears. “I’m right here. I’m all right. I didn’t die. I didn’t even come close to it.”

  “I can’t handle any more. You could have died….” She looked up into Hal’s face. “All I could see out there was Trish on a stretcher…and then she was in the hospital—sick—hurt. I’ve been afraid of that all along.”

  Trish tried to say something but Pastor Mort put a hand on her shoulder. “Let her cry it out,” he whispered.

  “Sometimes I get so angry at God—why is He doing this to me? And then I feel terrible. I know worry is a sin. I should—I have to—trust more.”

  Trish continued to rub and pat her mother’s back. She looked up at her father. He buried his cheek in Marge’s hair and held her tight to his chest.

  God, help us, Trish pleaded.

  It seemed her mother would cry forever. At times she was almost incoherent, muttering and sobbing as if her heart would break. Hal continued to hold her. Trish clung to his arm as she rubbed her mother’s back, David on the other side, doing the same. Finally she fell silent, shuddering every once in a while.

  Then Marge lifted her head from Hal’s shoulder and took a deep breath. Hal dug a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped her eyes and cheeks. She appeared to be past the deep grief she experienced at reliving the incident. “God, forgive me for what I have done to my family,” Marge said. She kissed both David and Trish, then Hal.

  “He does,” replied Pastor Mort. “You know He does. And He’ll help you put this behind you.”

  “I’ll take you home.” Hal wrapped both arms around his wife and hugged her close. “Unless there’s more, Pastor?” The two men exchanged looks.

  “No. We’ll talk again on Monday, Marge, if you’d like.” She nodded. “Good then. God bless you all.” He hugged each of them in turn. “Remember, if you need me, all you have to do is call.”

  “I know.” Hal shook the pastor’s hand again. “Thank you.”

  Trish felt like a puppet with all the strings cut. She walked back to the car with her family and slumped in the backseat. Now what will happen? She rubbed her eyes with her fingers. After taking a deep breath, she glanced at her watch. The first race of the day was less than an hour away.

  David leaned on the open car door and announced, “I’ve gotta get down to the stalls. Mom, you okay?”

  Marge nodded. “I will be. You and Trish go ahead. We’ll go on home.” She leaned back against the seat, closed her eyes, and reached back to squeeze Trish’s hand. “You’ll be okay—after all this, I mean?”

  Trish lifted her mother’s hand to her cheek. “Yes, Mom.” She grabbed her sports bag and slid from the car. “I’ve missed you so.” She whirled away before the tears could overwhelm her again.

  “See you later.” David backpedaled as he talked, then turned and caught up with Trish. He put his arm around her shoulders. “You really all right? I mean, you’ll be able to get beyond this and ride your mount?”

  Trish nodded. “I feel like—like maybe there’s hope now.”

&n
bsp; “Well, if I never go through something like that again, it’ll be too soon.”

  “I know.” Trish turned and watched as their family car was lost in the incoming vehicles. She shrugged her shoulders up to her ears and relaxed them. “See ya in the fifth.” She turned left at the gate into the track, and David loped across the infield to the backside.

  Trish was mounted on the favorite in the first race. Bob Diego’s sorrel mare nickered when she saw Trish.

  “I think you have a friend here.” He shifted so Trish had room to stroke the mare’s head and murmur sweet promises in the twitching ears.

  “I like her too.” Trish smiled back. “And today we’re due for a win, aren’t we?” She scratched the mare’s cheek and up behind her ears.

  “Two out of three would be a good number, no?” Diego boosted Trish into the saddle.

  “Yes.” Trish settled into the seat and gathered her reins. “See you in the winner’s circle.”

  The sun had broken through the cloud cover to turn the horse hides into dazzling colors. From the echoing bugle of the parade to post until the gates shut behind them, Trish knew there was no place on earth she’d rather be.

  They broke clean at the shot and came off the pack by the end of the first turn. Trish sang to her mount, holding her steady about a half length ahead of the second place. She heard the cries of the jockeys and the grunts of the straining horses. When the other horse drew even with her stirrups, she loosened the reins. The mare settled lower, lengthening her stride. They pounded into the far turn, a two-horse race with the others trailing.

  The other jockey went for his whip with a furlong to go. Trish leaned forward even more. “Go for it, you beauty. Come on. Now!” The mare turned it on and drove across the finish line three lengths ahead.

  “I knew you could do it. And this was a nice fat purse too. You earned your feed for another year.” She cantered on around the track, then dismounted at the winner’s circle.

  “An excellent ride.” Diego shook her hand.

  “I hate to say I told you so…” Trish grinned up at him.

  “You’re welcome to say that anytime.”

  They positioned themselves for the camera and Bob held the trophy aloft. The mare sniffed the silver bowl just as the cameras flashed.

  “That oughta be a good one.” Trish waved as she headed for the dressing room.

  The next race didn’t go as well, but with the quality of the horse Trish felt a place was pretty good. So did the owner, a man Trish hadn’t ridden for before. She and the trainer exchanged smiles as the owner’s wife stepped close enough to get sprayed by dirt when the horse shook.

  In her next race John Anderson stood with David in the saddling paddock with his gelding Final Command. “Good to see you, Trish.” He shook her hand. “I’m sorry to miss your dad, but I know you two know this old boy better than anyone else. Just remember, I insist you use the whip if he needs it.” David boosted Trish up and handed her a whip. He hid his wink in the horse’s mane and backed the sorrel gelding out of the stall. They all knew how much Trish hated to use a whip, but this old boy seemed to need encouragement. He liked to run with the pack; winning wasn’t on his list of priorities.

  “We’re gonna turn this into one of your priorities,” Trish muttered at the flickering ears. “You and I both know you can run better than you’ve let anyone else guess.”

  Trish almost waited too long. Command ran neck and neck with another horse, letting the leader pull away. “Too bad,” Trish hollered as she brought the whip down on his shoulder—twice. A spurt of speed brought them up with the leader coming out of the turn. With a furlong to go, Trish whapped him again. Now the race was on. They thundered down the stretch, whisker to whisker.

  The other jockey struck his horse again and just the thwap of it sent Command surging ahead—to win by a nose.

  “Well, that’s the first time I’ll have to thank another jockey for making my horse run faster,” Trish commented to John Anderson when she slid to the ground.

  “What happened?”

  “This old boy didn’t want to be hit again, so when the other jockey went to the whip, we ran faster.” She wiped sand out of her eyes. “Wish he didn’t mind being behind. It gets mighty dirty that way.” She patted the gelding’s muddy face. “Thanks, old boy. We done good.”

  Trish whistled her way across the infield after changing clothes.

  “You sound mighty happy,” Brad said as Trish dropped into a chair in their tack room.

  “Good day. Fattened up my bank account some and had fun doing it. David still at the testing barn?”

  “Yeah, should be here any minute. You hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “Good, let’s hit the cook shack. I’ll buy.”

  “No, I’ll buy. We’ll celebrate two out of three.”

  By the time they returned, David had Command all rinsed off and was scraping him down. Brad took over the job while Trish handed David a ham sandwich and a can of soda.

  “Thanks. To what do I owe this generosity?” David took a big bite out of one half.

  “My wins.” Trish sipped her Diet Coke. She poured some in her hand for Final Command to lick. “I just feel so-o-o good.” She handed Brad the sheet to throw over the steaming horse. “Here, I’ll walk him. Then we can load and go home.”

  Hal lay dozing in his recliner when Trish and David walked into the house after finishing the chores. With only the gelding, Spitfire, and the foals to care for, chores didn’t take long.

  Trish’s mind flew back to the months when Hal had been too weak to do much more than lie in his recliner. But his smile chased the fears back into hiding, even though she knew he was scheduled for another chemotherapy treatment on Monday.

  “Where’s Mom?” Trish asked.

  “Sleeping.”

  “Is she…?”

  “No, no.” Hal shook his head. “She’s just resting. This has been a terribly exhausting day. But she put the roast in the oven before her nap, said we’d eat about six-thirty.”

  Trish felt the sigh reach all the way down to her toes. What a relief. She plunked down on the sofa and stretched her hands over her head.

  “Well, how did you do?” Hal asked.

  “Two wins and a place.” She went on to tell her dad the story of Command and the whips. They were laughing together when Marge yawned her way into the room.

  The entire evening felt like evenings should feel, as far as Trish was concerned. No more mention was made of the morning at the track.

  Until Sunday night. Trish knew her mother had a hard time during church, but she also knew if she let down, she’d have been sniffling too. She’d only had a place and a show at the track, but winning all the time didn’t carry quite the urgency it did before the accident. Still, with the horses she’d ridden, those paying positions had been nothing to be ashamed of.

  “Did you see this?” Hal asked when Trish walked in the door after chores. He handed Trish the sports section from The Oregonian, Portland’s major newspaper.

  A colored picture of her and Spitfire driving for the finish line covered most of the top half of the page. The headline read, “Can This Girl and Her Horse Win the Derby?” Trish grinned at her father over the top of the paper and then read through the article. Most of it seemed pretty accurate.

  “They think just because no other woman has won the Derby, we don’t have a chance.”

  “You’re going to hear that a lot.”

  “But most of it depends on Spitfire. He does the running.” Trish shook her head and finished the article. “They don’t give him too much of a chance, do they?”

  “You know Seattle Slew was a shocker because he came from the Pacific Northwest. The racing world doesn’t think we have too much going out here.”

  “Humph.” Trish snorted her opinion. She went back to reading the article—again. “At least they mention that Spitfire is a son of Seattle Slew. You’d think that would carry some weight. And how abo
ut the way he won the Santa Anita Derby? What’s the matter with the jerk that wrote this?” She looked for the byline at the top of the article.

  “Ken Davis is known as the best sportswriter in the area.”

  “He’s a jerk.”

  “He’s said plenty of good things about you in the past.”

  “Half a jerk, anyway.” Trish grinned at her father.

  “You better get used to it, Tee. You’re going to hear, read, and see all kinds of stuff in the weeks ahead. Remember what they say, you’re in trouble when you begin to believe your own press.” Hal reached for her hand to pull him up from his chair. “Let’s eat.”

  The family gathered for their weekly meeting after stuffing themselves with a fine meal of pork chops, potatoes, and gravy. Marge’s apple crisp added the final touch.

  “Sure beats mine and Dad’s cooking.” Trish rubbed her stomach as she leaned back in her chair.

  “You ain’t just a kiddin’,” David affirmed.

  “Thanks a lot.” Trish tossed her napkin at him. “I didn’t see you in the kitchen, buddy.”

  Marge steepled her fingers together under her chin. “Thank you all for what you did for me and for all of us during the last several days. Trish, the eagle meant a lot to me, even if I didn’t say so. And all the times each of you tried to get me to talk.” A tear ran down one cheek, and she wiped it away. “Please forgive me.”

  Hal handed her a tissue. And then one to Trish. He and David got by without—just barely.

  What about the Derby? Trish wanted to ask, but she bit her tongue and kept silent. Just having her family all together was enough for today.

  Chapter

  07

  I think you should go,” Marge said quietly the next morning.

  Trish darted a look at her father. He had that deep, considering look on his face. She wanted him to hurry and say “Yes, we’re going to the Derby” so she could finish getting ready for school.