The Saturday morning papers agreed.
“Kinda nice, wouldn’t you say?” Trish asked Spitfire during their long gallop a bit later. Spitfire snorted. “All the publicity; you’re famous now. How does it feel?” Spitfire shook his head. “Wish Red were here,” Trish spoke her thoughts. “He’s more fun to talk to than you.” Spitfire snorted again. At the thought of their first kiss, Trish felt tingly in her middle. It would be nice to see Red again.
There wasn’t much time for conversation on the gallop with Sarah’s Pride.
“Tomorrow we’ll run her with blinders.” Patrick pushed back his hat and scratched his forehead. “She pulled out on you when that sorrel came up beside you. She always do that?”
“Seems to.” Trish helped David finish scraping the sleek red hide. “Let’s get done here. I’m starved.”
That afternoon’s program didn’t go as well. Trish again had two mounts, but she only pulled off a place. In the other race not only was she boxed in, but the horse got bumped and finished second to last.
“Mom and Dad in yet?” Trish asked after a quick change in the jockey room. “I made reservations at a restaurant down at the inner harbor. The woman at the hotel desk said it was a really great place to eat.”
“They’re here,” David answered. “But Dad’s already gone to bed. Trish, he doesn’t look good at all.”
Chapter
07
Not good” didn’t begin to cover how bad Trish’s father looked.
“Go ahead, wake him,” her mother said. “He wants you to.”
Trish crammed her fist against her teeth to keep from crying out. How can he look so much worse? He hasn’t even been gone a week. She tiptoed forward to stand next to the bed. “Dad?” She touched the bruised hand lying on top of the covers. When Hal didn’t respond, she turned a questioning look to her mother.
Marge nodded.
“Dad.” Louder this time. Trish gently shook his shoulder.
Her father’s eyelids fluttered. His eyes seemed sunken back in his head, and the skin of his face looked gray against the sharp cheekbones. He had lost weight again. It was obvious by the creases from his nose to the corners of his mouth. Slowly, as though moving against a heavy weight, Hal’s eyes opened.
“Trish.” He turned his hand to take hers. “Sorry I’m so tired.” His voice faded in and out like an out-of-tune radio. “David, we—we’ll talk in the morning, okay?” His eyes closed again before anyone could even answer.
Trish watched him breathe. Each breath seemed a struggle, yet the effort hardly raised the blanket. Where has my strong, dark-haired, laughing dad with the broad shoulders gone? Trish thought. The one who tossed me into my racing saddle as if I were a featherweight. The one who used to race me up from the barns at home? The man who knew God and trusted Him—my father.
She stroked the back of his hand where an IV had infiltrated and left terrible bruises. His hands had always calmed both Trish and the horses. Now they looked too thin for any kind of strength. He coughed, but even in sleep he’d learned to be careful not to cough too hard.
Trish wiped her cheeks and eyes with her other hand.
Marge handed her some tissues.
Trish had almost forgotten her mother and brother were there. All her love and strength focused on her father. She drew in a deep breath that snagged on the lump in her throat.
Then Trish heard the others leave the room. “God, you promised to hear our prayers, and we prayed for my dad to get better. You promised. You promised.” Her whisper faded away as the tears chased each other down her cheeks.
Trish quietly left the room, then leaned against the door frame of the connecting living room. She crossed her arms and braced her fists under her armpits to keep from shaking.
“What’s going on?” she pleaded with her mother.
“The doctors are trying a new method of treatment and your father reacted to it. He couldn’t keep anything down for two days, but insisted we come ahead anyway. Then we couldn’t get a direct flight, so the trip wore him out more than it should have.”
“He looks terrible.”
“I know. But a lot of that is because of exhaustion. He never sleeps well in the hospital.”
“Why are they trying a new treatment?” David asked.
“I promised your father I’d let him tell you about this last week.”
“Promises don’t mean much,” Trish blurted, then turned to her bedroom and closed the door behind her.
After changing into pajamas, she climbed into bed. Who cared about dinner? She didn’t want to talk to anyone. With pillows propped behind her, Trish leaned against the headboard. If Dad is getting better like we all thought, why the new treatment? If he isn’t getting better, what’s going on? Is he worse? She thought back to the weekend before. He hadn’t seemed worse. No coughing to speak of. He’d handled all the Derby stuff.
Trish tried to distract herself by examining her fingernails. None of this made any sense. Was God letting them down? She chewed on a torn cuticle until it bled. “Ouch.” She pressed her thumb on the skin to stop the bleeding.
What Scripture verses would help now? None came to mind.
Trish picked up War and Peace. Maybe reading would calm her mind. Half an hour later she dumped the book on the floor. She couldn’t hear anyone in the next room. Her watch read 8:30. She snapped off the light and snuggled down under the covers. The Jacuzzi from Kentucky would be real welcome about now.
After rolling over and smashing her pillow for the umpteenth time, Trish turned the light on again. She glared at the ceiling where she was sure her prayers were floating. Where had God gone? Picking up the eagle, she smoothed the carved wings. Suddenly she threw back the covers and, carrying the eagle, tiptoed into her parents’ room. She carefully set it on the nightstand where her father would see it when he woke up.
The door to their parents’ room was still closed when she and David left for the track in the morning. Drizzly skies matched Trish’s mood. A stiff wind blew the cold right through her as she galloped Spitfire and then Sarah’s Pride. Even the horses seemed glad to get back out of the weather. It felt more like Portland than Baltimore. She couldn’t have been prepared for weather on the East Coast. She’d never been there before. And we probably shouldn’t be here now, she thought.
Trish finished her chores without speaking to anyone. Patrick gave up after one look at her face. David never tried. He didn’t seem any better off than she was.
But by the time Hank Benson drove the limo through the gate, the sun and the clouds were playing a fast game of peek-a-boo. On the ride back to the hotel, Trish thought about Sundays at home. Chores, a good breakfast, and church. Then time to play with Miss Tee in the afternoon when the racing season was finished in Portland. She and Rhonda would probably go riding. The four musketeers would hang out somewhere. Whatever we did, we would have fun. Even if it was studying together.
Her last thought reminded Trish of finals. She’d better get in and hit the books again. She was only about three-fourths through the list, and all her assignments had to go back with David so he could bring her more. She shook her head.
“You okay?” David asked when they reached the door to their hotel suite.
“Yeah, sure.” Frown lines deepened on her forehead. How could she be okay when her father looked so awful?
When they entered the suite it was like going through a time warp.
Hal had showered and shaved and was sitting up in a chair reading the newspaper.
“Good morning. Breakfast should be here any minute.” His smile hid the lines Trish had seen the night before.
“D-Dad,” Trish stammered in shock.
Hal teasingly touched his cheek, chin, and nose. “I think it’s me. Last time I checked the mirror anyway.” He laid the paper aside. “Haven’t you a hug for me, Trish? I came a long way to get one.”
Trish flew across the room and threw herself into his arms, with David right behind her. “But
last night you—you looked—” She laid her head on his chest and soaked his robe lapel with her tears.
“I know, Tee. I know.” He patted her back with one hand and reached for David’s with the other. “I had hoped to get some rest so we could talk last night, but that trip wiped me out. Your mother and I really needed the sleep last night.”
“The time change didn’t help either.” Marge stood beside them, her hand on David’s shoulder.
There was a knock at the door. “That’s breakfast. We went ahead and ordered for you. I knew you’d be starved.” Marge went to open the door.
A waiter wheeled a white-clad table in, placed it in front of Hal’s chair, and raised two leaves, turning it into a larger round table. He skillfully arranged the place settings, poured ice water in the glasses, and pointed out the items. There was a basket of rolls and muffins, two carafes of coffee, fresh-squeezed orange juice, milk, and plates of pancakes, bacon, eggs, and hash browns.
“Looks great,” David said enthusiastically as he moved chairs into place. He walked the waiter to the door and tipped him.
Trish lifted the silver lid from her plate. “It even smells good.”
“Let’s say grace together.” Hal reached for Trish’s and Marge’s hands on either side of him. Then David joined the circle.
“Father, we thank you for this food. Thanks too for a safe trip and for taking good care of our family. Thank you for a new morning, a new day in which to praise you. Amen.” He opened his eyes and looked intently at each of them. “You have no idea how precious you are to me.”
Trish bit her bottom lip to keep the tears from flowing. She lifted the silver dome again to inhale the aroma of fresh bacon and hot cakes. That bought her time to get the tears swallowed. She didn’t want to cry again this morning. It was a time to be happy. They were all together.
She stole a peek at David. He was drinking his orange juice, not looking at anyone. Marge’s hand covered Hal’s, and her eyes were wet with tears.
“We sure missed you two,” Trish managed. “But we made it. Things have been running pretty smoothly.” She spread butter on her pancakes and poured syrup as though it were a typical Sunday morning. “I think Spitfire missed you too.”
Marge shook her head and quipped, “Too bad he couldn’t have joined us for breakfast.”
“Now that would not have been a bad idea,” Hal said, waving his fork. “Then I wouldn’t have to drive clear over there to watch him. And Trish would have more study time.”
Trish shook her head and groaned. “Don’t mention studying. Have any of you ever read War and Peace?”
“Yeah, it’s a real snoozer.” David poured coffee for himself, then his parents.
“It’s a classic,” Marge said, sipping her coffee. “A wonderful story.”
Trish and David exchanged glances. Their eyes said Parents!
“Mother,” David said seriously, “you’d have to be looney-tunes to love War and Peace.”
“Thank you for that comment on my taste in literature. Coming from someone who thinks the funnies and the sports page are all that matters in a newspaper, I’m complimented.”
Trish let her family’s laughter and good-natured banter flow around her like a warm tide. She ignored the dark lines and gray tinge of her father’s face. And when his trembling hands raised the coffee cup to his lips, she looked the other way. Nothing would spoil this moment for her.
The coffee drinkers were on their second cups, and Trish swirled the last bit of orange juice around the bottom of her glass. Wishing they’d ordered more, she relished the last drops.
“So, Dad, what’s going on with you?” David asked casually.
David, how could you? Trish felt like screaming at him.
Hal pulled on an ear and ran a finger around the rim of his cup. Finally he raised his gaze.
If Trish had never seen haunted eyes, she was seeing them now. She clenched her teeth against the pain she knew was coming.
“Well, the tumors in my lungs haven’t grown any.”
Trish let out the breath she’d been holding.
“But they found—” Hal swallowed, then continued. “The cancer has metastasized; that is, it’s traveled to somewhere else—to the liver and pancreas, in my case. That’s why the doctors decided to try a new protocol.”
Trish felt as if she were trying to swim to a surface that was out of reach. She was drowning.
“But—but I thought God was healing you! You said He always answers our prayers!”
“He does, Trish, He does.” Her father leaned toward her. “Or I wouldn’t be here now. Remember, they didn’t hold out much hope last fall when they found the first tumors. And those shrunk.”
“But now it’s worse?” Trish stared into her father’s dark brown eyes.
“Is that what you mean?”
“I mean that we continue to pray. We know that God knows what He’s doing—”
“Maybe you do, but not me. I don’t know any such thing right now.” Trish pushed herself to her feet, catching the chair before it toppled to the floor. When would she be able to breathe again? “Excuse me.” Her voice stuck in her throat. She felt as if she were slogging through mud on her way to her bedroom. She closed the door carefully behind her, as if being quiet would change what her father had just said.
She collapsed on the bed, clutching a pillow under her chin. “God, you’d better not let my father die. You promised to make him better. I read those words, I even memorized them. You said, ‘By His stripes you are healed.’” She beat her fist into the pillow.
“My Dad trusts you. You can’t let him down.” She rolled over and wrapped her arms around the pillow. “You can’t. You can’t.” She let the tears flow.
The pain in her chest clawed deeper. Was this what a broken heart felt like? She wiped her eyes and sat up. It seemed like hours had passed when she pulled off her boots and shoved her feet into her running shoes.
“I’ll come with you,” David said when she opened the door to leave.
“No!”
“Sorry, no choice. You can’t run around here by yourself.”
“You’re not my boss!” Trish threw the words over her shoulder as she thundered down the stairs.
David never responded. He just kept a few paces behind her.
Trish’s feet pounded the gravel, then the concrete sidewalk. She crossed a grassy field, ran up a hill, gasping for breath but refusing to stop. Downhill she picked up speed. At the bottom she slipped in a patch of mud but caught herself and ran on.
David dogged her steps. Trish could hear him struggle for breath too. The challenge? To run David into the ground. Her sides screamed with pain—her lungs, her legs. Finally she dropped to her hands and knees under a tree—and threw up. She gagged and retched and heaved again till there was nothing left but a feeling of complete exhaustion.
When she could move, Trish crawled to the trunk of the tree and leaned against it.
David lay on the grass nearby, his face on his arms.
“You didn’t have to come.” Trish finally spoke.
“I know.”
Trish sat with her back against the tree, her knees drawn up to her chest. She closed her eyes, listening—for what? Her nagger could finally make himself heard above the poundings in her body.
You blew it again. Every time you hit a problem you blow it. Trish shoved herself to her feet. “Let’s see about getting back. Any idea which way to go?”
David pointed to the left.
It was a long walk back.
For the next two days, Trish felt as if she were on a roller coaster. One minute she’d be up—mostly when she was at the track. Then all the fears would catch up and she’d crash down again. She gave up praying. Why pray when God wasn’t listening anyway? Her Bible verses? Hardly! She gritted her teeth and kept on.
Working the horses, schooling Spitfire and Sarah’s Pride, and studying. She smiled when she was supposed to, answered when people spoke to her, was po
lite when journalists asked her questions.
She even joked with the trainer for Nomatterwhat. He had a good sense of humor even if his horse didn’t.
Trish could keep the mask in place. She knew she could. She didn’t open her Bible. She didn’t allow the songs in, and she stayed away from the carved eagle—and her father. The latter wasn’t so difficult. He slept most of the time.
One night she found a familiar three-by-five card on her nightstand. Her father’s usually bold printing was a bit shaky but the verse was plain. “I will never leave nor forsake” (Hebrews 13:5).
Ha! What a joke! Trish wanted to rip the card up. Instead, she stuck it in her history book. She could deal with this setback. After all, she was tough. Wasn’t she?
Chapter
08
Let him out for half a mile, no more,” Hal told Trish on Wednesday morning. “The stopwatches will be on you.”
Trish nodded. She smoothed Spitfire’s mane to the right and stroked his neck. “Okay, fella, let’s do it.” She trotted him around the track and broke into a slow gallop just before the half-mile pole. As they passed the marker, she let him loose.
Spitfire showed top form as he fairly sizzled around the track. He was still picking up speed as they flashed past the finish line. Trish stood high in her stirrups to bring him back down. “Easy now. Come on, you know the rules. Save it for Saturday.”
Spitfire shook his head. He wanted, needed to run—all out.
“Don’t tell me, let me guess.” Trish grinned at the three men who waited for her at the exit gate. Patrick and David both clasped stopwatches in their hands. “Wasn’t he fantastic?”
Patrick nodded. “That he was, lass.” He grabbed his hat just in time. Spitfire was getting sneakier in his hat tosses. “You black clown, you.” Patrick rubbed the top of his bald head and settled the fedora back in place—firmly.
Trish couldn’t help giggling. Spitfire wore his “Who me?” look, his head slightly off to the side in case someone planned on smacking him. David loved it when he wasn’t the object of Spitfire’s pranks. Hal leaned against the fence, a grin erasing the look of weariness that now seemed permanently grooved on his face.
Golden Filly Collection One Page 55
