Zelia picks up her fork and spears a piece of avocado from her salad. “I’d like to see where you ride,” she says. “I won’t be bored. I’d like to meet the horses. And your riding friends.”
The kitchen is suddenly too hot, too small. I take a sip of cold water and feel it trace an icy path to my belly. Mom is watching me with that questioning look she gets—I think of it as her therapist expression.
I feel panicky, but I can’t think of any way to get out of it without making Zelia wonder what’s up. I don’t want her to think I’m hiding something. I shrug, trying to look like it doesn’t matter. “Okay then. We’ll both go.”
MOM DROPS US at the stables and blows me a kiss before she drives off. Sometimes I think she sees a lot more than I want her to.
As Zelia and I enter the barn, I can hear voices and laughter. Sebastian and Schooner are cross-tied in the aisle. Max is combing Sebastian’s mane, and Tavish is sitting on a tack box lacing up his leather riding boots.
They look up as we enter. Max’s face registers surprise and a flicker of some emotion I can’t read; Tavish’s face is open, friendly. The same as always, I think. Nothing has changed. He doesn’t know anything about me. My stomach unknots itself, and I take a deep shaky breath.
“Hey, guys. Tavish, this is my friend Zelia.” I look at Max. “She’s staying with me for a few days.”
Max nods. “Hi, Zelia.”
I wish I could talk to Max. I want to explain, though I don’t know what exactly I want to say or why I feel the need to explain anything.
“Are you riding with us?” Tavish asks.
“She doesn’t ride,” I say quickly.
Zelia strokes Sebastian’s nose. “I’ve ridden a few times. At camp.”
“She could ride Bug,” Tavish says. “He’s quiet. And he could use the exercise.”
I shrug and turn to Zelia. “Do you want to come?” I half expect a rebuff, but to my surprise, Zelia’s eyes are shining.
“I’d love to come,” she says.
Max has been watching us, her face still and unreadable. Now she turns away and begins brushing out Sebastian’s tail. I wonder what she is thinking.
I fetch Bug and Keltie. Tavish must have already groomed Bug today—the old gelding’s coat has a soft gleam. Zelia seems relaxed and easy around the horses. She helps me groom Keltie, and we quickly tack up and follow the others outside.
Tavish finds a helmet that fits Zelia, and I give her a leg up into the saddle. She picks up the reins and sits straight-backed and relaxed. I lengthen the stirrup leathers for her; then I mount Keltie.
The trail is too narrow for all of us to ride side by side, so Tavish and Max ride ahead. They are laughing and chatting. I try to hear their conversation, but despite the clear windless weather, I can catch only fragments.
I look at Zelia, her black hair long and sleek beneath the black velvet riding hat, her hands relaxed on the reins. She looks like she has been riding all her life. Behind her, on the other side of the trail, the lake lies cold and still, its surface as smooth as glass.
She turns to me, blue eyes shining, lips curving in a contented smile,deep dimples in both cheeks. “This is wonderful,”she says. Bug tosses his head and Zelia’s clear laugh rings out.
“See?” she says. “He agrees with me.”
“It is wonderful,” I say softly. “I’m glad you came.”
“Are you?” Zelia suddenly looks uncertain.
“Yes,” I say, meaning it.
Zelia bends forward and strokes Bug’s neck. Her hair falls forward, hiding her face. When she speaks, her voice is muffled.
“Sophie, I think I’ve really messed up.”
“What do you mean?”
She turns toward me and her eyes are full of tears. I’ve never seen her cry before, and it scares me a little.
Zelia shakes her head. “I can’t...I can’t say anything. I can’t tell.” Her voice is wobbly. “Sophie, you’re my friend, right? Best friends forever?”
“Best friends,” I say. I mean to say the forever part too, but somehow I just don’t.
She doesn’t notice. “Okay. Because...Look, I’m not very good at apologizing, okay? But I know I’ve done some stupid things lately...All I’m trying to say is, you...I need you to keep being my friend, okay?”
I nod, feeling my own eyes fill with tears. “I will,” I say helplessly. “Of course I will.”
We ride in silence for a few minutes. I study the distorted reflections of the bare trees in the lake’s smooth surface while Keltie’s body moves smoothly beneath mine.
Max and Tavish have stopped their horses and are waiting for us to catch up. When we reach them, Max twists in her saddle to face us, holding Sebastian’s reins in one hand.
“How’re you guys doing?” she asks. “Zelia, how do you like Bug?”
“He’s all right,” Zelia says offhandedly.
“You’ve ridden a bit before, right?” Max asks her.
“A few times.”
“So are you up for a trot then?” Max looks at Zelia, and there is an unspoken challenge in her eyes. “I mean, we can just walk if you’d rather.”
Zelia just shrugs. “Whatever.”
I watch Zelia carefully. I know she can never resist a dare, and I feel responsible for her, out here in the woods.
Max nods and pushes Sebastian forward into a brisk trot. Tavish keeps Schooner alongside, and Zelia and I allow Bug and Keltie to match their pace. Zelia’s hands are steady, her back straight. She posts neatly, rising and falling with the rhythm of Bug’s gait.
I shake my head. “You can really ride. I can’t believe you never told me.”
Zelia’s eyes are alive with laughter again. She is so different from me. When I am unhappy it takes forever for me to shake it off.
“I’ve only ridden a handful of times. Honestly.”
“You’re a natural then,” I say, suppressing a small flash of jealousy as I recall my early riding lessons. It figures, somehow, that Zelia would instantly achieve a level of skill and ease that took me at least a year of hard work.
She grins at me, pleased. “Thanks.”
Max turns and looks over her shoulder. “Okay back there?”
“Fine.” I give her a thumbs-up.
“How about a canter? Is Zelia up for it?”
Zelia looks annoyed. “I have ears. You can talk to me, you know.”
Max shrugs. “Sorry.” She doesn’t sound apologetic.
Zelia takes her reins in one hand and flips her hair back over her shoulder. “A canter is fine.” She kicks Bug on and he leaps forward, looking a little indignant at her abruptness.
Tavish and Max quickly steady their horses as Bug barrels past them. Max scowls at me, and I shrug. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with Max today or what is going on between her and Zelia.
I let Keltie ease forward into a canter and try to relax and enjoy the ride. A few horse-lengths ahead, Zelia is galloping, crouched like a jockey over Bug’s back. She seems to be managing just fine.
Tavish brings Schooner up alongside me, and our two horses settle into an easy comfortable lope. He gives me a quizzical grin, one eyebrow raised. When he smiles, his whole face lights up and two lines crease his cheeks, framing his mouth like parentheses. I wonder how old he is. Older than me. Still in high school, though he doesn’t go to our school. Seventeen, maybe.
I grin back.
Zelia has galloped out of sight around a bend in the trail, but we soon catch up to her. Bug is old, and while he’s happy for a chance to run flat out, he won’t go far at that speed.
He is trotting slowly, head low, breathing hard.
Zelia looks triumphant, exhilarated. “That was great,” she says, looking directly at Max.
“You look pretty good on him,” Max admits grudgingly.
Tavish laughs. “Pretty good? She looked like a pro.”
For just a brief moment it feels okay, relaxed, like we could all be friends.
> Zelia shrugs. “It’s easy. Nothing to it. I don’t know what the big deal is.”
I glance up at Max, catch her rolling her eyes at Tavish and suddenly feel irritated with all three of them. A glance at my watch doesn’t help; I didn’t realize how late it was.
I swing Keltie around on the trail. “Zelia, we better get back to the barn,” I say over my shoulder.
“I’ll ride back with you,” Tavish says.
Max gives me an apologetic half grin.“I should get back too.” She turns Sebastian around and pulls up alongside me.“Let’s go.”
I look over at Zelia. She and Bug are standing a little way off, and her smile looks stiff on her face.
“Come on, Zelia,” I say. “Mom’s going to be waiting for us. And Bug’s had enough for one day. He’s an old guy. Let’s get him home.”
We ride back in silence, the air crackling with the tension of unspoken words.
Nineteen
MY MOM IS sitting in her car when we get back to the barn.
She honks the horn as soon as she see us. “You’re late!” she calls out the window.”Hurry up. I have a meeting at the university.”
We quickly strip off saddles and bridles and turn Bug and Keltie out into the Weld. Zelia waves good-bye to Tavish, who gives her a quick grin but doesn’t say anything. I look for Max, wanting to say good-bye, but she has disappeared.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Mom. “I guess we lost track of time.”
Mom just nods. She drives quickly home, rushes out to her office and flies past us again with her arms full of papers. “I’ll be back around six,” she says over her shoulder.
She’s wearing lipstick, and I wonder if Patrick will be at the meeting.
Zelia helps herself to a can of Coke from the fridge. “That was so much fun,” she says. She perches on a kitchen stool and takes a swig. “I don’t know why I’ve never gone riding with you before.”
“You usually have to have lessons and stuff,” I say. “They don’t just rent out the horses. You were lucky that Tavish let you ride Bug.”
“Mmm. So what’s the deal with him, anyway?”
I pick at my nail polish and try not to think about what Max said about Tavish liking me. I wish I didn’t blush so easily. “Umm. What do you mean?”
“Like, does he work there or what?”
I look up. “Oh. That.Yeah, he mucks out stalls and exercises some of the horses. Bug’s his horse. Tavish used to show him on the junior jumper circuit, but he retired him a couple of years ago. He shows other people’s horses though...he’s really good.”
“Huh. He’s kind of geeky though, don’t you think?”
I shrug, feeling defensive. “I don’t know. I’ve never noticed.”
Zelia is quiet, and I wonder what she is thinking. I’m not sure why, but I don’t want her thinking about Tavish.
“So, what do you want to do?” I ask.
Zelia shrugs. “Oh...I don’t know. I need a smoke. Can we go outside for a minute?”
Since no one is home, we sit on the back steps. Zelia shakes two cigarettes out of her pack and hands one to me. I reach out automatically, but then I think of Max and I hesitate.
“Uh. No, thanks.”
Zelia’s eyes hold mine as she slides the cigarette back into the pack. She lights her own and takes a drag, still watching me.
“I hope you’re not going to start giving me lectures about this,” she says.
I shake my head. “You can do what you want,” I say. “I just don’t want one.”
Zelia laughs skeptically. “Uh-huh.”
I keep glancing at the neighbor’s house. They have a clear view into our backyard, and I don’t really want them to see Zelia smoking.
Finally, Zelia butts out her cigarette in her empty Coke can. “So. Let’s go in your mom’s office and hang out.”
I hesitate. “Okay.”
Mom’s left the door unlocked, I guess because she was in such a rush. Zelia drops into one of the soft leather chairs and gestures for me to sit in the other.
She clears her throat. “So, Sophie,” she says.
She is kidding around, talking in a phoney accent, but I feel anxious. I don’t like this game, and I know Mom wouldn’t want us coming in here without her permission.
“What brings you here today?” Zelia asks me.
“Well, Dr. Keenan,” I begin, stalling while I think of something to say. “I have this problem...”
Zelia leans forward. “Tell me more about this... problem.”
I stare at my hands. “Well...I keep chipping away at my nail polish. I have to reapply it at least once a day.”
Zelia frowns. “But, Sophie, this is serious. This is a serious problem. Tell me why you do this.”
Through the window I can see the bare branches of the weeping willow waving in the wind, skinny arms twisting against the gray sky.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess it gives me something to do with my hands.”
“Aha,” says Zelia. “I see.”
“Aha?”
“Aha. I understand. It is obvious you are afraid of sex.”
I snort. “That’s ridiculous. Just because I—”
Zelia frowns.“Do not call Dr.Keenan ridiculous.Dr.Keenan is a highly respected headshrinker.”
I giggle. “Mom hates that expression.”
“No doubt.” Zelia leans back and puts her feet up on the coffee table. “Okay. My turn.”
I hesitate. I know Zelia has set this up deliberately, but I want to ask her what is wrong for real. It doesn’t seem right to make it a game.
“Go on,” she says. “Ask me.”
Zelia’s eyes are too bright, her face too flushed. She looks feverish.
“Ask me,” she insists. The words are as tight and hard as two fists.
So I do. I lean forward and say, “So, Zelia. Tell me why you are here. Tell me...tell me what is wrong.”
Zelia is quiet for a moment. She takes her feet off the coffee table and tucks them underneath her in the black leather armchair.
“Dr. Keller,” she says.
She isn’t looking at me. Her eyes are fixed on the tall shelves lined with my mother’s books: The Therapist’s Use of Self; Transference and Counter-Transference; Trauma and Recovery. I wonder if she wishes she was talking to my mother instead of me.
“Yes,” I say. Then I just wait. My heart is beating hard: tell me, tell me, tell me.
Zelia closes her eyes for a moment; then she opens them and looks at me. “I think I’m in love,” she says.
“With Josh?” I ask.
She looks at me blankly for a moment, and then she shakes her head. “No. No. With Michael.”
“Michael?” For a moment I can’t think who she means. Then, heart sinking, I realize who she must be talking about.
“Not—not your mom’s boyfriend? That Michael?”
Zelia frowns at me. “Dr. Keller,” she reproaches, shaking her index finger at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be calm and nonjudgmental?”
“Right. Right.” I collect myself, rearrange my features. My head is spinning. “So. You say you are in love with your mother’s boyfriend, Michael. Is he aware of your feelings?”
Zelia nods.
“So...” I can’t think clearly, so I fall back on Zelia’s line. “Tell me more about this.”
Zelia leans toward me. “This is all confidential, right?”
I nod. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”
“Okay.” She tugs at the frayed ends of her over-long sleeves and tucks her hands inside. “Okay.”
I wait silently. It is starting to get dark outside. The sun sets so early now.I wish I had turned on a light,but I don’t want to interrupt her story, so I just sit and watch her face in the darkening room.
“I liked him,” she says suddenly. “I know I said I hated him, but I didn’t really. He was nice to me. He listened. I told him some stuff, about not knowing my dad, you know?”
“Yeah.�
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“He really listened.” She meets my eyes briefly. “Lee never listens.”
I nod.
“We’d sit and talk for hours,” she says softly. “About everything, you know? About life.”
I think I know where this story is going. I don’t want to hear it. Part of me wants to put my hands over my ears like a little kid: La la la, I can’t hear you. But another part of me is fascinated.
“I could tell he was attracted to me,” Zelia says.
Her voice is hushed. Behind her, the wall clock is ticking too loudly.
“I would see him looking at me. Always looking at me.”
“That’s...that’s not right,” I blurt out.
Zelia frowns. “Dr. Keller, I’d appreciate it if you could keep your judgments to yourself.”
I don’t want to play this game anymore. I wish it really was my mother sitting here listening to Zelia’s story. She’d know what to say.
“Anyway,” Zelia continues, “he moved in and we were having these intense conversations all the time...and then he and Lee would be doing their lovey-dovey thing. All over each other. And I hated it. I hated it.”
“I remember that,” I say. I am trying to fit this new version with what I thought I knew, going back over our conversations. “So...then what happened?”
Zelia’s eyes meet mine and hold on tight. Her pupils are huge inky pools in her pale face.
“One night Lee was out, and Michael and I were talking. On the couch. I could see him, see how he was looking at me. I just felt like I could do anything, you know?”
“Uh-huh.” I don’t know, not really.
“And I just...I just put my hand on his leg, you know? That’s all. But he let me. He didn’t say anything. We just kept on talking.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver, but I turn away and look outside at the darkening sky and the bare branches of the willow.
“Maybe I should turn on a light,” I say.
“Just—just listen, Sophie.”
There is a note in her voice that I have rarely heard. A plea, almost. And she has called me Sophie, not Dr. Keller. I meet her eyes. “Okay.”
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