Zelia takes my question seriously. “You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I never thought I’d say this, but she’s okay.” She lifts her chin, flips her hair back over her shoulder and grins. “Not as good as you, Dr. Keller.”
I toss my backpack at her. “Goof.”
I suspect that Max and Zelia still don’t like each other too much, but we don’t talk about it and they are at least polite to each other, if not exactly friendly. It would be great if they got along better, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. Anyway, it’s working out okay. I ride with Max and sometimes with Tavish, and I spend most of my lunch hours with Zelia. At least once a week, though, I have lunch with Max.
We go to the pizza place sometimes, or we take our sandwiches and drive down to Dallas Road. If it’s cold and windy, we eat in her car, watching the waves crashing and tossing driftwood high onto the beach. One calm sunny day we walk the path winding along the cliff top.
“It’s beautiful,” Max says. We stop walking and stand facing the water. The mountains are a jagged snow-peaked line against a clear blue sky. A huge container ship looks like a tiny toy against the dark blue water. Bright yellow and green rectangles soar from the cliff: paragliders catching the updraft and flying with the breeze. I draw a deep breath, feel the sun on my face and drink it all in. Something is stirring in my belly, rushing through my veins. I feel like I could fly.
FINALLY SCHOOL BREAKS for the holidays. Patrick is away for a few weeks, visiting his parents in Alberta, but Gran is at our house most days. It’s her first Christmas since my grandfather died, and she’s finding it hard. She bakes hundreds of cookies; writes Christmas cards; makes red, white and green cross-stitched decorations and hangs them all over the house: stars, snowmen, Christmas trees. I can barely take a step without bumping into them. It’s like she’s trying to fill every last empty space. Sometimes I sit and help her, threading needles and listening to her talk.
“It’s a funny thing,” she says one day. “You start thinking your life is complete, polished, everything just the way you want it. And then it all goes and changes on you. Your grandfather dying, you and your mom moving out here...everything is so different.”
I pick up a piece of fabric she has dropped and lay it on the table.
She sighs. “I had no idea a year ago that I’d be spending this Christmas with you and Jeanie.” She looks at me. “I’m not complaining, mind you. I’ve never been one to complain about my life.”
“That’s okay,” I say.
Gran picks up the scrap of fabric and turns it in her hands. “I suppose I should make another quilt,” she says. “All these little pieces of cloth. Might as well make something from them.”
It’s hard to imagine that all these odds and ends could be stitched together into something beautiful. “Teach me how,” I say impulsively. “Maybe I can help with this one.”
Gran actually smiles at me for once. “Maybe you can.”
SATURDAY DECEMBER 21, is Zelia’s birthday. It is winter solstice, the shortest darkest day of the year. I love this day. You know that this is as bad as it’s going to get and that from here on it will get lighter and brighter as we get closer and closer to spring. It is my first winter in Victoria, and Max has told me that the crocuses will start to come up in January.
I have invited Zelia to come out to the barn today. I call Tavish to ask if she can ride Bug.
“No problem,” he says. I can almost hear his wide grin over the phone. “It’ll do him good to get out. I don’t have time to ride him as much as I should anyway.”
“Great. That’s great. She’ll like that.”
“So...is she doing okay, do you think?”
I nod; then I realize he can’t see me. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re bringing her riding. It’ll be good for her as well as Bug.”
I laugh. “Equine therapy.”
“Exactly,” Tavish says.
I’m about to say good-bye but I find myself saying something else. “Tavish? Are you still in touch with friends from Georgetown?” Even as I say the words, I realize something: I’m not scared of the answer. It doesn’t matter anymore.
He laughs. “No, we left there when I was twelve. Anyway, to tell you the truth, I didn’t really have a lot of friends there.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nah. Twelve-year-old boys are supposed to play hockey or baseball, not ride horses. Those weren’t actually the best years. To be honest, I was pretty happy to leave.”
I clear my throat. “Yeah,” I say. “Me too. Me too.” Someday, I think, Tavish and I might talk about Georgetown.
LEE DROPS ZELIA off at my place in the morning. After lunch, Max picks us up, and we drive out to the barn. Tavish has already brought our horses in from the Weld and knocked the worst of the mud off for us. Max calls him a sweetie, and I feel a tiny pang of something like jealousy. Lately I have been thinking I am maybe, perhaps, just a little bit in love with them both. It doesn’t matter, not yet anyway. Just having friends and being liked for who I am feels like enough of a miracle for now.
We groom, tack up and head out to the woods.
Zelia is riding up front with Tavish. Bug’s round belly sways from side to side, and he jogs along to keep up with Schooner’s long strides. Max rides beside me; Sebastian and Keltie are more evenly matched.
Max holds her reins in one hand and runs the other through Sebastian’s short gray mane. “It’s winter solstice,” she says.
“I know.” I’m surprised. It’s not something most people pay attention to.
She grins. “It was some fall, huh.”
“Some fall,” I agree. We ride in silence for a while, and I think back over the last few months.
“Hey, Max.”
“Yeah?”
“Remember that thing I told you about Michelangelo and the sculptures?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
“I think I just figured out what’s wrong with it.”
She looks at me, waiting.
“Well, it’s kind of what you said, I guess. About making choices. But also...well, we’re never done, are we? I mean, we’re always still...”
She nods again. “Changing.”
“Yeah.” I think about it for a minute. “You know, Mom’s dating someone.”
Max raises her eyebrows. “And?”
I shrug. “It’s weird but okay, I guess.” Keltie snorts, as if she’s agreeing, and I laugh. “And you won’t believe this, but Gran’s teaching me how to quilt.”
“Your gran? Seriously?”
“Yeah. She’s being a bit nicer lately, actually.” I picture Gran sitting at the table, surrounded by scraps of cloth and talking about her memories. I have an idea, but I’m not sure I can put it in words quite well enough to say it out loud. This is it: that maybe life is kind of like quilting. That maybe every scrap— every experience—has a place. Maybe nothing needs to be hidden or thrown away.
“Max,” I say impulsively, “I’m so glad we’re friends.”
She raises her eyebrows and grins, her brown eyes locked on mine in a way that makes it hard to look away. “Me too,” she says. “Me too.”
Just then, Sebastian snorts and leaps to one side. Max quickly puts her free hand on the reins and mutters something softly to him. He is seeing one of his ghosts and is not listening. He snorts, rears up and swings around. His hindquarters barge into Keltie, who squeals indignantly and then leaps sideways.
Next thing I know, I am flat on my back in the mud. Three pairs of eyes are looking down at me. Summer blue, autumn brown, spring green. Zelia, Max and Tavish. They have all dismounted and are standing around me looking anxious. I give them a feeble grin and struggle to lift my head. “I’m okay.”
Max and Zelia reach down to help me up. Tavish has caught Keltie and is stroking her neck soothingly.
“Thanks,” I say, taking Zelia’s and Max’s hands and letting them pull me to my feet. My left leg, hip and
back are covered in mud, but I don’t seem to be hurt. I move my limbs experimentally. Everything still works.
“You all right?” Zelia asks.
“I’m fine.” I shake my head gingerly. “Not quite sure what happened.” I take Keltie’s reins from Tavish. He doesn’t say anything but under the brim of his riding hat, his eyes meet mine with sympathy and humor. He grins at me, and then he turns and places his foot in the stirrup. In one smooth motion, he swings himself back onto his horse.
Zelia is pale. She looks more shaken than me. “God, Sophie. I thought you’d be killed. That looked awful.”
Max laughs, not unkindly. “They say it takes a hundred falls before you can call yourself a rider.”
“I’d rather just stay a beginner then,” Zelia says.
Max laughs again. “Need a leg back up, Sophie?”
I place my muddy boot in her cupped hands and she boosts me up into the saddle. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Max looks at her hands ruefully before wiping them off on her black suede chaps. “How about you, Zelia?”
Zelia still looks a little pale, but she shakes her head. “I know how to mount,” she says.
Max shrugs. “Whatever you want, birthday girl.”
I grin at Max, who manages not to roll her eyes.
Zelia springs gracefully into the saddle, and we ride on down the path, sometimes four abreast, sometimes in single file on the narrow parts. When we come to a place where the trail forks, I call up to the others.
“I’m going to ride the loop trail down along the lakeshore. Let Keltie have a little gallop,” I say. “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.”
They nod. I turn off to the right and watch them disappear into the trees. Then it is just Keltie and me. I run my hand down her silky neck. “Ready to go?” I whisper.
I lean forward slightly, press my legs to her sides and open my fingers on the reins as Keltie eases into a gentle canter. Her hooves pound the rhythm of my heartbeat into the solid ground beneath us. I sink my weight down into my heels, tuck my body closer to hers and let her go—faster, faster. Spreading my wings. Flying.
When we reach the lake, Keltie and I finally pull up to a trot and then a walk. The trees are still and solid, dark silhouettes against a blue winter sky. The lake glistens in the sunlight. I jump down lightly and stand at Keltie’s side, holding her reins.
I lean against Keltie for a moment, feeling her warmth. I watch our reflection shimmer in the glassy surface of the lake and run my right hand over my left arm, up to my shoulder. The bones at the back are still there but maybe not quite as sharp as they were. I don’t need them to be. I’m not running away from the old Sophie Keller anymore. I can feel the muscles moving beneath my sweater, right in that place where I used to imagine wings should grow.
On impulse I bend down and pick up a stone from the water’s edge. It is smooth and round in my hand. I throw it as far as I can into the lake and watch it drop through the smooth surface. It barely makes a splash, but its ripples go on forever.
Robin Stevenson was born in England, grew up in Ontario and now lives in Victoria, British Columbia, with her partner and three-year-old son. When not making up stories, Robin is a social worker and university instructor.
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