Golden Filly Collection Two (13 page)

“That’s Dad’s chair. You have no right sitting there.” She advanced on him like she would pull him bodily from the chair.

“Knock it off. I can sit here; Dad wouldn’t mind.” David raised his hands to keep her from pounding him.

“Trish, what is the matter with you?” Marge rose from her rocker.

“That’s Dad chair!” Trish screamed. “Neither of you care!” She stormed from the room, but before she was out of earshot she heard David say, “You’d better do something about her, Mom, before she goes off the deep end.”

Trish entered the sanctuary of her own room and wrapped both arms around herself to stop the shaking. Her throat and eyes burned. Was this what life would be like at home from now on? She bit her lip hard.
Who needs this?

It sounded as if her mother were in the next county when she came into Trish’s room sometime later. “Trish, we need to talk about this.”

Trish buried her face deeper in the pillow and shook her head. “I can’t,” she mumbled. She fell back into that black hole where memories and bad feelings didn’t exist.

She missed morning works the next day, and slept until her mother came in at ten. “You have to register today, Trish.” The voice cut through Trish’s fog like a drill sergeant’s.

Trish rolled on her back and threw an arm over her face. “I have all day.”

“No, you have an appointment with Pastor Mort at one. And you need to register first.”

Trish threw back the covers and leaped to her feet. “I’m not talking to him today, Mom.”

“Yes, you are,” Marge said firmly. “You promised me you would when you got back from Kentucky, remember?”

“Fine. I need to go to the bathroom.” She brushed past her mother and headed down the hall. Her head pounded like a herd of runaway ponies.

She drove into Vancouver with the top of the convertible down even though the skies were gray. Maybe a little rain on her head wouldn’t hurt.
You gotta get hold of yourself,
she ordered.
You’re acting crazy.

She stopped at a stoplight. Then the sound of a horn behind her made her pop the clutch. The car stalled. Another horn blared while Trish restarted her car and eased through the signal. She’d zoned out again.

A light mist was falling as Trish turned into the parking lot of the administration building at Clark College. She pushed the button to raise the convertible top and waited till it snapped in place. Raindrops formed a trickle down the windshield. Even the sky was crying. She clamped down on the thought.

She finally pushed herself out of the car and headed for the double glass doors. She could see long tables set up for registration inside.

“Excuse me,” someone behind her said.

Trish still had her hand on the door. She removed it and stepped aside. She couldn’t make herself go in.

She arrived early at the church for her appointment. When she closed her eyes and rested her head against the neck rest in her car, she tried to picture Spitfire—and their rides in Kentucky. The picture wouldn’t come. All she could see was the misery on her mother’s face, and on David’s when she yelled at him. What was she doing to them?

A tap on her window brought her back to the present with a start. “Oh—Pastor Mort.”

“Sorry, Trish. I didn’t mean to startle you. Would you like to come in now?”

Trish nodded and bit back the “Not really.”

“That’s some car you have there. We missed you. How was Kentucky?”

“Oh, it was…wonderful. Spitfire was as happy to see me as I was to see him. It’s hard being so far apart.” She walked through the door he held open for her. “Thanks.”

“Can I get you a Coke or something?” Pastor Mort hung his coat on a rack by the door.

Trish shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“Sit down, sit down. I know this is hard for you, Trish, but I’m glad to see you. It seems like you’ve been gone a long time.” He took a chair opposite Trish, rather than behind his desk.

Trish crossed her arms over her chest and slid down a bit in her chair. “I really have nothing to say.” She tried to sound casual, but realized she sounded rude.

“Your mother’s concerned about you, Trish.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Did you get registered at the college?”

Trish shook her head. “I couldn’t.”

“No room in the class?”

She shook her head again. “No, that wasn’t it. I just couldn’t do it.”

“I see.” He tapped a finger against his chin and leaned forward. “Trish, I want to help you, and I know I can, but you have to want help. I’m here for you anytime—day or night. I’ll come to your house, if that would be easier for you.” He waited for her response.

“I…ah—” Trish bit her bottom lip. “Okay, that would be easier.” She stood and fled from the room before the pastor could say anything more.

I just had to get outta there,
she thought on the drive home.
Maybe I need to get out of here!

“So what time is your class?” Marge asked from her rocking chair when Trish came in.

“No class.” Trish started down the hall to her room.

“You mean they were full already?”

Trish leaned her forehead on her crossed arms against the wall. “No, I mean I didn’t register. Mom, I can’t even think. I zone out, fall asleep. I just can’t take chemistry now; I’d flunk for sure.”

“Did you talk to Pastor Mort?”

“I saw him. We talked a little.”

“Trish, you
will
see him again? You promised.”

“Yes, Mother. I will see him again. He’s going to come to the house.”

“Okay. I’ve backed off long enough, and I feel it’s time you get some help. You’ve been rude, and even cruel—to all of us. I won’t tolerate it any longer. Your dad and I did not raise you to act like this.”

“Mom—you think I
like
what’s happened to us?” Trish hurled the words at her mother. “You can’t just put a Band-Aid on it and expect everything to be all right. What can Pastor Mort do? What can anyone do? You…you just don’t understand.” She whirled in the hall and marched out the front door.

Jumping into her car, she jammed the key into the ignition and cranked it hard. The engine roared to life. She threw it into first, and gravel spun from the tires as she roared out the driveway.

After shifting into third out on the road, Trish floored it. The car leaped forward, picking up speed—forty, fifty, sixty. She cranked the wheel hard around the first curve.

Was she trying to outrun the voices screaming in her head? Seventy. Trish hit the brakes to make it around a ninety-degree bend. Her front wheels hit the shoulder but she jerked the car back on course.

For a few minutes she drove more cautiously, her heart pounding. She flicked on the radio to drown out her thoughts.

Radio blaring, she picked up speed again. The mist was coming steadily now, and she turned on the wipers.

Up into the Hockinson Hills, Trish followed the winding road. Driving like this was like racing a Thoroughbred, the car responsive to the wheel like a horse to the bit. She swung a hard left. The car skidded. Trish caught it and gritted her teeth until she straightened again.

Another hard right. She tapped the breaks. A hard left. Too soon! She slammed on her brakes and left the road, bumping over ruts and into a hayfield. Her head hit the roof. Slamming down again she bit her tongue.

The car stalled on a hay bale.

Trish leaned her head on the steering wheel. She felt like throwing up. Her hands shook so hard she could hardly turn off the ignition. She threw open the door in time to lose whatever was in her stomach.

Her dad was gone. Spitfire was gone. And now she’d wrecked her car. What else was left? Maybe she should have hit that tree.

Then it all would have been over.

Chapter
11

B
ut it wasn’t over.

Trish dug in her purse for a tissue and wiped her mouth. “Oh, for a drink of water,” she whispered in the stillness. When she finally felt like her legs would hold her up, she opened the door and stepped out. Walking around the car, she checked for damage. The only problem she could see was a flat tire on the front passenger side.

She got back in and turned the key. The engine started immediately, and Trish levered the gearshift gently into reverse. Slowly, she eased out the clutch and backed the car off the hay bale.

“Too bad you weren’t equipped with a phone too,” she said, patting the dashboard. “I don’t see a house anywhere.” She’d shut the engine off again, and her voice seemed to echo in the quietness around her.

“Well, if anyone is going to change that tire, it’s going to have to be me.” At least she had the tools and knew how to use them. Somehow, though, she’d never quite planned on changing a tire in the rain, at dusk, and in a hayfield—on her new car.

What is your mother going to say now?
her nagger piped up.

“Plenty, I suppose,” Trish answered curtly.

When she got back on to the road she noticed the alignment was off; it was hard to steer and keep the car on the road. Trish felt like crawling into the house. There was no way to hide the fact that she’d had some trouble. She was soaked, and her clothes were dirty.

“What happened to you?” Marge gasped.

Trish tried to sound casual. “I missed a curve and ended up on a hay bale. A front tire went flat, so I changed it.”

“Where were you?”

“Somewhere up in the Hockinson Hills.”

“Tricia Evanston, you scared me half to death when you took off like you did. And look at you.”

“Are you hurt, lass?” Trish could hear disappointment in Patrick’s voice.

“Not really. Something’s wrong with the car, though.”

David shook his head. “Nice going, Trish.”

“I think we need to talk.” Trish sighed. “Let me go to the bathroom first and get cleaned up. I need something to drink too. My stomach hurts.”

Marge followed her daughter to the bathroom. “Let me see your mouth. Is it bleeding?”

“I just bit my tongue.” Trish stuck it out for inspection. She rinsed her mouth and wiped off her face. “Really, I’m okay. Just shook up.” Her hands trembled as she dried them.

Marge pulled Trish into her arms. “Oh, Tee, if anything happened to you, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Trish leaned limply against her mother. She’d held the tears in so long they wouldn’t come even when she wanted them to. Her throat and eyes burned as she and Marge walked back to the kitchen.

Trish slumped into her chair at the big oak table. Lifting her head to look at her mother took a major effort.

“I think you bent the tie rods in the front end of your car,” David announced, washing his hands at the kitchen sink. “I couldn’t see any leaking from the radiator or the oil pan, though. You’ll have to take it in to the garage in the morning.”

“I guessed that, David.”

“I think you ruined the tire too.”

“What did you want to talk about, Trish?” Marge asked, stopping David’s recital of damages.

“I need to get back to racing.” Trish looked at her mother imploringly. “I’ll go crazy unless I get busy again. Everywhere I look I expect to see Dad—”

“Don’t you think the rest of us feel the same way?” David asked accusingly. “You’re not the only—”

“David…” Marge cut him off.

“I know.” Trish ran her fingers along the edge of the table runner.

“What about the chemistry makeup?” Marge asked.

“Adam said there are several colleges near where I’d be staying in California. I can take classes at night, or hire a tutor if I have to. Mom, please let me go.”

The silence at the table stretched into minutes. The fish tank bubbled in the corner; Caesar thumped his leg on the deck as he scratched for fleas.

Trish looked up to see her mother with her eyes closed, her hand propping up her forehead. Trish knew her mother was probably praying.

She didn’t dare look at her brother. She knew she wouldn’t get any sympathy from him.

Marge finally dropped her hand and looked at her daughter. “I have one condition and there will be no arguing it. If you want to go to California, you will have to talk with Pastor Mort first. No games.”

Trish swallowed hard. “Okay. I can do that.”

David shook his head, and Marge laid her hand on his arm to keep him from leaving the table.

“And you’ll be back in time for school, whether the season is finished there or not. There will be no discussion about that either.”

Trish nodded. School seemed a long way off.

Patrick had stepped into the room when Marge mentioned California. She asked him, “How quickly can you make the necessary arrangements?”

“A couple of days. The horses are ready any time. I’ll call Adam and get a horse hauler.” He looked to David. “Who do you generally use?”

“We borrowed Diego’s van last winter. I could call him and see about using it again. He may have a horse or two he wants to send down there too.”

“How many does the van hold?”

“Six, I think.”

Trish thought she’d be relieved if her mother agreed to her wishes, but instead she felt drained. She pushed her chair back and stood up. “Thanks, Mom. We’ll talk more tomorrow.” She tried to catch David’s eye but he wouldn’t look at her.

Once in bed, her nagger began to taunt her.
You used to trust God and His promises…the verses that were on your wall. Your life would be a lot easier if…
Trish groaned and turned over, burying her head under the pillow.