Golden Filly Collection Two (54 page)
The argument the next night had been raging for hours. At least it seemed so to Trish. Except
she
was the only one raging. Her mother sat calmly in her chair, knitting.
“How about if we go out to dinner, like we always have?”
“Mother, I don’t want to go out to dinner. It won’t be like it’s always been because Dad and David aren’t here.”
“Choose something else then.”
“That’s the point. I am choosing. It’s my choice and I choose to do nothing.”
“We could get pizza with Brad and Rhonda—invite Patrick. I bet he hasn’t had birthday cake for years. Rent a movie.”
“You don’t get it, do you? We’re—I’m skipping my birthday this year.” She started to leave the room. “The rest of you can go do whatever you want.”
It was the worst birthday of her life.
T
rish, you’re going to be late for school.”
“No, I won’t. I’m not going.” Trish pulled the covers over her aching head and burrowed down into that cocoon of gray where pain didn’t hurt so bad and the crack in her heart didn’t show.
“Are you running a fever?” Marge sat down on the bed and felt Trish’s forehead. “Sore throat?”
Trish wished she could lie. “I hurt all over but it’s not a cold.” A tear squeezed from under her clenched eyelid.
“The old black pit?”
Trish nodded. “Maybe if I sleep more today, I’ll feel like going tomorrow.”
“You know you’re letting people down?”
Trish nodded.
“Yourself most of all.”
Who cares?
Trish wanted to scream.
Who gives a flying fig? Just get off my case!
But she didn’t. Screaming was far too much trouble. Took far too much energy. When she sensed her nagger
tsk
ing on her shoulder, she snatched a tissue from the box and tried to blow him away. Her head hurt. Maybe she
was
coming down with a cold after all.
“Trish, I know how you feel. When your dad’s and my anniversary rolled around, I felt like crawling in a hole and pulling it in after me too. The grief group helped me through a real rough time. I know the one for teens could help you.”
“I’ll think about it, okay?” Her tone said
Just leave me alone.
Marge remained sitting silently on the bed for a time, then stood with a sigh. “Hiding out isn’t the best way to handle this, Tee. Trust me, I know.”
You sure do,
Trish thought.
You checked out for days.
And what good did it do?
Her nagger chimed in.
You know better than this. What happened to all that joy and giving God the glory?
Sticking her fingers in her ears didn’t help.
Trish tried to go back to sleep, but by now she was wide awake. Even deep breathing to relax failed to bring oblivion. Finally she threw back the covers and headed for the shower. So she missed first period. She’d make it on time for second.
“You look awful,” Rhonda said when they met at the locker before lunch.
“Thanks.”
“Your mom said you were hiding out.”
“Yeah, well, she’s a big help.”
“Trish, the grief group meets this afternoon. I know things are rough for you right now, but this could help. I’ll go with you.”
Trish shoved her books in her locker and almost climbed in after them. With her face hidden in the locker, she gave up. “All right, I’ll go.” She jerked upright and glared at Rhonda. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll say anything.” She slammed the metal door. “And then both you and my mother can get off my back!”
Rhonda didn’t say anything through lunch, and the others at the table saw the scowl on Trish’s face and left her alone.
When he got up to leave, Doug Ramstead laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’ll get better,” he whispered in her ear.
Trish pushed to her feet and fled the room.
The group met at the local Methodist church. Trish parked in the graveled parking lot and ordered her fingers to unclench from around the steering wheel. They were as reluctant as the rest of her. When she finally slammed the van door, Rhonda came around the vehicle, put an arm around her friend’s shoulders, and squeezed. Together they walked up the four stairs to the front of the cedar-sided building. A sign with an arrow pointed to a comfortably furnished room with bookshelves along one wall and a fireplace on another. Extra chairs joined the sofas and easy chairs in a circle. Half of them held teens of varying ages.
A young woman stood and extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Jessica Walden, the facilitator for this bunch. Welcome.”
Trish put on her company manners and introduced both herself and Rhonda. “My mom thinks this group will help me and Rhonda—” She didn’t say “dragged me here,” but anyone of sensitivity could hear it.
“Came along for moral support.” Rhonda beamed as if she’d just won a jumping trophy.
“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, Trish,” Jessica said. “And you can call me Jessie. I even answer to ‘hey you’ on occasion. We’ll have everyone introduce themselves when we start. If you want something to drink first, there’s sodas in the fridge or ice water.”
Trish declined even though her mouth felt stuffed with cotton balls. The butterflies trapped in her stomach flipped and flopped, seeking release.
When the kids started introducing themselves, Trish almost ran again. But when her turn came, she lifted her chin, gave her name, and finished with, “My father died of cancer in June.”
She listened to the others share their feelings and fears, all the while fighting back her own tears. When someone started to cry, Jessie passed the tissue box, and the two on either side of the girl patted her shoulders or rubbed her back.
I’m not gonna talk. I’m not gonna talk.
Trish repeated the words like a rap song. She went into a state of shock when her mouth said, “I just had a birthday and my father wasn’t here for it.”
“Your first holiday?” someone asked.
Trish nodded.
“That’s always the worst. Christmas will be really rough too,” someone else chimed in.
“This group helped me get through those first ‘happy’ occasions.” The girl on Trish’s left looked at her with caring deep in her brown eyes. “Happy they weren’t. But I got through, and now the depression doesn’t hit me so hard.”
“You were depressed?”
The girl nodded. “We all have been, one time or another or all the time.”
“Whatever fits,” someone else added.
“We learn here to take it one day at a time,” Jessie said. “And that there are others who’ve been there who can be there for us now.”
“Sometimes I get so mad I—” Trish swallowed hard.
“Yep…yeah…me too…sure…right on.” The voices echoed around the circle.
Trish leaned back in her chair. “So what do you do?”
“Talk it out. Run. Cry till it’s over. Pray. Call one of my friends here.” Again the answers came from around the circle.
“Just don’t stuff it,” Jessie said.
“Or try to tough it out.” The girl next to Trish patted her arm. “Talk. Call me.” She wrote her phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Trish. “My name’s Angela.”
Trish left the room feeling two tons lighter than when she went in. “You don’t have to go with me next week,” she told Rhonda as they walked back to the van. “Thanks for coming today. And making me come.”
“I didn’t
make
you.”
“Wanna bet?” Now she owed just about everyone in her life an apology.
The next day in government class, Ms. Wainwright made a major announcement. “We did it! You did it. You collected more than five thousand signatures over the necessary number. The county clerk figured that even with all the mistakes and people signing twice, we’re well over our goal.”
The class broke into cheers.
“So, Trish, the results will be presented to the city council at their next meeting. Why don’t you come up and tell us what has been happening at Portland Meadows lately?”
Trish got to her feet, her butterflies suddenly doing their flip-flop routine. When she turned to face the class, she remembered why she’d rather race.
There
she didn’t have to say anything.
“All the Thoroughbred and quarter-horse owners and trainers are going ahead with training as if the track will open on time. The program for the season is all planned, so we’ve been paying pre-race fees just like we always do.
“Some of the trainers are at the track, but we still have our horses at home since we have a half-mile training track there. Four of our best horses are still down in California, where I raced this summer.”
“Where’s Spitfire?” someone asked.
“Back in Kentucky at BlueMist Farms, where he will stand at stud this winter. I went back to visit him over Labor Day weekend.”
“What if our petitions don’t work and the track never opens?” a boy asked from a seat by the windows.
Trish took a moment to answer.
That
had been the big question on her mind for forever, it seemed. “Some of the trainers are talking about racing in other parts of the country. Lots of the smaller stable owners will probably sell out or send their horses to trainers elsewhere. That costs a lot, so unless you have a really good horse, you wouldn’t do that.”
“What happened about your car?”
“Got me.”
Mutual groans came from the back. Everyone knew about her bright red convertible, now impounded. When she saw no more hands, Trish started back to her seat. She paused and then said, “All of us at the track want to thank you for what you did. They were pretty impressed that you took the time to collect signatures. Thanks.”