Made That Way (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

When I arrive, Kansas is raking the stable yard with one of her plastic mucking forks. The place is already immaculate, as it always is, but still she's raking. She even rakes over the line in the gravel left by my bike tires.

“Hey, Sylvia, that was quick.” She picks up near-invisible pieces of hay and horse manure and deposits them in the wheelbarrow, though most of the bits are so small they fall through the tines of the fork before it gets a foot off the ground. Usually she is only this over-the-top fussy when Declan is on his way to shoe her horses, so I know she must be nervous. I hope it has nothing to do with me, I hope she's just nervous because Dr. Cleveland's horse is arriving, but this probably isn't the case.

She smiles at me but her lips are stiff, like they're made of skin-tone Styrofoam. “Pretty exciting, isn't it—your first horse arriving! And don't you look great!”

She's trying too hard. I can't disappoint her, so I nod, which makes my head hurt, but I'm not going to say anything because if I'm going to be a real horsewoman I have to learn to live with the pain. Kansas can usually tell when I'm not feeling right, but today she hardly looks me in the eye, and then she goes back to raking the gravel. She must be distracted too, like my mom but for different reasons. When I'm an adult, I hope I remember not to be distracted by anything, especially around young people who are feeling vulnerable.

I tell Kansas I'm going to check my horse's stall even though we both know it will already be perfect. I'm hoping I'll feel better if I'm out of the sun.

The barn is cool and dark and sharply scented from fresh shavings. The stall for my horse is clean and the water bucket is full. There's a flake of hay fluffed up in one corner on top of a patch of bare rubber matt. Unfortunately there's not a thing for me to do here, so I head out again, but before I leave the barn I notice that one of my bootlaces is loose, so I re-tie it and when I stand up everything goes fuzzy. I flip a bucket upside-down and sit on it just inside the main door. Pain is just a thing of the mind. I can deal with this.

Dr. Cleveland pulls up and parks beside Kansas's old truck. Dr. Cleveland drives a shiny silver-grey SUV with no dints or scratches in it, kind of like my dad's, though his SUV is black because he says that's a business-like colour. When she opens the door I catch a glimpse of a console that looks like something out of a spaceship. I didn't think women cared about automotive stuff—Kansas says her truck has purely functional value, and my mom's car doesn't even have that. So I thought having fancy vehicles was more a guy thing. As usual I'm left thinking I have a lot to learn about adult life.

Dr. Cleveland leaps out, looking around wildly. “Are they here yet? Did I miss the trailer?” She hasn't done up her shirt properly, so the buttons are misaligned.

I have never seen her like this. In her office she is subdued and dignified. Now she looks like a very tall kid with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.

Kansas says, “I didn't think you'd be coming until after work.”

“I booked the afternoon off. I said there was a family emergency—which there is of course.”

Kansas rakes away the tire marks left by Dr. Cleveland's car. “I could have handled this for you, Kelly,” she says.

“Are you kidding?” says Dr. Cleveland. “I wouldn't miss this for the world.” She spies me sitting in the doorway to the barn, waves and says hi. “Exciting day, eh Sylvia?” But she turns and pops open the back hatch before I can answer. She's distracted too. Maybe being distracted is part of being an adult. Maybe it's something they teach you at university.

The back of Dr. Cleveland's vehicle is cram-packed with gear. I don't know how she's going to stuff it all in her locker in the tack room. Kansas must be wondering the same thing. She's stopped raking and is staring at what could almost be a small tack shop on wheels. Without even standing up I can see a stack of three saddle pads in different shades of blue. In plastic bags beside them are perfectly coordinated polo wraps for her horse's legs.

Dr. Cleveland smiles sheepishly for Kansas. “I have matchy-matchy disease.”

“So I see,” says Kansas.

“Sadly, it's an untreatable genetic disorder,” says Dr. Cleveland.

“That is very sad,” says Kansas.

I know they're kidding around, but given the fact that they both know that I have a genetic disorder I'd have thought they'd be more sensitive. I guess they're too excited to be worrying about my feelings right now.

“It's linked to a compulsive shopping gene,” continues Dr. Cleveland, “and the shopping-as-recreation reductase enzyme.”

“I knew that,” says Kansas.

Dr. Cleveland leans into her vehicle and drags forward another armful of gear.

That's when I hear the air brakes out on the roadway. I rise slowly to my feet, keeping my head low as long as possible. The rest seems to have helped, my headache has died down to a dull background kind of pain that I should be able to ignore. It's more like a toothache now than an exploding head kind of thing.

When I look up Dr. Cleveland is rubbing the back of her head with her hand. I guess she banged it on the hatch by straightening up too fast when she heard the truck.

I walk over and stand beside Kansas, and the three of us watch the truck and trailer roll up the driveway. It's nothing like my dream. The trailer is huge; I bet it could hold at least six horses. And it's being towed by one of those transport trucks that haul semi-trailers. Even in my horse magazines I've never seen such a big rig for horses.

“Oh good,” says Kansas. “They had an air-conditioned ride.”

“It wouldn't have mattered—Braveheart is a good traveller,” says Dr. Cleveland. “What about your horse, Sylvia, has he had much trailering experience?”

I have something suddenly wrong with my throat and I can't talk, so Kansas answers for me. “We don't know,” she says ominously but Dr. Cleveland doesn't react, which seems odd to me, even if she is distracted, because like my mom she is still a helping professional. My mom would never miss the opportunity to delve into some psychological puzzle.

“I am so excited!” says Dr. Cleveland. “Do you think he'll remember me, Kansas? I haven't seen him for three months!”

“Oh, I expect so,” says Kansas.

“You'll love Braveheart, everybody does,” says Dr. Cleveland. “He's a real gentleman, a very honest horse.”

“Honest?” I manage to say. “What does that mean?”

“Well . . . ,” says Dr. Cleveland, but then grinds to a halt.

“It means he's obedient and has a good work ethic and makes an effort to learn what you're teaching him,” says Kansas.

“Everyone should have an honest horse like Braveheart,” says Dr. Cleveland.

“I know,” says Kansas. Again I can hear that ominous tone. She's holding something back. Then she says, “Sylvia's grandfather found this horse for her.” And I realize she's talking in code for Dr. Cleveland's benefit, and she's trying not to criticize my grandpa. My dream was right. Kansas wanted to pick out the right horse for me. She must think this is totally crazy, getting an unknown horse from thousands of miles away. I can feel my headache rebuilding.

“Braveheart is my heart horse,” says Dr. Cleveland dreamily.

I look up at her. I wonder if she's on drugs. My dad says that it's not uncommon for medical professionals to become addicted to prescription medications because they receive free samples all the time from the pharmaceutical companies. Dr. Cleveland smiles down at me briefly, then returns her attention to the truck.

The truck stops in front of us in the yard. It's a huge looming burgundy thing with lots of shiny metal trim pieces. The engine shuts off then pings as it cools down. Kansas rubs her palms on her pants, and Dr. Cleveland bounces on her toes and makes chirping noises. This is the best day of my life, I tell myself over and over. Pain is a thing of the mind. Be happy. Be happy.

We are lined up by the driver's door, and have to wait forever as he makes some notations on a clipboard, finds his ball cap, and finally finally climbs down from the cab. He refers to the clipboard.

“I have two deliveries here. One for a Dr. K. Cleveland. The other for Sylvia Forrester. Have I got the right place?”

I can't say anything and Dr. Cleveland sounds like she has a squeaky toy stuck in her throat, so Kansas has to answer. “Right place,” she says, then introduces herself as the barn owner. When she finishes, she glances my way then peers at me more closely. “Are you okay?” she whispers, “You're white as a ghost.” She looks to Dr. Cleveland, probably hoping for an on-the-spot medical consultation, just as a loud bang reverberates from the trailer.

“Sounds like they want to get out,” says Dr. Cleveland.

“Might as well,” says the driver. He leans the clipboard on the step beside the cab, pulls a pair of leather gloves from his hip pocket and slips them on.

He lowers the ramp at the side of the trailer.

“There he is,” says Kelly. “Hi, Braveheart. I'm here! Remember me?” She is waving and cooing. A large chestnut head with a wide white blaze stretches into view. He's wearing a leather shipping helmet. An impatient leg reaches forward, wrapped to the knee in blue padded shipping boot.

I stretch onto my tiptoes, trying to see past Braveheart, but then I lose my balance and Kansas grabs my elbow.

“Can you see him?” I ask.

“Not yet,” says Kansas.

“We'll unload the big guy first,” says the driver. “What is he, 16.3?”

“17.2,” says Dr. Cleveland breathlessly.

“Jesus,” says Kansas.

The driver climbs the ramp, clips a lead rope onto Braveheart's leather halter and drops the chest bar. He takes the horse forward a step and barely manages to check him at the top of the ramp. “Can't get away from him soon enough, can you, fella?” he says, as if a horse as big as Braveheart could be scared of anything. He leads the horse down into the yard and hands the rope to Dr. Cleveland.

“Oh, Braveheart,” she says. She wipes her shirtsleeve across her eyes. “It is so good to see you again.” She reaches a hand up to stroke his neck which is upright and rigid. He doesn't even know she's there. He is staring across the yard to the horses out in the paddock, and bellows a welcome. Hambone answers with a loud whinny, then gathers up his mares and gallops them to the far end of the pasture. Braveheart wheels around Dr. Cleveland in a tight excited circle. Kansas puts her arm around my shoulders and backs me out of range, then we stand there together, watching and waiting.

“That is a big horse,” I murmur.

“That is a very big horse,” says Kansas. “Of course they always grow a hand or two when they're excited. At least I hope that's what's happened here.”

A thin bugling sound wafts from the darkness of the far side of the trailer. It's nothing like the calls the other horses are making.

“What's that?” says Kansas. “It sounds like something from the alien bar in
Star Wars
.”

“Oh no,” I say, then clamp a hand across my mouth.

“What?” says Kansas.

The driver ascends the ramp for his second passenger. If I could talk I would tell him to close the door and take the horse back where he found him. But I can't talk. It's all I can do to stay on my feet. I'm sure any second now I'm going to throw up again. I can't even run away because Kansas has me held tight against her side. I'm trapped.

The driver reaches forward with the lead and drops the chest bar. Unlike Braveheart, my horse isn't so eager to leave the trailer. The driver pats him on the neck and tells him to step forward, but when this doesn't work he takes a length of chain out of his pocket. I can't see what he's doing, but I've watched Kansas slip a chain over Hambone's nose when he's been difficult, so I figure the driver's doing the same thing here. My poor pony.

“Thought you'd change your mind,” the driver says.

When they get to the top of the ramp I won't look at my horse's head. I decide to focus on his legs. Big mistake. Immediately I can see there's something wrong. Even I can see it, and I know next to nothing. The horse is pointing his right front foot, trying to keep his weight off it. When the driver asks him to step forward to the ramp he leads with his left front and short-steps with the right. I tell myself maybe I'm imagining this, maybe nothing is wrong, maybe some horses are gimpy walking off trailers, but then Kansas says, “Oh dear.”

The ground comes up in front of me and suddenly I'm on my knees, throwing up in the dirt.

I hear the driver lead the horse the rest of the way down the ramp and Kansas steps away from me to take the lead rope. “Not what she was expecting?” says the driver. “He's not a bad little guy.” I look up just in time to see the horse lunge forward and bite the driver on the arm. The horse hangs on like a pit bull until the driver cuffs him across the ears with his free hand.

“Holy crap,” says the driver. He turns his back and doubles up over his arm.