Made That Way (5 page)

“When's the last time this pony had his teeth floated?” says Declan. “You'll attend to that, will you Kansas? Have the vet out to do this?”

I warily swing my vision to Kansas who has told me before that she is a boss mare who doesn't like being told what to do, but a blurry Kansas is nodding agreeably, as though nothing would please her more than following instructions from Declan.

If this is what happens to people who are in love, I want no part of it.

“Now let me finish that foot,” says Declan.

Brooklyn lifts his foot and Declan flicks away at it some more with his knife. A cloud of white shavings drifts down over the toe of Declan's boot. I watch for a moment, but everything is looking fuzzy so I close my eyes. I hear the snicking sounds of the knife, I feel a headache building, and wonder what will happen first. Will my head explode or will my entire stomach fling itself out of my mouth?

The cutting sounds cease abruptly and Declan says, “What's this now?”

My eyes pop open and I can just make out Declan using what looks like it might be a screw-driver to pry something out of Brooklyn's foot.

“You found the abscess?” says Kansas.

“Not an abscess.” He holds an object between thumb and finger. “This was jammed in between the frog and the sole of his foot.”

“A rock?” says Kansas, who doesn't have a good view.

“I don't think so,” says Declan. He has lowered Brooklyn's foot and is using his knife to scrape at the thing. “I thought it might be a chunk of wood, but it's harder than that. Looks like a bit of bone. Or antler maybe.”

I lean my back against the barn wall for support. My legs go wobbly and slowly I slide until I'm sitting on the cement floor. I know what the thing is. It's a piece of broken unicorn horn. Now everyone's going to know.

CHAPTER SIX

They don't know. Neither of them figures it out even though it's totally obvious. So I don't say anything.

I manage to eat some apple for lunch, but the headache gets worse. I almost tell Kansas about it, but then she says I still look pale and maybe I should go home and rest. Brooklyn can use some more time to settle in, she says. There's no hurry to be riding him and Kansas has to pick up hay this afternoon anyway. She won't have time to give me a lesson. I reluctantly go along with this. I don't have the strength to resist. I even let her throw my bike in the back of her truck and drive me home.

I let myself into the house with my key, pull the drapes in my bedroom and lie down for a nap. I hope I don't dream, I don't have the strength to deal with the unicorn right now. I wake up when I hear my mom's car clanking into the garage, followed by voices on the front walk. My head still aches. I don't want company, but I recognize the sounds of Auntie Sally, then Taylor. Slowly I lever myself off the bed. I open the drapes, blink hard to focus, hear Taylor tapping at my door and tell her to come in.

“You okay?” says Taylor.

“I just had a little nap.”

“A nap? What are you—four?”

I'm surprised to hear Taylor sounding sarcastic like her older sister Stephanie. Perhaps sarcasm is something that occurs naturally in mid-adolescence. I'll know soon enough: as soon as I officially enter puberty my mother will provide all the information I never wanted to know about my next developmental stage. Maybe there will be scientific studies showing the link between estrogen and sarcasm. A shiver goes through me. Estrogen treatment is the next phase, once the growth hormone has done its job. Who knows what side-effects will come with that.

Taylor does one of her highland dancing stretches while surveying my room, or perhaps it's a ballet move. She's wearing shoes that look like ballet flats, little canvas things with thin soles. She lifts on and off the points of her toes and spies the horse stickers on my light switch. “Oh I like those—where'd you get them?”

“The Dollar Store,” I say.

“Did you notice if they had any angel things?”

I try to remember. All I ever notice is horse things. “I guess.”

“It's not far from here is it?”

“Five minutes on my bike.”

“Double me,” says Taylor.

“I'm not allowed to double,” I say, much too weakly. I know how this is going to go. Taylor is a year older than me and difficult to resist at the best of times, and this is not the best of times. On the other hand, I still feel guilty about drawing Taylor into the dream with the unicorn so if I can help her redecorate her bedroom it will go a long way towards making amends.

“No one will know,” says Taylor. “Our moms are having a glass of wine on the patio. We'll be back before they notice.”

Taylor takes me by the arm and drags me out to the garage. This would be a good time, I think, to start acting like a boss mare. Kansas has told me all about herd dynamics. Hambone rules by being a bully; Kansas says the mares go along with him but deep down they resent it and eventually they'll make him pay. When Hambone is not out in the pasture, Electra is the boss mare, but she's subtle about it, so Photon wants to follow her around. I can't imagine Taylor wanting to follow me around. If I stand up to her, she'll escalate and treat me like a baby. Electra has more indirect methods for being a boss mare, but for the life of me I can't imagine subtlety diverting Taylor. She is clearly on a mission. She has already seated herself astride the carrier behind my bike seat. “Giddee-up!” she says.

It takes a while for me to get used to the extra weight on the back of my bike and then there's the backward pull from Taylor's hands on the top of my shoulders, but Taylor says she's ridden this way a million times with no problems. In my peripheral vision I can see Taylor's legs spread out to the sides, toes not pointed for a change, but turned up to stay off the road. The bike wobbles a few times, but despite my headache, I get the hang of it and by the time we reach the Dollar Store everything seems to be under pretty good control.

I lock up the bike and follow Taylor into the store. I tag along, feeling like a puppy. I'm not pleased with myself. It's difficult to be a boss mare. Even difficult for Kansas under certain circumstances it seems, and she's had years of experience. I wish I could figure out how Electra manages it. She bosses Photon who is bigger and older.

Taylor skims up one aisle and down another, finding angels everywhere. Certainly she has much more choice than I had when I was looking for equestrian-themed supplies. In the house wares section she finds an angel coffee mug, angel candlestick holders, angel salt and pepper shakers. In the stationery section there's a pack of dove grey computer paper with faint white feathers floating down the pages. I find a thin sleeve of angel stickers for her and at first Taylor says she's outgrown that sort of thing but then she looks at me in that kindly spiritual way that drives me crazy because it makes me feel like I'm three years old. “Okay, for you, I'll take them,” and she adds them to her stack of stuff. There's a small clothing section in the back corner of the store. Taylor discovers a pink t-shirt with two white angels embossed on the front. There's also a rack of scarves. She rubs the fabric between thumb and finger. “Do you think this is silk?”

“Not at two for five dollars,” I tell her. I would be more supportive if I was feeling better.

“I'm sure it's silk,” says Taylor, flicking through the display. She pulls down a flimsy length of sky-blue covered with fluffy white clouds, and on each cloud is an angel playing a harp. “Can you believe this?” she says. “I can wrap it around my ecru lamp shade. It is so perfect!”

“Hay crew?” I say. She has reminded me that Kansas is stacking hay today, and she wouldn't let me help her because she thought I wasn't well enough and now here I am shopping with my cousin who, frankly, I can't imagine owning a lampshade decorated with people stacking bales of hay.

Taylor stares at me, blinking, then her eyebrows twitch up. “That's
ecru
, Farmgirl. It's a colour, kind of like eggshell if you really need the agricultural reference.”

At the checkout she spies a tub of magic wands, hard plastic tubes filled with blue fluid and stars that flow back and forth when the wand is turned. “This is my lucky day!” says Taylor. “I've wanted one of these forever!” She places one firmly on top of her stack of merchandise. The cashier rings it up and stuffs everything into a large plastic bag.

“Didn't you bring a backpack?” I ask as we leave the store. “How are you going to carry all that?”

“Easy,” says Taylor, slipping an arm through the handle holes. “Watch me.”

Of course I can't watch—I have to keep my eye on the road. I take my seat on the bike and feel Taylor climb on behind me. Taylor's hands return to my shoulders and the shopping bag lies sandwiched between us. The magic wand sticks me in the armpit. Somehow we glide out of the parking lot onto the roadway.

“Where's that stable you go to anyway?” says Taylor. “Why don't we drop by and you can show me this new horse of yours?”

“It's too far,” I say, pedaling as hard as I can up a hill. We must have coasted on the way to the store. I hadn't really noticed, because it was easy. In this direction it's uphill and Taylor's hands tug at me. I can feel what must be the candlesticks digging into my spine.

“Go on, we can do it, I'll flap my angel wings!” says Taylor and one of Taylor's hands lets go and the plastic bag is pulled free. It crackles in the wind and the bike wobbles.

“Don't do that!” I tell her.

Taylor laughs and does it again and then puts her hand back on my shoulder and the bag returns against my back where it rustles every time Taylor shifts her weight.

“Take me or I'll use my magic wand to put a spell on you!” says Taylor, which is totally unfair. Taylor has frightened me before with her spiritual interests in palm-reading and Ouija boards. I want to go home, my head is pounding, it feels like someone is sticking a knife in my forehead. I want to lie down in the dark in my bedroom.

“I bet it's up this road. Turn here!” Taylor leans to the left. She's guessed correctly. Somehow she's picked the road where Kansas lives. I have to turn the bike if only to stay upright.

“Isn't this fun?” says Taylor.

Over the rustling sounds of the plastic bag I hear a vehicle approaching from behind. As it draws closer, it sounds more like a truck than a car. I hope it isn't Kansas. Kansas will kill me for riding my bike like this. I suddenly realize that Taylor isn't wearing a helmet and Kansas is fanatical about protective headgear. I guide the bike as close to the edge of the pavement as I dare. The vehicle slows behind us and the driver honks the horn.

“Pass, you idiot,” says Taylor.

I feel Taylor's hand let go, and the pressure of the bag disappears. I turn my head marginally, to see Taylor's left arm extended, the bag hanging from it, as she indicates to the driver to go around. Except there are two bags, and two arms. I am seeing double again. I look ahead and feel a swell of nausea. The bike wobbles badly.

“Hey!” says Taylor. “Watch it!”

The front tire slips off the pavement into a rocky rut beside the road. Taylor's hands clutch at me then her foot bangs against my calf and I push as hard as I can on the pedals, straining to keep the bike upright and moving ahead.

“Oh no,” says Taylor, “my foot…” and then all I hear is her screaming.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I can't get up. I'm on my hands and knees and if I raise my head it pounds like crazy. I'm afraid to open my eyes in case everything is still double. I know my bike is beside me, and Taylor is close by because she's yelling and she's as loud as a trumpet in my ear. And then there's a hand on my back, and a familiar voice asking if I'm all right and did I hit my head. It's Kansas.

“I'm okay. I didn't hit my head,” I say, though it feels like there's a spike going through it. I fumble with the buckle of my helmet until it releases, slides off and bounces on the pavement. “My cousin Taylor is hurt. I crashed the bike. It was my fault.”

“It wasn't your fault. I was right behind you in my truck. Taylor was waving her arm around trying to get me to pass, but I couldn't, my truck is loaded with hay, there wasn't enough room. She threw you off balance, it wasn't your fault.”

I hear another familiar voice trying to soothe Taylor.

“It's okay,” says Kansas. “We're lucky, Kelly Cleveland was right behind me. She's helping Taylor now.”

“But it was my fault,” I say. “I let her boss me even though I had a headache and I was seeing double. From the growth hormone,” I add emphatically.

I flop sideways so I'm sitting on the edge of the pavement. Warily I open my eyelids to a tiny slit, so I'm looking at the world through my eyelashes. The double vision has cleared, but I wish it hadn't. There's blood all over the place. Taylor is lying on the grass at the side of the road. Dr. Cleveland is easing the shoe off her foot. The cap is full of blood . . . and something else. I tell myself to stop watching, but it's too late. A toe slides out of the shoe, rolls across the pavement and onto the dirt at the side of the road. The toenail has pink polish on it, with sparkles.

Taylor has stopped screaming.

Kansas groans and leans close.

“She's a dancer,” I say.

Kansas tells me to sit still and she'll be right back. She crouches at Dr. Cleveland's side. “Her name's Taylor,” she tells Dr. Cleveland. “She's Sylvia's cousin. She's a dancer.”

Dr. Cleveland fixes her with a brief sad look, then checks Taylor's pulse. “I think she fainted,” she says. Gently she lays Taylor's arm back on her side. “Kansas, do you have anything we could use for a tourniquet?”

Kansas looks around and spies the shopping bag. She drags it out from under my bike and empties it on the pavement. Dr. Cleveland rifles through the pile, then knots the scarf around Taylor's ankle, forms a loop of fabric, inserts the blue wand with stars and uses it to wind the scarf tight.

“A magic wand,” says Kansas, shaking her head.

I wish someone would use it to make the accident un-happen.

Dr. Cleveland nods. “Abracadabra,” she says, using the free end of the scarf to tie the wand securely against Taylor's leg. Then she folds the t-shirt into a square not much bigger than her hand and presses it against the end of Taylor's foot. “Don't suppose you have a baggie,” she says, indicating with a nod of her head towards the toe still lying in the dirt. Kansas says no. “Fine, we'll leave it for the ambulance guys,” says Dr. Cleveland. “How's Sylvia?”

“She has a headache, and double vision,” says Kansas. “She says she had it before the crash, she says she didn't hit her head. She was wearing her helmet.”

Dr. Cleveland nods.

Kansas says, “Sylvia says it's from the growth hormone.”

Dr. Cleveland stares over at me for a long moment as she thinks. “Oh Christ,” she says finally. “I'll bet she has increased intracranial pressure. She needs to come off that stuff right away. It's a rare side effect, and would account for the headaches, nausea, vomiting. Someone should have picked that up.” She stops abruptly. “I shouldn't have said that.”

In the distance I hear the swells of a siren. Kansas comes back and sits beside me. She strokes my back and I start to cry.

“Don't worry,” says Kansas.

“Is Taylor going to die?”

“No. She's hurt her foot, that's all.”

The sirens are deafening. Car doors open and close, radios splutter. I shut my eyes tight. “I'll never make up for this if she has to take time off dancing,” I say.

“Look,” says Kansas, “Did you hear what Dr. Cleveland said? She says you're right about the growth hormone causing your headaches, and you'll have to come off the stuff. That's all it is, a side effect.”

I snuffle. “So I'm going to stay short.”

“Looks that way.”

“But I've got my horse anyway.”

“You've got your horse.”

I hear steps in the gravel and open my eyes just enough to see an ambulance attendant kneel beside me. He reaches for my wrist and takes my pulse. “You have a horse?” he says.

“And he's a fine animal,” says Kansas mimicking Declan but with a really terrible Irish accent.

“You really think so?” I say, more grateful for a lie than I ever have been in my life.