Out of Order (21 page)

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.