Golden Filly Collection One (48 page)
“Hi there.”
Trish wished the voice would go away and let her sleep.
“Do you know what your name is?”
Trish forced her eyes open. “Tricia…Evanston.” Her mouth felt like it was full of cotton. It hurt to swallow. “Can I have a drink?”
“Not yet, but here’s an ice chip to suck on.”
The bit of liquid helped. Trish fell back into the chasm she’d been drifting in.
“Welcome back.” Marge smoothed the hair back from Trish’s brow.
“Hi, Mom.” Trish blinked her eyes open. This time the weights weren’t so heavy. And the light didn’t blind her.
Marge held a straw to Trish’s mouth. “I think a drink will make you feel lots better.”
Trish nodded as she sucked on the straw. “How come my throat is so dry?”
“From the anesthetic and the tube they put down your throat during surgery.”
“How’s my arm?”
“They had to pin and plate the bones back together. You have stitches where the broken bone pierced your arm and where they put the pin in.”
Trish thought a moment. “That’s why I was bleeding, huh?”
“Yes. You cracked a couple of ribs too, so you probably won’t want to laugh much for a while. Oh, and they put two stitches in that cut on your chin.”
“How come I’m so cold?”
“Could be that ice pack around the cast on your arm. Here, let me put another pillow under it so you won’t feel the cold so much. And I’ll get another blanket.”
Trish felt her eyes drooping again. “Won’t be riding for a while, right?”
“Right.” Marge patted her daughter’s cheek. “You sleep and I’ll go tell your dad how you’re doing. I love you, Trish.”
Trish smiled. “Me too. Tell Dad I’m okay.” She didn’t even hear her mother close the door.
The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of pain, sleep, ice, faces coming and going—and thirst.
“Trish, you have company,” she heard her mother’s voice as if in the distance.
She blinked till she could see Rhonda, Brad, and David surrounding her bed. “Hi, guys.”
Marge placed the straw in Trish’s mouth again and she drank deeply.
“Boy, you sure scared us.” Rhonda shook her head.
“Me too.”
“We brought you something.” Brad set a ceramic horse planter on her bedside table. Three helium balloons were tethered to the horse’s neck with bright ribbons. Red carnations dominated the variety of plants in the planter.
“That’s really cool. Thanks.” Trish turned her head to look. “Mom, how do I make this bed go up, so I can see better?”
Marge pushed the button clipped to the sheet beside Trish’s head. “Let’s dangle this thing over the rail so you can see where it is.”
Trish winced as the rising bed shifted her arm and ribs. “Guess I won’t be running any races for a few days.”
“Yeah, you were kinda hard on the fence too.” David tapped her toe.
“How’s Gatesby?”
“Sore, but he’ll live to bite again.”
“He already has.” Brad rubbed his arm.
Trish started to laugh at the pained look on his face, but immediately decided a smile would do. “Please don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
“Can I bring you anything else?” Rhonda asked when they got ready to leave a few minutes later.
“I’ll call you if I think of anything. Thanks for coming.” Trish pushed the button to lower her bed again. “Mom, when can I go see Dad?”
“I don’t know. We’ll ask the doctor when he comes in.”
“They oughta put Dad and me in the same room. It would be easier for you.” Trish felt her eyelids drooping again.
“Good idea. I’ll be sure to ask. If I’m not here when you wake up, you know where I’ll be.”
Trish and her father went home together on January second.
“At last,” Marge sighed as she leaned back in her rocker after everyone was settled. Trish lay back in the recliner. Hal was sound asleep in his bed. “What a way to start the New Year.”
“Mm-mmm.” Trish scratched her scalp. Her arm itched too, under the cast that extended from her upper arm to the palm of her hand. “Mom, how am I gonna manage at school?”
“It won’t be easy. How are you at writing with your left hand?”
“Lousy. You saw how I did at eating.” Trish wriggled her toes in her slippers. “And I haven’t even tried to put real clothes on yet.”
“We’ll just have to take one day at a time. The doctor said it would be at least a week at home. Maybe I should go buy you a couple of sets of sweats. They’d be comfortable and you could use the bathroom by yourself.”
Trish groaned. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”
“What color would you like? I’ll get extra large tops so you can get them on easily and have plenty of room for the cast and sling.”
“And I’ll look like a dork.”
“Mmm. Whatever that is. Why don’t we go to the hairdresser tomorrow and get your hair washed. It would be a lot easier than the kitchen sink.”
“Do people really live for six weeks without showers?”
“I’m sure they do.”
One week later Trish stared into the dancing flames lapping at the logs in the fireplace. This had to go down as the worst Christmas vacation in history.
Two mornings later Trish stared in the mirror.
Good thing I don’t wear a lot of makeup. I can’t see myself putting mascara on with my left hand.
Her new forest green sweats made her look like a jock.
Maybe I’ll start a new fad—the one-arm look.
The sling held the cast close to her body, and Marge had tucked the right sleeve into the armhole so it wouldn’t get in her way.
“Come on, Trish, you’re going to be late.” David had just come up from the barn. “I’ll take you.”
“You going to be okay?” Rhonda asked when they met in front of their lockers.
“I’ve got to be.” Trish leaned her forehead against her locker. “Rhonda, I never dreamed anything could be so hard. Having only one good arm is the pits.”
At noon Trish called for her mother to come and get her. “I hurt so bad.” She bit back the sobs; they only made her ribs hurt worse.
Y
ou’re late again.”
Trish slammed her hair brush into the sink. It bounced out, knocking a glass bottle of hand lotion into the sink. It sounded like the entire medicine cabinet had come crashing down.
“What on earth? Trish, are you all right?” Marge tried to open the door. It was locked. “Trish?”
Trish propped her weight on her good arm and stared at the sink. “I—I’m fine, Mom.” At least the bottle hadn’t broken, but it
had
chipped a piece out of the sink enamel. She turned to unlock the door. Tears puddled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks.
Everything is so unfair!
When Trish opened the door, she was looking straight at her mother. Trish sniffed.
“Can we talk about it?”
“No, I’m late. I’m always late because everything takes twice as long. Getting dressed, combing my hair, brushing my teeth. I couldn’t even get the cap back on the toothpaste because I was dressed, and my arm was under my sweat shirt.” Trish paused to blow her nose. “I can’t even blow my nose right.”
Marge followed Trish to her bedroom.
“And when I get to school, I can’t open the door if I have books in my arm. I’m sick and tired of asking people to help me!” She dropped to the edge of her bed.
“Anything else?”
“Yes! It’s been three weeks since I’ve ridden and the doctor said it’ll be another three.”
“Actually, I think you’ve done pretty well.”
Trish glared up at her mother. “Right!”
“Trish, I know it’s hard, but let’s not fight about it.” She handed her a tissue. “Here, I’ll go write an excuse.”
“Can’t I just stay home?” Trish knew her question would be ignored.
You don’t really want to stay home,
her little voice whispered.
Remember how bored you got the week before you could go back to school?
Trish stuffed her books into her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and grabbed her jacket with one finger. Marge helped her put it on. Trish slumped in the passenger’s seat.
I wish I could at least drive!
It had been a miserable three weeks. At first all she wanted to do was sleep because of the pain—then the boredom. She felt terrible, she looked terrible, and everything seemed too difficult—too hard to bother doing. At least if she stayed in her room she didn’t have to impress anyone.
She tried to put on a good front at school, even managed to laugh sometimes. But it felt as if heavy plaster casts were stacked on her shoulders—like the one on her arm. Her arm still ached at times, especially by the end of the day. All she wanted to do when she got home was go to sleep.
“You comin’ down to the stables to watch us work the horses?” Brad asked on the way home.
“No.”
“But, Trish, it’s about time—”
“I said no.”
Rhonda leaned forward on the back of the car seat. “Maybe watching training would cheer you up, make you feel better.”
“Thank you, Dr. Shrink.” Trish gritted her teeth. “Just don’t get on my case, okay?”
The remainder of the drive was silent.
Saturday Firefly was scheduled to run in the fourth race and Final Command in the seventh. Genie Stokes had worked both of them and would ride in the races.
“Aren’t you ready yet?” Hal asked after lunch. This would be his first time back at the track since Christmas. “I’m really looking forward to the races. See, the sun even came out just for us.”
“That’s nice. But I’ve got homework to do,” Trish managed. “It takes me forever to write a paper, you know.”
“Trish, go get ready,” her father said sternly.
“No thanks.” She left the table and headed for her bedroom.
Hal found her lying on her bed, staring at the wall. “I’m asking you to get ready and go with me.”
“Please.” Trish covered her eyes with the back of her hand. “I really don’t feel up to going.”
“All right. But this has gone on long enough, Tee. You and I are going to have to talk tonight.”
Hal was worn out when he came home and went straight to bed.
I didn’t think he was strong enough to spend all that time at the track,
Trish thought indignantly.
At least he tried.
Her nagger was becoming a permanent resident in her ear.
You’ve been—
