Golden Filly Collection Two (29 page)
S
orry.”
The bump made her snort water. She coughed. Pill and water spewed across the gravel. Trish choked and gagged a second more.
“Really, I’m sorry.”
She turned and flung her arms around the young boy beside her. “No, thank you!” She patted his cheek and beamed into his dark brown eyes. “Thank you.”
Trish stepped back while the boy got a drink. He kept watching over his shoulder, as if worried what she might do next.
Trish took a drink—a long drink of plain, cold water. That had been a close call. She glanced over her shoulder. The boy walked backward, keeping a wary eye on her.
That afternoon she brought one of Adam’s horses in for a place in the first race of the program.
“I don’t want to hear it,” Adam ordered before she could even say a word. “That was better than I expected him to do.”
“But I…”
He held up a hand to stop her. “No. Just be glad for a place.”
Trish thought about his words on the way out to the beach. “Just be glad.” Why was it so hard to be glad anymore? She thought of the weekend at home. They’d laughed and had a good time. If only her father were around to enjoy it too.
After settling all her gear on the sand at the beach, Trish drew her father’s journal out first. When she read his words, she could almost hear his voice saying them to her. She opened to the first page. In bold letters, he had written:
To God be the glory. Amen. Hal Evanston.
She traced the letters with a fingertip. That was her dad all right—giving God the glory no matter what. She flipped the pages, reading snatches here and there. He too had pleaded
why?
One page was blurred with a water spot. Had his tears fallen like hers?
She continued reading.
Even your Son cried, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Father, I feel so alone. The pain—knowing I brought this on myself. I did this to my family, who are more dear to me than life itself. I did it. How will they ever forgive me?
Trish buried her face in her hands. “Oh, Dad.” When she could see clearly again, she returned to the same page.
But, Father, I know one thing for sure. You are in control and you love my family even more than I do. You only are worthy of praise. My Lord and my God.
Trish shut the book. How could he do that? How?
She flipped it open again, farther back. Again, the words of praise. She flipped the pages. It was on each one. One time it was underlined and written over so the stark words leaped off the page:
I WILL PRAISE THE LORD!
Another:
GOD IS MY STRENGTH!
Trish stuffed the book back into her bag and staggered to her feet. She ran down to the water and let the cold surf bathe her feet. Then, turning to the left, she trotted down the beach, her feet leaving deep imprints in the packed wet sand. When she reached the rocks blocking her way, she turned and started back, running until a pain pierced her side and her lungs burned for air.
She dropped back on her blanket, gasping, with sweat pouring from her face. She fished a Diet Coke out of her cooler and popped the top. As her breathing steadied and her heart rate returned to normal, Trish made a decision. She held the cool can to her cheeks for a minute longer before pulling her own journal out of the bag.
On the flyleaf she wrote,
I WILL PRAISE THE LORD!
She turned to the first blank page and began writing as fast as her pen would allow.
If my father could live a life of praise when he was dying of cancer, I will do so too. I will give God the glory. I will ask for help. I will. Beginning right now.
She dated it and signed her name.
Then in bold, underlined, and with the letters blackened by repeated over-strokes, she wrote,
GOD IS MY STRENGTH!
Trish flopped back on the blanket, drained as if she’d run a marathon. On the wings of the gull, the sigh of the wind, the swish of the blowing sand, she heard her song. Trish sang the words to the chorus between huffs on the upward path. She sang it again while she wrapped the journals and the eagle carefully and put them back into the backpack. She hummed the tune on the drive up the winding road.
“Take out paper. This is your last quiz for the quarter.” The instructor stood in front of the room with a smile on his face. Was this supposed to be good news?
Trish muttered her verse as she opened her notebook. “God is my strength. God is my strength.” She threw in an “I will praise the Lord” as the teacher wrote the problems on the board.
She took a deep breath and focused on the first question.
“Just dissect each equation,”
Richard’s voice floated in her mind.
“And concentrate.”
She could hear David repeating over and over.
“Concentrate, Tee. Concentrate. Focus on what you’re doing. You can do this.”
He might as well have been sitting right beside her.
When she started to panic, Trish brought her mind back with her verses. After correcting the quiz, Trish felt like shouting. She’d only missed two. A record!
The high stayed with her all the way home. She danced up the steps and through the door. Yes! She’d only missed two. Yes! She could do it!
“You look like you’ve got good news.” Martha looked up from her needlepoint.
“I only missed two problems on the last quiz of the quarter!” Trish’s feet tapped out a dance step.
“Wonderful! Oh, there’s a letter here for you.” Martha pointed to the hall table. “From Kentucky.”
Trish danced back to the entry. She picked up the envelope. Red’s handwriting sent a warm squiggle down to her middle. She slit open the envelope. The card showed a kitten hanging desperately from a branch with outstretched claws. Inside, the words “Hang in there” made Trish smile.
Dear Trish,
Thanks for your card. I am now sure you didn’t fall off the face of the earth. I hit the winner’s circle twice yesterday. Can you believe that? Of course, two days before that I got dumped on my butt. No injuries, unless you count the ones to my pride. I think of you every day. I wish California and Kentucky weren’t so far apart. Good thing prayers can cross mountains because I’m praying you are better and that I’ll see you again—soon.
Love, Red
To Trish, the
soon
leaped out in big letters.
So do I,
she thought.
You’re like Rhonda; you make me laugh.
She thanked Martha Finley for the mail and skipped up the stairs to her room.
But all the next week, Trish felt at the mercy of the yo-yo kid. She’d be going along just fine, even remembering to give God the glory, and then something would trigger the sadness. It might be a word, the way someone walked, a repeat of a past event, and she’d fall down again. The pain would come crashing back, bringing tears and droopy spirits.
She forced herself to keep her mind on the horse she was riding and the others around her, but when she was driving the car, her mind could freewheel.
“I even cry in the shower.” She tried to joke about it to Martha when she went home for lunch on Monday.
“I know. The tears catch you when you think everything is okay. When I lost my mother, doing dishes was hard for me. Me and the tap water, we’d flow together.”
“Did they—the tears—ever go away?” Trish folded and creased her napkin with shaky fingers.
“Not completely. Sometimes, all these years later, I think of something my mother and I could have done together and the tears come. But as time passed, the crying didn’t hurt as bad and didn’t last as long. And the bouts were much farther apart.”
“People keep telling me time will make things easier, but…” Trish crumpled the napkin, then flattened it again.
“The passage of time helps, but I believe God brings the real deep-down healing.”
“Mom says I need to see a doctor because I want to sleep all the time. You know anyone?” Trish made a face. “I hate to go to a doctor, especially a new one. Maybe I could wait until I go home.”
Martha pushed back from the oak and glass table. She fetched a card from the file by the phone. “Here. I think you’ll like her.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Something else…I tried to find two things I could be thankful for every day. Of course, that was after I got over being mad at God for taking my mother.”
Trish felt her mouth drop open. “You were mad too?”
“Everyone is. That’s part of grieving.”
Trish traced the outline of the pink flowers on her plate with the tines of her fork. “I think—” She closed her eyes to concentrate. “I think that part, being so mad all the time, is getting better.”
“I think so too.”
The talk helped—for a day or two.
Talking to the doctor helped too. When Trish told her all that had gone on, the woman said, “Of course you’re tired all the time. That’s one way the body tries to heal itself. You need to get extra rest and eat properly.”
“But that’s when the nightmares come back.” Trish studied the knuckles on her right hand, then looked up at the doctor. “I see my dad as he was the—the last—” Tears swamped her words. “The last time I saw him. He…”
The doctor let her patient cry, handing over tissues as needed. When Trish sat, calm and spent, the doctor asked. “How did he look?”
“Like he was asleep, only I could tell he—he wasn’t there any-more.”
“Did he look in pain?” Trish shook her head. “Was it awful to look at him?”
Trish peered through her tears. “No, it wasn’t bad. I just wanted him to come back so bad…I want my father back.”
“I know, Trish. But death doesn’t have to be a nightmare. You know he would have stayed with you if he could, but his body couldn’t handle any more.”
Trish studied the doctor’s kind face. “I know, but I still miss him so.”
“Yes, and that will always be. But nightmares scare us because we see things we don’t understand. Death is a natural part of living.”
“But aren’t you supposed to die when you’re old?”
“Usually, but life isn’t always as we think it should be, and death often comes before we’re ready for it. I could recommend a group for you if you’d like. There’s a counselor and other young people like you, who’ve lost a parent or someone close to them.”
Trish shook her head. “I won’t be here that long.”
“Okay. How about if I write a name and phone number on this pad and you call them if you want to? In the meantime, let’s give you a once over, even though I’m almost certain there’s nothing wrong with your body.”
“Yeah, it’s all in my head.” Trish blew her nose again.
“And your heart. It takes a while for a broken heart to heal.”
“I’ll call you if anything shows up in the blood work,” the doctor said after the tests were finished. “In the meantime, rest when you can, eat right, and think about calling that group.”
“Thanks.” Trish left the office feeling lighter again.
That night on the phone, when she told her mother about the doctor’s suggestion, Marge said, “Groups like that do help. I go to one every Thursday.”
“You do?”
Trish fell asleep that night after reading her Bible and slept through the night.
After works the next morning, Trish and Adam sat in the office munching their favorite breakfast, bagels and cream cheese.
