Owen's Daughter (14 page)

And the crazy thing was, the dog cocked his head as if he were thinking about it. He went back to Joe, head butting the old Indian on the knee, then turned and leapt into the cab of the truck.

“Traitor!” Joe said, laughing. Without saying good-bye, he went back indoors and shut his door. At least for now he has a clean bathroom, Skye thought.

Her dad laughed. “Scoot over,” he told the dog. “Otherwise how am I going to drive this bucket of bolts to Burque?”

Skye got in the passenger side. “I still want to know who this ‘Owen’ is.”

“Long story,” her dad said.

“Last time I checked, it took five or six hours to drive to Albuquerque.”

“I don’t know if that’s enough time,” he said.

“I ain’t giving up, Daddy.”

“That’s readily apparent,” he said.

While Skye watched the scenery go by, her father apparently collected his thoughts. When they drove past the turnoff for Cottonwoods, she gave it the finger.

“Girl, you need to put a governor on that temper of yours.”

“I inherited it from you.”

“There’s this saying, maybe you’ve heard of it? ‘Do as I say, not as I do’?”

“Your dog smells like cow pies fresh out of the oven,” she said.

“I agree. First dog wash we come to, I’ll give him a bath.”

Skye rolled down the window and yawned, hoping the fresh air would help a little. Instead, grit carried by the wind flew inside the cab and went right in her teeth. “Oh, yuck!” she said, spitting.

Despite the coffee, Skye fell asleep hard, her head against the window. Her dreams were filled with Joe Yazzi in some kind of flying machine and her dad holding the string to a kite that turned out to be that smelly, three-legged heeler dog. When she next woke up, they were in Taos, at an Allsup’s. Her dad was filling the tank and the trailer was gone.

“Where’re the horses?” she asked.

“Left them at a ranch near here that boards. Don’t worry. Once we’re settled, we’ll come back and get them.”

“Well, I might’ve liked to say good-bye.”

“I can drive you back.”

“Never mind.” She went to the bathroom (nice and clean) and then walked back to her dad. “Can I have a couple of bucks?” she asked.

“What for?”

Her cheeks reddened. “A box of Red Vines.”

“Sara, that stuff is bad for you.”

“It’s Skye now,
Owen
. S-k-y-e. It’s not like I’m asking for vodka. Though if you want me to be totally honest, that sounds even better.”

He sighed and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “Hate to tell you, but that feeling never goes away.”

Skye accepted the five-dollar bill and said, “Don’t crush all my dreams at once.” She turned and walked back to the convenience store, feeling his eyes follow her. Didn’t even get to say bye to Lightning. Even though she hadn’t seen her dad for ten years, she had to take his word for it that her horse was safe. Son of a biscuit. As she scanned the aisles of candy, she thought of Gracie. Why did they put everything bad for you right up front, at kids’ eyes’ height, and make it affordable? Maybe if she ate only half the box, she wouldn’t gain any weight, but truly, her body was screaming for sugar, anything to soften the edges, and candy was legal.

Back in the truck, she struggled to pry open the ungodly tight cellophane on the box, wondering whose marketing idea that was. Imagine if you made it to old ladyhood and had arthritis. This could take all freaking day. Then her dad took the box from her and stuck a key into it, making a rip. “Thanks,” she said.

“My pleasure, so long as I get a couple of those whips.”

“You’re as bad as me, aren’t you?”

“‘I taught the weeping willow how to cry.’”

Skye laughed. “Yeah, right. You and me, we’re potatoes in the patch.”

“Huckleberry friends.”

“Grapes in the bunch.”

“Which make a healthy lunch.” He started the truck and put his head out the window to check for traffic. He was always a good driver. She remembered when he used to let her sit on his lap and steer. Dangerous, but it was fun.

The licorice itself was slightly stale, sharp on the edges, which was perfect. Some folks liked aged wine; Skye liked licorice past its shelf date. She ate one stick in mincing pieces, while next to her the dog drooled. “You’re not my problem,” she said, but ended up giving him half a vine anyway.

“That was kind of you,” her dad said.

“You I am not talking to,” she answered.

“What the heck happened in the last twenty seconds?”

“I’ve got one word for you.
Owen
,” she said.

He sighed. “Fine, I’ll tell you, but you’re not going to like it.”

“Do I look like I’m worried about liking it?”

“So long as that’s settled,” he said. “The name Owen means ‘warrior.’ Garrett is for Patrick Garrett, the unsung hero who killed Billy the Kid.”

“Tell me the rest of it.”

He talked about fresh starts, cutting ties with the past, pushing guilt out so that hope could settle in its place, and she mulled it over in her mind. Before she knew it, they were in Albuquerque, surrounded on the east side by the Sandia Mountains, home to the balloon festival, and north to south, crouched over the Rio Grande, the river Duncan called
Tó Ba’áadi
.

Chapter 5

At nine thirty Saturday morning, Margaret opened the door to check on her son. In D.C., where he lived, it was already eleven thirty
a.m.
She’d been up for two hours, finished the
New York Times
crossword puzzle, and done one load of the laundry he’d brought. His clothes were appallingly worn and faded, his pants shiny at the knees. Peter, always a clotheshorse, had come a long way from that, and she wondered why. After last night’s dinner, without asking, he’d fetched a bottle of wine and opened it up. This morning, she’d found the empty bottle in the recycling. Was he hung over? Was he still breathing? How did she summon the courage to ask him about his drinking? Was that even appropriate? He was twenty-five years old.

She found it consoling to see that the adult Peter slept the same way he had as a teenager, before the accident. Facedown, feet hanging off the mattress on her convertible couch, a stranglehold on his pillow as if it were a life preserver. Echo II had curled up between his legs, her head resting on his thigh. The dog looked up at Margaret, wagged her tail, but made no move to jump off the bed for breakfast.

Margaret didn’t mind. Peter had a way with animals. When he was a boy, he brought home nestlings, a baby chipmunk, and then one day, Echo, the puppy who waited by the front door until he returned from school every day. Peter wasn’t like that with people. Echo I had been the one to bring him back from the coma he’d suffered as a result of meningitis years ago, and his bond with animals had only grown. In Santa Fe, half the population would say it was being in the coma that caused it, that he’d come so close to the spirit world that he’d returned to the living profoundly altered.

Out the kitchen window she could see gray sky, overcast. No real clouds, just wisps of darker gray scudding along. Snow? Calling Glory might be an intrusion, but sending her an e-mail would not. Margaret was anxious to know what Joseph’s reaction was to the unexpected pregnancy. The Vigils were like extended family to her. She logged on to her computer to check her mail. There in her in-box was a message from Joseph with a link to his website. It was finally up—his cousin’s nephew’s friend had been building it over the last three months. Glory had said Joseph was tearing his hair out trying to get the kid to take down the raucous music he insisted would make their program appear “sick,” which meant, as near as Glory could figure, “cool.” Joseph said the music made him want to put a bullet into the computer monitor. Margaret laughed to herself. Nothing at the Vigils’ ever ran smoothly, but a messy, sprawling family in which someone was always laughing or crying was the kind of family Margaret had hoped to have herself. She clicked on the link.

Reachforthesky.org
ran across the top of the site, with tabs for drop-down menus. In the background was a beautiful New Mexico sky, postcard blue as far as the eye could see. They’d posted a gallery of photos. Margaret clicked on one of RedBow, Peter’s horse.
Red is a quarter horse/mustang and at age 22, our most senior citizen. From rodeo to trail horse to lesson horse, Red’s done it all. He loves tiny tots and trotting, and will dance for apples.

Margaret smiled.

Dressage wasn’t dancing; it was work and required hours of lessons, but dancing made for better copy. Peter had taken lessons from a trainer for four years. The horse seemed to thrive on learning. The
passage
and flying lead changes were beautiful to watch. Peter had looked stunning in his riding habit, and Red was handsome with ShowSheen emphasizing his muscles and his mane plaited into braided knots. With his tail braided, too, no one would ever guess he’d once been a team roping horse allowed to grow shaggy.

Next Margaret clicked on a photo of Aspen with her gap-toothed grin. She sat on Brown Horse and wore a pink riding helmet and matching gloves. Next to her stood her mother, Casey, one hand on the horse’s reins and the other at her side. She looked just to the left of the camera. She had a hard time making eye contact. The bandanna she wore around her neck looked perfectly appropriate. No one would ever suspect it hid the scar on her neck from her horrible injury. Glory had mentioned they were exploring surgical options to minimize the scar, which made people seeing it for the first time gasp out loud. But first came the delicate vocal cord surgery, which would hopefully return her voice to a normal range.

In another photo, Joe looked dangerously handsome in a pair of chaps, leading Juniper on a Palomino named Dollar Bill. Reach for the Sky took retiring horses, provided they had gentle natures, were not excessively lame, and could see out of at least one eye. There was even a photo of the two barn owls that made their nest in the ceiling of the barn. The whole enterprise sounded so exciting to Margaret. It was all due to Juniper’s sister, Casey, who’d benefited from this therapy when she came to live with the Vigils. Yet they made no mention of Casey’s involvement except as a parent and volunteer. The testimonials they posted focused on the results of the programs, not the traumas they served. She read on.

A handicapped child’s environment is a daily reminder of what he or she cannot do. At Reach for the Sky, we strive to show the opposite. From the first time a child is on top of a horse, looking down, he learns to see the world differently. Developing a relationship with a horse removes significant barriers and inspires mutual trust. Our staff psychologists are also riders. Through a unique combination of equine-related therapy, horsemanship, recreation, and fun, we are dedicated to improving the quality of life for adults and children with disabilities and physical and emotional trauma.

Margaret had met the psychologist who was responsible for Casey’s reunion with her sister. Ardith Clemmons had twenty years of social service experience, and given her conservative blazers and pearls, you’d never guess that in her youth, she’d been a trick rider on the rodeo circuit. Who better to tell someone to get up, dust yourself off, and get back on the horse than Ardith Clemmons?

Margaret saved Joe’s e-mail, bookmarked the website, and composed an e-mail to Glory.

How’d it go? Hang in there. Nausea can’t last forever. My son Peter showed up last night. I can’t believe you haven’t met him yet. If only he’d been able to come for Ellie’s funeral. Anyway, I’d love for you to meet him before he heads back to D.C.

XO Margaret

Margaret wasn’t usually one for hours of web surfing. She didn’t use Facebook other than to showcase her work, and the same went for Instagram, Twitter, and YouTube. But e-mail was essential, especially when it came to selling her prints. Gift shop orders came in weekly. She sold on Etsy, OOAK, and her website, margaretwood.com. She’d left off the “year” in her name, because she wanted this site to be about selling prints, not “art.” A dubious difference.

While she waited for Peter to wake up she had some time to waste, so she looked at MS sites and joined a chat room for newbies, though she couldn’t imagine what she’d say in one.
I’m terrified
? After a few minutes of reading scary medical histories, she took a walk down virtual memory late, looking up websites she’d bookmarked long ago. Advanced Bionics, Inc. The NIDCD. YouTube. She figured she alone was responsible for at least a thousand hits on the video “29-year-old hearing for the first time.” How she had longed to give that experience to Peter, and here he’d done it on his own, after ten stubborn years of silence. Now her son would hear it all: traffic noises, birds chirping, a voice whispering, “I love you.” She wondered if he’d told his dad about the cochlear implant yet. Maybe this would make a difference in their troubled relationship. If Ray became more a part of his son’s life, it would make her happy.

Next she visited another favorite video. Her fingers typed, “Extreme Sheep LED,” and hesitated over the arrow icon to start the video. Watching felt illicit, like drinking alone. Nobody knew how often she watched it except the computer’s browser history, but it was so frequent that she felt a sense of shame—there were much healthier activities she could indulge in than watch videos that reminded her of Owen Garrett.