Authors: Bonnie Bryant
Okay, I just
had
to complain about my idiot brothers right away, but Mom is tying up the phone. The weirdest thing is that she’s not having one of her boring lawyerly conference calls, or even gossiping with my aunt in Maryland. She’s talking to Colonel Hanson. Yes, you read that right, Carole—your dear old dad. Do you have any idea what they’re so busy chatting about? Because Dad (mine, that is) won’t let me near the kitchen to listen. Weird …
But not half as weird as my psychotic brothers. Do you want to hear what they did this time? See, Michael has this new lizard he brought home from school the other day, and my riding boots were lying in the hall for the perfectly good reason that I’d forgotten to put them away, and—
Yikes! I just remembered one reason the Colonel might be calling. I think I might have mentioned the grade I got on my last history test in front of him the other day at your house, Carole. And I haven’t quite gotten around to mentioning it to my parents yet. He wouldn’t do that to me, would he?
Would he?
I hope not. Or I’ll probably be grounded straight through spring break!
I can’t believe it! Here I was, looking forward to spring break in an ordinary way. A nice way, but totally predictable. Riding at Pine Hollow. Hanging out at TD’s. The usual.
Instead, we’re going back to the Bar None! And when I say “we’re going,” I don’t just mean Stevie and Lisa and me. Our whole families are going! (Well, okay, not Stevie’s brothers; they all have other plans. And not Lisa’s brother, of course, since he’s off in Europe or Africa or Antarctica for all I know, as usual. But all the adults are going, and the three of us, and that’s what matters.) Our parents have been planning it for weeks as a big surprise. And boy, were we surprised!
We leave in a week. I can’t wait to see Kate again, and her parents, and Christine, and John and Walter, and Berry and Stewball and Chocolate and Moonglow and little Felix and, oh, everybody! I can’t wait to show the Bar None to Dad so that he can finally see all the stuff I’ve been raving about all this time. It’ll be really neat to share an experience like that with him.
Dear Diary:
First I spent what felt like a million years sitting in the school hallway, waiting for Dad to pick me up. Now I’ve spent at least six million sitting here in the waiting room at the hospital. I’m really starting to understand why they call it that—a
waiting
room. Because today it seems like all I’ve
been doing is waiting. Waiting for Dad. Waiting to get here. And now, waiting for someone to tell me what’s going on
.
I’ve only seen Mom once since I got here, for about two seconds. She looked pretty bad, just like the last time something like this happened, and the time before, and the time before that
.
But this time feels different somehow. I’m not sure how to describe it, but nobody is talking much about Mom’s condition. The nurses just keep smiling at me and saying, “Try to be patient, dear,” whenever I ask what’s happening
.
But it’s hard to be patient when you’re worried. And waiting
.
But waiting is all I can do
.
I hate waiting!!!!
It’s weird the way things never turn out the way you expect them to, isn’t it?
I mean, a week ago I thought that coming here to the Bar None with Dad would be the greatest thing in the world. And I still think it
should
be really great. So why doesn’t it feel that way most of the time?
At first everything seemed just as wonderful as expected. All the parents, Dad included, loved the Bar None. We all decided to go on a trail ride together soon after we arrived two days ago. That started out pretty well, too, except for a few minor things, like Mrs. Atwood mounting her horse
from the right side instead of the left. It’s amazing how some people don’t know the simplest things about riding!
Probably the only thing really bugging me at that point was Dad’s hat. It’s this huge, black, ten-gallon monstrosity that makes him look like the dude of the century. But every time I say something about it, he just laughs and starts teasing me, saying that I’m jealous. As if I would ever wear such a thing even on a bet!
Anyway, as we got ready to head out, I guess the three of us must have been fussing over the adults a lot, telling them what to do, how to hold the reins, stuff like that, because Mr. Lake spoke up. “You know, you don’t need to pamper us, girls,” he said. “We haven’t watched all those shows and lessons at Pine Hollow without picking up a thing or two.”
“We’re not as run-down as you think we are,” Dad added with a wink at me.
Mrs. Atwood nodded. “You’re treating us like a bunch of old bags!”
“That’s right,” Stevie’s mom chimed in. “And if we’re bags, we must really be
saddle
bags!”
Everybody laughed.
“Our very own nickname!” Mrs. Atwood exclaimed. “Maybe we should start our own club!”
The adults laughed again at that. My friends and I groaned and rolled our eyes. Then we set off. The ride itself wasn’t bad. I couldn’t help noticing about a thousand things the Saddlebags—Dad included—were doing wrong, but I tried to keep them to myself. After all, I reminded myself, the Bar None’s horses were used to carrying all sorts of dudes, some
of them probably even more clueless about riding than our parents. If that’s possible!
My friends and I talked it over that night in our bunkhouse. “I think my mom ended up enjoying the trail ride,” Lisa said. “She had a rough patch when she practically kicked a hole in Spot’s sides, but she finally started getting the hang of it.”
“It’s fun to see my parents having such a good time,” Stevie said. “I just wish my dad wouldn’t try to show off. Did you see when he whacked Melody on the rump? She almost flew right up to the weather vane on the barn roof!”
I rolled my eyes. “Did you notice my dad, with his feet sticking way out in front of him? He was rocking from side to side so much, I thought Yellowbird might get dizzy! And when I said something about it, he just laughed it off, like it was some big joke.”
“I know what you mean.” Lisa nodded. “My mom certainly doesn’t like me telling her what to do, either.”
“I wish they would take the whole thing more seriously,” I mused. “Just because
we’re
the ones giving them suggestions on how to be better riders doesn’t mean they shouldn’t listen.”
“They’re acting like kids,” Lisa said.
“Right!” I agreed.
Things got worse, sort of, yesterday morning. We found out that our parents had gone off on a trail ride by themselves, without even bothering to wake us. Walter told us he’d put them on their horses at seven-thirty that morning.
“What?” Stevie blanched. “All five of them?”
“All five,” Walter confirmed. “Carole, your dad said they’d have no problem. Said he’s a volunteer at your Pony Club. Seems he knows the ropes.”
“Seems
is right!” I exclaimed. Dad is a Horse Wise parent volunteer, all right, but that doesn’t mean he knows very much about riding. “He doesn’t have a clue.”
“Neither do any of the others!” Stevie practically shouted.
Walter gazed at us, looking amused. “I’ve watched your folks ride. I’m sure they’ll be okay.”
Lisa shook her head. “You don’t know our parents,” she told Walter. “They don’t understand that riding is serious business—not just fun.”
“We’d better go find them,” I said.
Walter shrugged. “If that’s what you want to do.” He told us where they’d gone—on the trail he calls the little loop. We saddled up quickly and set off, starting from the opposite end of the loop to try to head them off.
“I hope they’re okay,” Lisa said as we trotted along the dusty trail.
Stevie looked grim. “They’ve been gone over two hours on a ride that should take less than one.”
“Could they have gotten lost?” Lisa wondered.
“What if one of them fell and got badly hurt?” I bit my lip, trying not to panic.
We rode in silence for a few minutes. Then Stevie spoke up. “Are there rattlers during this time of year?” she asked Kate, gazing around at the desert brush.
“There are always rattlers,” Kate replied.
The first sign we saw of our parents was Dad’s black ten-gallon
hat. Then the rest of them came into view over a slight rise. The parents were riding out of a patch of woods and heading toward us. Stevie’s father was serenading the others with his rendition of “Red River Valley,” which he’d been singing off and on since we’d arrived.
“I can’t believe it.” Stevie stared. “They get us really worried and here they are, moseying along and singing. Couldn’t you just scream?”
I was so relieved to see them all safe and sound that I couldn’t answer. We trotted up to them. “Where have you been?” I demanded. “We were so worried!”
The Saddlebags chuckled. They seemed really amused by that, but we weren’t feeling too amused. “Did you stick to the trail Walter mapped out?” Stevie asked them.
“What’s the matter, don’t you trust us?” Mr. Lake replied. “Of course we stuck to the trail.”
“And what if we didn’t?” Mrs. Atwood put in.
Lisa shook her head. “Mom, have you ever heard of rattlers?”
But they just didn’t get it. So today at lunch, when Kate’s father announced that there will be a cattle drive tomorrow, I was half excited and half worried. My friends and I love cattle drives, and we think they’re fun, but we’re afraid they’re not the kind of fun our parents are expecting. We tried to explain that to them, but once again they wouldn’t listen. They just dismissed our concerns and called us party poopers.
After lunch, while the Saddlebags were taking a siesta, we held a Saddle Club meeting to discuss it. Stevie, Lisa, and I complained a little more about how weird our parents were acting. But then Kate spoke up.
“Look, guys,” she said. “Tons of the guests who come here are rank beginners. A lot of them know even less than your parents do—and they manage just fine. The only ones who really give us trouble are the people who think they can do more than they actually can. That can be dangerous.”
“That’s just it,” I said, realizing she’d put her finger on the problem without meaning to. “I think—I
know
—my dad thinks he’s much more capable than he really is.” It felt strange to be saying that. Most of the time I think Dad is capable of just about anything. But not now. Definitely not now.
“Same with my parents,” Stevie said.
Lisa nodded. “Mine too.”
Kate tried to reassure us. “Dad made the cattle drive sound farther than it is,” she said. “It’ll take us only a few hours to ride to the pasture where the herd is. Then we’ll sleep out. Next morning we’ll bring the herd to the back pasture near the ranch. It’s an easy ride, and the herd’s not that big this time.”
“So it’s really a one-day drive that Walter and John could handle without any help from any of us dudes, young or old,” Stevie said.
“Well, that’s how we run the ranch,” Kate agreed. “Guests come on a simple drive and get the feel and the thrill of riding the herd, sleeping under the stars, cooking out. You know. This same drive has been done by guests with less experience than the Saddlebags. What could possibly go wrong?”
We couldn’t really argue with that. But I won’t say I’m not
still worried. I just hope the Saddlebags don’t forget that there’s real work involved in riding well.
Speaking of which, earlier we got the chance to watch John work with his new horse, Tex. John’s hoping to train Tex to be a really good reining horse, and as far as I can tell, he’s most of the way there already. They’re both really good—especially John.
Because of the way I’ve been trying (unsuccessfully, so far) to figure out my own career plans, I couldn’t help wondering if John had thought about turning his skills into a career. I’m sure he could make a real name for himself on the rodeo circuit if he wanted to. Or he’d be a totally valuable addition to any working ranch or to a dude ranch like the Bar None. He could probably work himself up to head wrangler, like his dad, in no time at all.
So after dinner tonight, while the two of us were helping to clear the tables, I decided to ask him. “Hey, John,” I said. “What are you going to do when you grow up?”
He looked a little surprised at the question. “I’m still trying to decide between rock star and international revolutionary,” he joked. “Why do you ask?”
“No, really,” I insisted. “Haven’t you thought about it?”
He shrugged. “Sure, I think about it from time to time. But I really haven’t made up my mind yet. What’s the hurry?”
Then he changed the subject, so I didn’t have to answer. But I’ve been thinking about it ever since. I mean, John is a couple of years older than me. Shouldn’t he have at least some idea of what he wants to do with his life?
Dear Diary:
They moved Mom to a hospice today. I didn’t even know what a hospice was until the day before yesterday when they started talking about it. She’d already been in the hospital for a week before that, and I was starting to wonder when they were going to let her come home. But instead they’ve put her in this place—it’s really just another part of the hospital, sort of. I mean, it’s on the grounds but in a separate building. It doesn’t look much like the rest of the hospital, though. Instead of sterile white walls and bare floors, it’s painted different colors and there are bright rugs on the floors. The furniture is a lot nicer, too. There are still hospital beds, but they’re made up with pretty sheets and fluffy pillows. And there are plants on the windowsills and pictures on the walls. The picture across from Mom’s bed is of a bouquet of flowers. If I stare at it long enough, I almost stop noticing the big respirator right underneath it
.
Dad says they’ve moved her here so that she can feel more comfortable, more at home, but still be cared for round the clock by medical staff. I don’t really understand the point, though. This place is pretty nice, I guess—at least nicer than the hospital. But she couldn’t possibly feel more at home here than she does in her real home. And Nurse Thompson comes there every day to take care of her
.
But every time I say that, Dad just pats me on the shoulder and doesn’t answer. He seems really tired—he stays with Mom almost all the time now. I heard him tell Aunt Elaine (she drove up from North Carolina a couple of days ago)
that he’s taken a leave of absence from work. Also, he let me skip school today to help move Mom in here
.
So I guess maybe this really isn’t part of our “normal” new life anymore. Things are getting weird, and I’m not sure what to do. I know the situation must be really serious. Just looking at Mom tells me that. She looks worse than ever, like each breath she takes is an effort. But she still smiles when she sees me, and she asks if I’ve been watering the rosebush or if I’ve gone riding that day
.
But for once I don’t even feel much like riding anymore. At least not right now. The only thing I want to do—the only thing that makes me a little less scared—is being with Mom. Watching her breathe
.