Golden Filly Collection Two (5 page)

“We miss you at school,” Rhonda ventured.

“Mmmm.”

“
I
miss you.”

Trish turned her head to look at Rhonda. “Me too.”

“You coming back for finals?”

“I guess.”

Brad and Rhonda left soon after that. They and their families would join everyone at church for the memorial service.

That evening, Trish heard her mother on the phone with her grandparents in Florida.

“Why don’t you come out later this summer instead?” Marge said. “Then we can really have some time together. You know how I feel about traveling long distances to attend funerals.”

Marge listened for a while. “But, Mother…No, please, stay there and come when Daddy is feeling better. Yes, I’ll call you soon. No, I’m as good as can be expected, I guess. God will get me through this. I can sense Him taking care of all of us.”

Trish snorted and shook her head. She wanted to shake her mother. God was taking care of them? Right!

Wednesday afternoon, Pastor Mort found Trish down in the barn cleaning tack. Everything had gotten dusty while they’d been gone, so she set to work. It helped when there was something to do. The only other way to forget was to sleep. Pastor Mort sat down beside her on a bale of straw.

Trish greeted him with a nod, and kept on rubbing the saddle seat. She scrubbed her rag in the can of saddle soap and began another circle.

“I’ll get right to the point, Trish. It would help if you would talk about both your father
and
your feelings. Your mother says you’ve pretty much walled yourself away from everyone.”

Trish didn’t flinch, her eyes riveted on the saddle. Her hand trembled a bit as she turned the leather to work on the other side. The silence between the two deepened, stretching like a rubber band pulled taut and about to snap.

Then Pastor Mort picked up a rag and dipped it in the saddle soap. He started on the bridle on the floor between them, rubbing the leather in smooth strokes.

Trish looked at him in surprise.

He smiled. “I had horses when I was young. You never forget how to clean tack.” The rubber band relaxed.

Trish felt her shoulders slump. She hadn’t realized how tense she was. If he didn’t leave soon…She bit her lip till the pain forced back the tears.

“Trish, I know how much you hurt inside. You and your dad had a really special relationship. Anyone could see that. And I know you must be so angry you want to tear things up.” His voice floated through the telescope, encouraging Trish to close up the distance and talk with him.

“That’s one of the problems with our society. We never allow people to grieve. I know you’ve all been grieving for a long time—a prolonged illness causes that in a family. Now you feel like God has let you down entirely; am I right?”

“He did!” The words exploded from the deep canyon of Trish’s heart. She clamped her teeth on her lip, knowing if she said any more she’d fly apart into a million pieces and no one would ever be able to put her back together.

“It may seem that way, Trish. And I don’t have any easy answers for you either. All I can say is that in spite of what we think and feel, God is in control. He loves us more than we can imagine, and promises to get us through times just like this.”

Trish glared at the bald spot on the man’s head as he bent over to smear more soap on his rag.
Another one of His promises? God doesn’t live up to His promises,
she wanted to scream. “My dad said something like…” The pain tore into her subconscious mind and clamped off her words. She could not think about her dad, about all the things he had said and taught her.

She took a deep breath, but thought she would choke on the lump in her throat. “Whatever…” she croaked, and the fury she felt was stuffed down further than ever.

The next day, Trish awoke promising herself she would not cry at the funeral. That was after she’d punched and turned her damp pillow a few times. The tears she dammed up during the day spilled over at night.

She spent as much time as she dared down with the horses. David finally came and got her. “You’re going to be late.”

Trish glared at him. Swallowing her
Who cares?
she followed him back to the house. After jerking a brush through her hair and changing clothes, she joined her mother and the Finleys as they walked silently out to the waiting cars.

The silence enfolded Trish as she huddled in the backseat.
Sixteen-year-old kids shouldn’t have to go to their father’s funeral.

Chapter
04

N
ight mares are hobbyhorses compared to this.

Cars filled the church parking lot and down the streets. Trish watched people walk up the front steps of the church from the safety of her backseat. Her mother and David had already gone inside.
Come on, you can’t just hide out here. You have to go in.
Her little nagger was beginning to sound desperate.

Trish bit at her lip again. Why did inflicting pain on herself seem to help? She rolled down the window to let in some fresh air. The glass had steamed up. Breathing in the cold, damp air didn’t help. Nothing seemed to help.

Get out, you chicken!
she told herself in no uncertain terms.
You managed to get to the hospital; you can walk yourself inside the church. You’ll get through this. You have to.
The sight of David coming out the side door of the cedar-sided building and striding purposefully toward the car was all the force she needed.

She stepped out quickly, shut the car door behind her, and followed her brother inside. Organ music swelled and filled the church. It reminded Trish of the family conference Pastor Mort had with them the night before. He said the service would be a celebration. Hal had wanted it that way.

In fact, Hal had planned the entire service—another reason Trish didn’t want to be there. Her father had made a list of his favorite hymns and Bible verses. He’d asked that there be few flowers, preferring memorials to the jockey fund. He wanted everyone to remember and rejoice that he’d gone home. His race was finished.

But Trish couldn’t rejoice. She stood behind her mother as Marge greeted the last of the families that had come to remember Hal.

Then she joined her family and the Finleys in the front pew. Rhonda was right behind her and squeezed Trish’s shoulder. “You okay?” her eyes asked around the tears. Trish shook her head. She’d never be okay again.

That evening, Trish couldn’t have told anyone about the funeral. She’d literally checked out. Her body was present, but not her mind. Her lip was raw and red, her head pounded, and her eyes burned from unshed tears. But she’d
gotten through.

Long before dark, Marge offered Trish a pain pill and a sleeping pill. She took them without a second thought, and climbed into bed exhausted. Falling asleep was like tumbling down a long, dark tunnel. At the end she felt nothing.

Trish awoke early Friday morning. Her mouth felt like cotton balls and her head still pounded. Her eyes wouldn’t focus. Everything looked about as blurry as she felt. She staggered to the bathroom, guzzled a glass of water, and stumbled back into bed—back down the tunnel to oblivion.

It seemed only moments later when she heard her mother calling her name, felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “Trish, Trish. You need to get ready for your flight. The plane to New York leaves in an hour and a half. I let you sleep as long as I dared.”

Trish rubbed the sleep from her eyes and pushed herself into a sitting position. She crossed her legs and held her head. It still throbbed, but not as bad as last night.

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Marge sat down on the edge of the bed and brushed a lock of hair from Trish’s cheek. She tilted her daughter’s chin with one finger so she could look into her eyes. “You know, you don’t have to be superwoman. You could stay here and let David go.”

Trish shook her head. “No. Every time they’ve tried moving Spitfire without me, there’s trouble.” She swallowed, but her throat was so dry it hurt. “Could you please get me a glass of water? I feel…” She shook her head.
Lousy, rotten, the pits—
none of those began to describe how she really felt.
Miserable, sick, lost.
The hole was too black and too deep to describe.

Marge patted Trish’s knee. “I’ll be right back.”

Trish gulped the water down and asked for more. This time she forced herself out of bed and began pulling clothes out of the drawers to throw into her bag. She would only be gone three days—she didn’t need much.

“You get a shower so you can navigate—I’ll pack that.” Marge handed her daughter the second glass of water. Trish sipped as she stared around the room.
Where are my boots?

As she studied the room, her glance fell on the Bible verses pinned to the wall. Most of the three-by-five cards were in her father’s handwriting. She looked away quickly.
Yeah, right.
The thoughts snarled like caged tigers in her mind.
Dad believed all those promises and what did it get him?
She kept her gaze straight ahead and stomped to the bathroom. The only way was to keep those thoughts at the other end of the telescope. She was getting pretty good at that.

But even the sound of the shower failed to drown out a voice that whispered,
He got heaven. That’s the point.
Trish gritted her teeth. Back in her room, she ripped the cards off the wall and dumped them in the wastebasket, careful not to read any of the words.

“Be careful.” Marge hugged her daughter just before she and Adam Finley boarded the plane at Portland International Airport.

Trish nodded. She forced herself to return the hug. That old burning started in the back of her throat. If only everyone would leave her alone. No talking, no touching. She made the mistake of looking into her mother’s tear-filled eyes.

“I—” Trish swallowed—hard. She had to. The burning had turned to fire that made her eyes water. “We’ll call you tonight. Now, don’t worry. You know we’ll be all right.”

She heard her mother’s “God keep you,” then slammed the telescope to full length.
Sure, just like He kept Dad, right?
She snorted in disgust.

Adam wisely refrained from commenting on the thunderclouds that furrowed Trish’s brow. He just handed their tickets to the young man at the gate and walked down the ramp beside her.