Page 50 of The Lost Hours
“I almost think it would be easier if she came right out and said something, but don’t worry. I won’t wait for it.”
They said their good-byes, and as soon as Piper’s footsteps disappeared into the woods, Helen returned to her canvas, finally knowing what she needed to finish it. She picked up her brush and counted over to where she knew red was on her palette and began to paint. She didn’t once consider painting Piper in an equestrian setting, with horses and a stable or simply green pasture. Instead she filled the background with flowers from Malily’s garden, in a tribute to all of those who could see but insisted on being blind.
CHAPTER 15
I’m dreaming the same dream again, everything even more vivid than before. This time I hear the announcement of my name and event, but the voice is long and slow, as if speaking underwater. Fitz shifts his feet, a tremble of anticipation lifting his head. Silently, I visualize the course I was allowed to walk earlier, feeling Fitz move beneath me as if he can see it, too. The air hums around us with hope and possibilities and I smile to myself in the dream, feeling Fitz’s power and confidence flowing into me.
But then my view shifts and I’m standing next to my grandmother behind the spectator ropes, and everyone else seems to fade away around us as I turn to her. She isn’t looking at me but down at her hands. I follow her gaze and recognize the scrapbook, but it’s still intact, without torn or missing pages, and spread open as if she’s in the middle of looking at it.
I lean over and whisper in her ear, “I didn’t know that you loved horses. Or that you wanted to be a doctor. You never told me.”
She looks up at me and I see that her eyes are brown like mine, and it makes me want to cry because I hadn’t remembered that either. She smiles at me with the same smile she used after I’d dug up the back corner of her garden when I was seven and planted moonflower seeds because she’d told me that they were her favorites. “You never asked,” she says, her mouth not moving. I feel her cold hand on my arm; then she slowly leans forward and I shiver, frozen in place and unable to pull back. Her breath is icy on my cheek as she whispers, “But I’m glad you’re asking now.” And then she presses something into the palm of my hand, the gold wings of the angel pricking my skin and I know what it is before I look down and see my lost angel charm.
And then I’m back on Fitz and we’re approaching the flower basket, but this time I’m pulling him up, trying to get him to go around the enormous basket, because I know what is going to happen. But I’m crying because I can’t stop him from taking that jump any more than I can bring my grandmother back to life and ask for a second chance.
“Earlene? Earlene, are you okay?” A warm hand touched my bare arm.
I struck out, disoriented, still feeling the weight of disappointment pinning me to the dusty ground. And for some reason I thought George Baker was there because he was calling me by that ridiculous name. “Don’t call me that—it’s not my name!” I opened my eyes, surprised to find myself leaning against the outside of the garden wall at Asphodel Meadows, shaded by the old limbs of the magnolia, and facing the stables and the riding ring.
“Excuse me?”
I blinked and looked up into a pair of dark green eyes that looked vaguely familiar. I quickly slid up the wall to a standing position, light-headed from the sudden movement. Holding on to the wall with one hand, I shook my head to clear it. “God, sorry—I must have been dreaming.”
Tucker nodded slowly. “Do you need to sit down again? You’re looking a little unsteady.”
Without answering, I let myself slide back down the wall, my legs stretched out in front of me. “I was just sitting here in the shade, resting for a moment while I waited for the girls. I guess I fell asleep.”
He sat down on the grass beside me, his long legs crossed at the ankles. “I was looking for you to tell you that the girls are going to be a little late. We were swimming in the pond and lost track of the time.”
I noticed his hair was still dry, and I looked away trying to hide my disappointment, the shadow of my dream still hanging over me. “One of these days you’re going to have to step off the sidelines and into their lives, you know.”
Glancing up at the magnolia leaves, he grimaced. “So what makes you such the expert on little girls?”
“Because I used to be one. Barbies, bows, horses, and more horses.”
His smile was genuine, his face relaxed. “Sounds like my girls—although Lucy in particular. Sara loves to ride, but she loves the horse primarily. For Lucy, she loves the horse, but it’s the challenge of communicating with the horse that she really loves. She says she’s ready for trot poles.”
I sat up straighter. “She’s only been riding a month, Tucker. I agree that she’s good and confident, but we shouldn’t push her.”
“I’m not pushing her. I think she’s ready and she wants to try. I’ve already made a few phone calls to find a nice, gentle mare for her. Give her a taste of what it’s like to ride a real horse.”
“But what about Sara? How will she feel if Lucy gets the new horse and she still has her pony?”
“Sara’s told me that she never wants another horse, no matter how big she gets. She loves Oreo.”
I bit my lip, knowing that was exactly what Sara would have said. “Still, I think it’s too early for Lucy.”
Tucker leaned toward me, his eyes searching. “Don’t you remember what it’s like? That one passion that overshadows everything else in your life? The kind that makes you want to jump out of bed in the morning. Has it been so long that you don’t remember?”
I felt my chest rise and fall, as if someone else had blown air into me, forcing me to breathe.Yes,I wanted to shout.Yes, I remember.Instead, I said,“We all have limitations. Her age and size are two of them. Her inexperience is a third. She shouldn’t be pushed to do more than she’s capable of.”
“Were you pushed too hard, Earlene? Is that how you hurt yourself and made you never want to ride again? Is that why you’re so adamant that I keep Lucy on a pony?”
I turned to him with anger, not registering that I saw no belligerence in his eyes, only a need to understand. “I was pushed—but only because I wanted to be. Because I wanted to be the best there was, and the only way to do that was to get pushed hard enough until I learned how to push myself.”
“And did that make you the best?”
I was shaking, remembering it all. I could taste the sweat and the anticipation of victory. But I couldn’t tell him the truth. Not yet. “I wanted to be. I tried to be. In the house I grew up in, in Savannah, my uncle left an entire wall blank so that he’d have a place to hang my Olympic gold medals when I won them.” I flushed at the memory, remembering my grandfather’s look of pride and the way my grandmother had looked away, then left the room. I’d heard the back door close shortly after that, and I’d known she’d retreated to her garden.
