The Mare

Ginger

Her thirteenth birthday fell on a weekend, so she came. Paul was away at a conference and it was just the two of us. Waiting at Penn, she looked like she did the first time I saw her: tender, pure-eyed, with that gorgeous hair free and unstraightened. I knelt to hold her and I thought with my body, I love you.

I said, “Your mom says it’s okay for you to ride.”

The light left her eyes. She said, “I know. She doesn’t care if I die.”

I said, “She doesn’t mean that. She was angry because she felt disrespected.”

“She hit me, Ginger. She knocked me down.”

My mind went blank. I saw Mrs. Vargas’s face when she heard the love song in the play. I saw her telling Velvet she was ugly. I said, “I’m sorry. You did not deserve that.”

That evening she was sullen and snappish; she went to the barn, came back, and looked at me like she had nothing to do with me. On the second day, we fought because I asked her to help me with the dishes and she refused. I told her we would not go out to celebrate her birthday in that case and she stormed upstairs, I thought to her room, but when I went to use the bathroom, I found she was lying sprawled out in the hallway, face turned sideways so I could see its aggrieved expression. I stepped over her, to and from the bathroom. Eventually she got up and went out to the horses. I went for a walk. When I came back, she was sitting on the porch. I sat next to her and put my arm around her. She sat there staring straight ahead like she didn’t know me. I kept my arm there anyway. I asked her if she wanted to have a good time or a bad time. She looked at me like I was an asshole. I was about to say, “Maybe you should just go home,” when she said, “A good time.” I said, “Okay. Help me with the dishes and we can go out for your birthday.” She looked at me blankly. I put my hand on her shoulder and said, “I’m sorry about your mom and the horses. It was my fault. I should’ve told her.” We went in and she started running the water.