The Mare

Ginger

When I saw Pat and Velvet come into the house I thought, She’s won a prize. Because that’s what their faces said, even when Pat said, “There’s been an accident.” Velvet smiled and said, “I’m okay. I just fell off.”

I felt a lump forming under her warm hair; there was a little blood. I asked if she’d blacked out. She said yes and I told her to go get her Medicaid card. I thought of Mrs. Vargas and began to sweat. Velvet went up the stairs and I said, “What happened?” Pat said the girl had broken the rules of the barn and that she’d been expelled.

“What did she do?”

“Improperly handled a horse, rode bareback without permission or supervision, endangered herself and others. She fell off the horse and passed out. She’s probably got a concussion, but she could’ve broken her neck.”

“My God!”

As Anglo as she was, she suddenly reminded me of Mrs. Vargas; powerfully in her body, peering out of it with the expression of someone looking at a world she didn’t fully understand and didn’t think much of. She said, “I’m pretty sure she’s okay; she was only unconscious for seconds. But call me tomorrow and let me know.”

On the way to the hospital, I asked Velvet what she’d done and she said, “I rode my mare.” Her face was withdrawn, like into some powerful dream, but something exalted and private radiated from her. Consequences, I thought. Why doesn’t she understand?

“They’re not going to let you go back to the barn.”

“Miss Pat will. She told me I can even come to her house.”

I thought, Yeah, like I’m going to homeschool you; my heart went dark and sore. We pulled into the hospital parking lot. She said, “I stopped this other horse from being hurt,” and I gathered the crazy trainer had been distracted by Velvet’s antics and gotten knocked down. Which was, I guess, the idea.

As we parked, I flashed on all the movies I’d taken her to or rented for her: movies where some stupid mean adult is basically knocked down by the heroine and everybody thinks it’s great. I said, “This isn’t a movie, you know.”

She looked at me and said, “Wha?”

At the desk they said they couldn’t treat her without her mother’s permission. I said, “Does anyone here speak Spanish?” and the receptionist said, “I’m sure there’s someone.”

I thought, It’s all over now. And Michael came into my mind with the force of despair. I looked at Velvet; I should not have brought her here. Clearly there was nothing wrong with her; she was alert and even looking rather pleased as the receptionist called for someone who could speak to her mom. I thought, I’ve lost her. I pictured my life with Paul before she came into it and it seemed intolerably bleak.

Velvet smiled as she picked up the phone and said, “Hola, Mami.”

I thought again of Michael, of the way he touched his finger to his lips: Shhh. We barely even spoke when I saw him, yet he seems closer now than Paul. How is that possible? How could something I barely remember, that happened in a small room so long ago, seem more real than my real life?

The translator arrived, a helpful girl with PANIC AT THE DISCO on her shirt.