The Mare

Ginger

“What did my mom say?” she asked.

“I don’t know. She was talking so fast, the translator couldn’t get it.”

“You got the paper, right? You saw she signed it.”

“Then why is she sounding so pissed off?”

“Because she’s always pissed off, Ginger. After all this time, don’t you get what she’s like?”

“I think we need to call her again after dinner.”

“You call her, I’m not going to. She can’t even bother to come see me and all morning she yells and calls me names?”

“Listen,” I said. “Do you know what kind of trouble I could get into if I’m acting against her wishes?”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Legal trouble. She could sue me and the barn.”

For just a split second her eyes changed—something changed — then snapped back. She said, “Are you kidding me? She’s not going to do that, she doesn’t care about me! She told me! She told me this morning she didn’t care if I was crippled!”

And she went up the stairs so fast and jerky that she slipped and fell on one knee. “Oh crap!” I said and went to her. She let me hold her. She didn’t cry. But I could feel the pain beating against her body like it was too big to get out without breaking her. It made me hold her tighter, and she hardened against my grip.

“Ginger,” she said, and her calm was terrible. “I can’t talk about my mom no more.”

“All right,” I said. “All right.”

I expected her to keep going upstairs to her room. Instead she said, “Ginger, do you have a Bible?”

“Yes,” I said. “Why?”

“Can I just see it?”

We went downstairs and I gave it to her and watched as she flipped through it, clearly looking for something. I asked what it was and she said, “Nothin’.” Then she found it and read it intently, moving her lips as she did.