Fear of Falling (9 page)

Dad's shoulders slump, and he looks tired. “You have to believe me, David. I know I messed up.” He looks at me, silently pleading for me to understand.

I don't say a word.

“I
have
been trying to get a new job in Philly,” he admits, “but it
is
so I can be closer to you and Ashley and Brian. That's why I was asking Isaac Jackson for help. He might have a lead on a good job—”

“Yeah, right.”

“It's true!” he insists. “Listen, there are a lot of other places I could look for work—and places where I could probably make more money. But I don't want a job anywhere else. I know that now.”

I stare at him through narrow eyes.

“I miss you, David. I miss my family, more than I ever could have imagined. But…” He jams his hands into his pockets and rocks on his feet. “I know it's going to take time before you trust me again.”

“Horse-time,” I interject.

“Not that long, I hope!” Dad jokes lamely.

I don't even crack a smile.

“David, please—hear me out!” He gazes down at my face, begging me to listen. “I love you, son,” he says hoarsely. “I love all of you. It's just that…” He runs a shaky hand through his thick blond hair. “Lately everything has been kind of confusing.”

“Tell me about it,” I retort. “Couldn't be as confusing as it is for Ashley.”

Dad winces. “OK, I deserve that. But David, try to understand—”

Enough of his weaseling excuses. I cut him off. “No, thanks. I'm not really interested anymore.” I turn around and this time I'm really going.

“David!” Dad calls after me. “We'll talk some more…tomorrow. After you calm down.”

I whirl around. “Forget it, Dad! Don't even bother to come. We don't want you at our Thanksgiving dinner—because you're the last thing we're thankful for this year.”

I
run up the driveway and grab my bike from the garage. Hopping on, I pedal furiously toward the stables. My bruised body feels every tiny bump in the road, but I don't care. Nothing hurts as badly as the way I feel inside.

I pedal harder and reach Quinn's in record time. Tossing my bike down on the gravel, I head for Comet's stall. I realize I forgot my new riding helmet, but I don't even want it now. I'll just wear my bike helmet.

I don't need Dad to teach me how to jump. I don't need Dad for anything. I don't need that fancy new helmet, and I especially don't need his show-off horse—a horse he bought with money he should have sent to Mom.

Mr. Quinn doesn't seem to be around, but he's told me I can ride Comet on my own. I brush and saddle her, breathing in her comforting horsey smell. Then I fling myself onto her back and take off.

Comet doesn't question or judge me, just goes willingly where I ask. Instead of turning into the ring, I ride away from the barn, past Mr. Quinn's big stone house, past the duck pond, and along the edge of a green pasture until I pick up a trail. Comet seems glad to be out of her stall, and once she's warmed up I let her stretch out and run. It must be great to be a horse and just run because it feels good, instead of being driven by fear and anger.

We gallop and gallop along the edges of fields and up a big hill. Comet breaks a sweat and I can feel her sides heaving, but she doesn't slow down. I lean low over her neck and feel myself become part of her rhythm.

Gradually my anger burns off, and the wind in my face seems to blow away some of the pain. Finally, as it starts getting dark, I turn back to the stables.

I take Comet through the jumping arena on our way to the barn. The white stripes on the jumps seem to glow as the world shifts from color to shades of gray. The whole place is eerily quiet, deserted.

I rein Comet to a stop, and we stand there, looking at the jumps. Comet's ears flick back and forth as she waits, trusting me, waiting for me to tell her what to do.

I'll show Dad. I'll jump and jump and jump till I can do it. No matter how many times I fall, I'll get up again and keep jumping. Maybe I'll even try out for the Olympics someday—and
I'll
actually win!

That'll show him.

I kick Comet in the sides, and we start toward the first jump.

Comet seems slow, unsure maybe, so I turn her around and we start over. I have to do it just right.

“Let's go, Comet, what are you waiting for? We can do this!” I say. “Come on, girl, don't quit on me! What's the matter—are you afraid?”

Comet lowers her head and nibbles at a piece of hay on the ground.

Then I realize what I just said.

I sound just like my father.

I let the reins fall slack. I'm not going to jump this horse. She's tired and hungry. It wouldn't be safe, not for me or for Comet. I'd just be pushing her to try to prove something to myself—and Dad.

The memory of my father jumping King's Shadow flashes into my mind. What was
he
trying to prove?

I pat Comet on the shoulder. “Sorry, girl,” I tell her. “You deserve better.” Then I slide out of the saddle and lead her toward the barn. She deserves some dinner and an extra-good grooming.

Suddenly I notice a man silhouetted in the light of the barn, watching me from the doorway.

Oh, no.
I really don't want to see Dad. Not now. Not yet.

I look away, but I force my feet to keep walking forward. I'm not going to run away from him, the way he ran away from us when the going got tough.

As I get closer, I look up—and realize that it's not Dad. It's Mr. Quinn.

“Hey,” I say.

“Want some help with Comet?” he asks. “Looks like you gave her quite a workout.”

He doesn't press for an explanation, so I just shrug. “Sure.”

We cross-tie Comet in the grooming stall, and I fetch the grooming kit—hoof pick, brushes, comb, and towel. Using the pick, I clean all the dirt and gravel out of each hoof, watching Mr. Quinn out of the corner of my eye. His hands are practiced and sure as he brushes the sweat from Comet's coat, and the horse seems to enjoy his firm, gentle touch. My hands aren't as experienced, but I hope Comet can tell how I feel through them anyway.

I finish up with the hooves and move to the mane and tail. I spray on a detangler and then work slowly, using a comb and my fingers to get rid of all the tangles. Mr. Quinn takes the towel to give Comet's coat a final polish.

After we finish, we check on King's Shadow and Trickster. Both of them have some healing to do, and I know Mr. Quinn will make sure it's on horse-time, not people-time.

I feel like Mr. Quinn's using horse-time on me, too, the way he lets me learn slowly, bit by bit.

And he's using horse-time now as he waits for me to say what's on my mind.

I lean over the door to Trickster's stall and breathe in the rich smell of horse and hay. To me it's the best smell in the world.

“I found out why Dad really came back,” I find myself saying.

“Oh?” Mr. Quinn picks a piece of straw off his plaid shirt.

“Yeah. He got fired from his job out in Texas. The only reason he's back is that there's a friend here who can get him a job.” I swallow back a sob that's trying to form in my throat. “Didn't have anything to do with us.”

Mr. Quinn clears his throat. “Yes, I knew he'd lost his job.”

“You did?” I exclaim.

Mr. Quinn nods. “I thought your father should tell you about it himself. Wasn't my place.”

I guess I can understand that. “I don't think I can ever forgive him for lying about the whole thing,” I confess as Trickster comes over for some petting. I stroke his nose, enjoying the velvety feel of his soft muzzle. “I used to think Dad was the greatest. But not anymore.”

Mr. Quinn raises his eyebrows, but he doesn't speak.

“In fact,” I continue, “I don't want to be anything like him. I'm even thinking about giving up jumping. Who needs it? It's just for show, anyway.”

“Well,” Mr. Quinn says, gazing at Trickster rather than me, “I hope you won't do that, David. As much as you may not want to hear it, you do have your father's gift with horses. Only you have an advantage.”

My head snaps around in surprise. “Advantage? Like what?”

“Unlike your dad, you don't have anything to prove.”

I suddenly think of Dad watching the Olympics on TV—how sad and kind of bitter he always looked. He used to say he'd give anything for a chance to compete. The Olympics were supposed to be his big moment, but he never even got there.

“Of course, you can also be stubborn and impatient like him, too,” Mr. Quinn says with half a grin.

I start to protest, but I know it's true. “I don't want to be anything like him,” I bite out.

“We can't help being like our parents in some ways,” Mr. Quinn says. “But you just showed that you're also different from your father. Like just now, when you didn't jump.”

I glance sideways at him, a blush creeping up my neck. I stuff my hands down into the pockets of my jeans. “So you saw me.”

He nods. “I watched the whole thing. You've got a lot of love and respect for these animals, David. You've also got good intuition—when you stop and listen to it.” He turns and smiles at me. “You don't have to prove anything to anybody but yourself. If you remember that, you'll not only be as good a rider as your dad—you'll be better.”

I'm stunned speechless. The blush has totally taken over my whole face and head. Finally I manage to stammer out, “Thanks a lot, Mr. Quinn. I—I mean it.”

I think of Dr. Mac's Thankful List and realize that maybe I should start one of my own. Because I'm awfully thankful for Mr. Quinn.

As we head out of the barn to lock up, he says, “I'll let you in on a little secret, though.”

“What?” I look up at him.

“Your dad's just human, like the rest of us. Even if sometimes he likes to act otherwise.” Mr. Quinn chuckles as he flicks off some of the lights. Then his face turns serious again. “He really does miss you kids. And you know why he's working so hard to find a good job?”

“'Cause he needs the money?”

Mr. Quinn smiles. “Because he wants you to be proud of him.”

I
go home and do something that I think will make Mr. Quinn proud of
me
.

I call my father at his hotel.

“David,” Dad says, sounding surprised.

I take a deep breath. “Forget what I said about tomorrow,” I blurt out.

Dad waits.

“Ashley will be really upset if you don't come to dinner.”

“Think so?”

“I know so. And you know what else, Dad?”

“What?” His voice sounds hopeful.

“You gotta be there—'cause Mom's not so hot at carving the turkey.”

Dad laughs out loud. He wasn't expecting that. Then he gets quiet. “Do
you
want me there, too, David?”

I squeeze the phone receiver in my hand. I don't know how to answer.

How I feel about my dad has changed so much in the past two days. It's gotten a lot more complicated. I don't know if I'll ever be quite as proud of him as I used to be. But he's still my father. The only one I've got. And as Mr. Quinn says, he's only human, just like the rest of us.

“Yeah, Dad,” I say simply. “I do.”

“I'll be there,” he says.

And this time I believe him.

The next morning Mom's running around like a crazy woman trying to get everything ready—and loving every minute. The turkey smells great, and I can't wait to sit down and dig in.

Finally Dr. Mac, Maggie, and Zoe arrive. With Mom's friends from work plus me, Ashley, Brian, Mom, and Dad, we can just barely squeeze around our dining-room table. The table is all dressed up with Mom's best china and crystal, stuff she doesn't even let us touch the rest of the year. She's even put candles in the middle of the table, along with some flowers that Dad brought over.

Mom brings out the turkey and carves it herself, and guess what? She does a darn good job. Dad winks at me, and I hide a smile.

Once we've all filled our plates and begun eating, Mom tries to get everybody to go around the table and tell something they're thankful for. Brian and I roll our eyes at each other—it's so hokey! But she always likes to do this sort of thing on holidays.

Dr. Mac starts by saying she's thankful for her Dr. Mac's Place kids—that's us! Ashley says she's thankful for her purple sundress (as if we didn't know). One of Mom's coworkers, who just moved here from Laos, says she's thankful to be having a real American holiday.