Finding Goodbye Page 3

  Although she may have been candid about it, I knew for a fact there was a box in the barn filled with her yearly prize-winning blue ribbons she’d collected from State Fair and local county festivals.

  “Here you are, dear.” Grandma slid a plate of blueberry pancakes in front of me along with a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Thank you,” I said as I dug in. I glanced around the kitchen while I chewed, thinking to myself that nothing had changed. The walls were still painted a candy-apple dusty red color. A crystal, shaped like a hummingbird, hung from the window above the kitchen sink, casting rainbow colored bursts of light against the white lace curtains. The strong oak cabinets still looked brand new, but I imagined it was due to the handy-work of my grandma’s regular polishing routine.

  “It’s been a while,” Grandma said as she sat in the chair across from me. She took a sip of her coffee and then tucked a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear. She had the deepest blue eyes I had ever seen. So deep they were almost gray, and refracted light like the ocean. “I wanted to see you at Christmas, but your mother said you were staying at the physical rehab facility.”

  I nodded. “The holidays were kind of rough.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “How is your leg healing?”

  “Better,” I said around a mouthful of pancake. I swallowed so I could speak more clearly. “I’m finished with my clinical visits, for the time being, anyway. I just have some stretches and things I do at home, but I guess it’s progress.” I pushed at the remaining few bites of pancake on my plate. I didn’t want to talk about me, or the accident. I just wanted my time here to be an escape from the daily reminders of my broken life. “How’s the farm?” I asked.

  Grandma sighed and lifted her eyebrows at the question. “Your grandfather took on more work than he should have for the winter… We took in a couple of rescue horses a few weeks ago, and he’s having trouble with one in particular. Trust issues,” she said, “strong personality, too.”

  “The horse, or Grandpa?” I said facetiously.

  “Very funny.” She chuckled in spite of herself.

  “Does Beau Stevenson still help Grandpa with farm chores?” Beau was a good friend of my grandfather’s, and lived not too far up the road. When Gabriel and I were growing up, Beau used to give us rides all over the farm in his old truck.

  Grandma shook her head. “He doesn’t get around quite like he used to,” she said, pausing briefly. “We did hire a part-time stablehand, however.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Can you afford that?”

  “Not really.” She shrugged. “He’s helping us more then he’s profiting. There’s just too much work for your grandfather, and he won’t admit that he can’t do it all on his own.”

  “Well who is this guy, and where did you find him?” I asked. My grandparents had never hired anyone to work on the farm before.

  “He’s working his way through Havenport University and saw our advertisement a couple of months ago–” she started to say, but I cut her off.

  “Advertisement? What advertisement? Does Mom know about this?”

  Grandma chuckled with a sound of disbelief. “We’re quite capable of making our own decisions, Darcy. We simply decided it was time to get some extra help, so your grandpa put up a few signs around town. It’s nothing to fuss about, honestly.” She stood from the table, making her way to the counter to refill her coffee mug.

  “I just wish I had known you needed help,” I said, feeling responsible in some way. Granted, I couldn’t move like I used to, but I’d been existing in my room for long enough while my grandparents could have used my help and I hadn’t known.

  I hadn’t exactly quit my job at the mall with Luke, but I hadn’t gone back since the accident, either. My boss, an overly friendly type, had pardoned me and said that I could come back when I was ready. I appreciated the leniency she was willing to give me, but I didn’t really see myself returning to the land of retail.

  Grandma returned to the table and reached out to cup my hand in her own. “Darcy, we didn’t say anything because we had hoped you’d be going back to school this semester. Besides, the farm is our burden, and we’ve always managed to make it work.”

  “I’m not going back to college,” I said. “It’s not for me.”

  “You were doing so well while you were there,” she said with an encouraging tone.

  After graduation I didn’t really know what I wanted to do, but Gabriel and I both applied to Havenport University on running scholarships. I took some general classes that held my interest–art and art history, English–basic things that spelled out just how undecided I was about my future.

  Gabriel, on the other hand, knew he wanted to be a veterinarian, and he would have been good at it, too. Many years ago, there had been a windstorm that nearly wiped out the back stables. One of the horses had been injured, receiving a nasty looking gash on its neck from a splintered piece of wood that had collapsed from the rafters. Gabriel and I had found the poor thing, and while I hid behind him–desperately averting my eyes from the sight of blood–Gabriel had reached out to comfort the horse. He stroked his coat with a soothing calmness, whispering to the animal until medical helped arrived. From that point on, it had become clear that he was destined to help animals.

  I enjoyed being around animals and helping them, but I couldn’t bring myself to look past the surgery aspect of saving a life. My hands had never been steady– nothing about me had ever been steady.

  I didn’t know what my future held; I just knew that Gabriel had been the bright shooting star of the family, and I was the light trail chasing after him.

  Chapter Three

  Grandma and I chatted for a bit longer on lighter subject material as I helped her with the dishes. Shortly after, she had gotten a phone call from one of the ladies at her church, so I took the opportunity to grab my luggage from the trunk. Clumsily, I made my way back into the house, dragging the suitcase behind me. With my backpack slung over my shoulders, I started up the stairs in a painfully slow rhythm, the wooden steps creaking beneath me as I made my way up onto the landing.

  The guest room (or rather, my mother’s old bedroom) was located at the end of the hallway. It was a small room, just large enough for a full-size bed, a tiny antique writing desk, and a wooden dresser with mismatched knobs. There was a woven blue rug at the foot of the bed, matching the storm-shade color of the walls. My favorite part about the room was the large window that faced the barn. It opened up to the slight slope of the roof and the porch below.

  As kids, Gabriel and I had spent most of the summer with our grandparents on the farm. Since our parents worked during the day and couldn’t afford a sitter, (at least at the time) it seemed like the only logical solution. I missed those days, and would give anything to go back, even if just for a moment.

  There were stories of sibling rivalry, but aside from the rare and occasional spat, Gabriel and I had been inseparable. Perhaps it was a “twin” thing–the fact that we shared the same genetic material that literally split us in half. Though we were born from one, our personalities couldn’t have been more different. He was the one that everyone relied on, the smart one–the strong one. He’d take charge in a sticky situation and calmly dissect the broken pieces until he could fit them all together in a neat little puzzle, making sense of it again. He was the calm before the storm, and simply put, I was the storm.

  I liked it that way; with Gabriel in the lead, it gave me the freedom to be the free-spirited one–the willful one. The girl who took more chances, stayed up too late and partied a little too hard… until I didn’t.

  When Gabriel died, it was like losing the closest part of myself. The better part of myself was lost and gone forever. I didn’t kno
w who I was without him, or where to begin.

  I heard Grandma shuffling up the staircase, her light foot padding softly down the hall until she was leaning in the doorway. “Are you settling in all right?”

  “Yes,” I said, lugging my suitcase up on the bed. I unzipped it, and started sorting my clothing.

  “The air is chilly up here,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “This old house doesn’t have the best insulation. Let me get you a warmer blanket for the bed.”

  “I’ll be okay,” I said. She waved me off and returned a moment later with a patchwork quilt with colors that mimicked a blue summer sky.

  “It’s an old thing, too, I’m afraid.” She patted it, her fingertips tracing the threading in the patterns. The quilt had been a wedding gift that my great grandmother had made for my grandparents.

  “Thank you,” I said. “It’s still beautiful.”

  She sat it on the bed and straightened the hem of her flannel button-up. “Do you need any help unpacking?”

  “No thanks.” I shook my head. “I won’t be long.”

  “I’ve got some paperwork to do, bills and things.” She waved a hand dismissively in the air. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  I smiled at her. She turned, and then disappeared from the doorway.

  The green numbers on the small alarm clock beside the bed told me that it was only eleven forty in the morning. I finished unpacking, and carefully tucked my medication pouch in the top drawer of the nightstand. I told myself I wouldn’t need them, but it was good to know they were. I felt like a closet alcoholic of sorts. I didn’t need the bottle of vodka hidden underneath the kitchen sink, but I liked having it there anyway, just in case.

  I walked over to the window, and spread the curtains so that a pool of light gathered on the wooden floorboards at my feet. The barn was a magnificent red structure in front of me, separated from the house by only the driveway. Beyond that, rolling fields and pastures eventually disappeared at the base of the creek bank. It was the fairy tale place of my childhood, and remained one of the only things in my life that seemed to stay the same. Time had weathered the look of things, stripping paint and rotting planks here and there, but the memories were perfectly preserved within the confines of a place that refused to change. The rest of the world could keep its fast-paced progressive way of living. I didn’t want it anymore.

  I shifted away from the window, deciding to visit the barn. I made my way into the small nook at the back door, borrowing a pair of boots that belonged to my grandma. They were a little snug, but they’d make do for my short trek to the barn. I zipped up my winter jacket, and donned a pair of gloves that were stuffed inside my pocket.

  The frosty air nipped at my nose, and the silver mist of my breath billowed out before me. The rusted joints on the iron track whistled and moaned as I pulled the heavy sliding door open. The sound echoed in the loft above me, causing a bird to take flight and disappear through one of the opened doors on the opposite side of the barn.

  The barn was still, its giant structure seeming nearly impermeable. Sunlight sifted between the cracks of the ancient wooden boards, illuminating the particles of dust that drifted idly in the winter air. I made my way down the dirt aisle, careful to avoid the cobwebs that were sweeping down from the rafters above. Stalls lined the left-hand side of the barn and all six horses grazed on their feed. The familiar sounds surrounded me: the swishing of tails, the grinding of hay, and the shuffle of hooves in the dirt.

  I recognized the four horses that belonged to my grandparents. They were rescues that my grandma had fallen in love with, so she’d decided to give them a forever home. The two on the end must have been the new additions. There was one horse in particular that caught my eye. He was an opulent creature with a gleaming, dapple gray coat. A mixture of charcoal gray and white strands made up his long mane, but as I stood in front of his stall, the color of his eyes halted me. They were icy blue, surrounded by a thick veil of long, white lashes. I watched as his ears pricked curiously in my direction, but he never quite turned his head to face me.

  “Hey boy,” I whispered, slowly approaching his stall. The other horse beside him was a pretty buckskin with a tangled black mane. He was munching on his hay and otherwise uninterested in my presence.

  Calmly, I moved closer to the gray horse’s stall. He lowered his head, but backed further away from the railing. I rested my arms along the edge of his stall, making sure not to make any sudden movements. I could hear the sharp pull of his breath, the way he seemed to test the air and take in my scent. I kept my eyes adverted from his, and found a half-moon shaped scar that traced along his flank. The scar could have been a result from a number of things, but I wondered if it hadn’t been abuse related. The horse seemed to sense me staring, so he shifted his weight, and turned so that I couldn’t see the scar.

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I’ve got scars, too.”

  He snorted, and took a step toward me. I risked a glance and looked up into those big beautiful eyes. He stilled, but his ears remained forward, interested. I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I had a feeling he wasn’t ready for that. I sensed that if a relationship was going to develop, it needed to be on his terms. “Trust issues, strong personality,” Grandma had said. I knew without a doubt that this was the horse she was talking about.

  I left the stalls and visited the chicken coop, noting all of the different types of hens sitting on their nests. The chickens had all been rescued from a slaughter house, and since there was an array of different breeds, all of their eggs also came in a unique display of colors, shapes and sizes.

  I stopped to say hello to Loretta, the Jersey cow, (and yes) she was named after the famous country singer. Grandma was a big fan. Loretta had been rescued from a farm a few counties away. She arrived to the farm completely malnourished and practically a walking skeleton. My grandparents nursed her back to health, and now she was a fat, happy cow living it up like a spoiled-rotten house pet.

  I loved the work my grandparents did; it was so humbling and meaningful. Being out here was making me feel like I could be a part of something worthwhile, too. I left the barn around the same time my grandfather’s nineteen-fifty blue Chevy truck came bumping down the driveway. I waited until he’d closed the door before I attacked him with a bear-hug.

  “Darcy,” he said in a happy singsong tone. He tightened his arms around me before releasing me. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “I missed you,” I said in response. My grandfather was a tall man, wiry, but remarkably strong for his lean build. He still rocked the classic thirties styled haircut, though his once dark brown hair was now a dark silvery-gray, matching his thick mustache.

  “Did you see the horses?” He gestured to the barn door where I had exited.

  “I did,” I said, “Grandma told me about the rescues you took in. The dapple gray is magnificent.”

  “Magnificently stubborn more like,” he said as we started toward the house.

  “What happened to them?” I asked as we entered the mud room off of the back porch, hanging our winter jackets on the free wooden pegs.

  “I got them from a farm that was forced to sell off their property–they couldn’t afford to pay their taxes, and by the looks of the horses, I’d say they couldn’t afford to feed them either.” Grandpa shook his head. “I’d say it was a bad case of neglect. The family didn’t appear to be very stable.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “I noticed the one had a flank scar, do you know how it happened?”

  Grandpa reached up to scratch his head. “Flank strap wound, I think.”

  “Like what they use in the Rodeo?”

  “Possibly; I can’t get anywhere near him with a saddle, I think h
e’s traumatized.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said.

  “He’ll come around,” Grandpa said with a smile that creased the corners of his eyes. My grandpa had always had more faith in animals than he did in the human race. It was like he could relate to them, and understand them on a deeper level. He’d always had a quiet, thoughtful nature about him. He was the type of man who liked to sit and watch the world around him, content to be on the outside looking in. He was a man of few words, but on the rare occasion he had something of importance to share, you’d better be listening. Chances were the power of whatever he had to say packed more of a punch than Muhammad Ali. And that was really saying something. It was one of the many characteristics I admired about him.

  “There you are,” Grandma said as we entered the kitchen. She had two loaves of bread sitting on the counter-top with varying deli meats and cheeses displayed off to the side. Steam was rising from a pot on the stove, and with it carried the light scent of a hearty chicken-noodle soup. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  I was still full from my late breakfast, so I settled for a small bowl of soup. We all sat down at the kitchen table, and talked about life on the farm and the latest gossip from the church ladies in town. It was an easy, lighthearted conversation that made me feel like I could forget all of the bad in my life–at least for a small while.

  ***

  Later on that night I had climbed up the stairs to my bedroom, and checked my phone for any missed messages. My mother had sent me a text to let me know she had landed safely in Phoenix.

  The weather is incredible here, she proclaimed. I miss you already!

  I responded to let her know that I had made it to the farm, and that both Grandpa and Grandma (and myself) all sent their love.