Page 10 of Final Down

“Thanks, Mom,” I simply say.

It takes Macon several minutes to make his way to us, his steps aided by the walker he’s going to need to rely on for a little while longer. The urge to move toward him and help twitches in my muscles, but Mom and I stay put. Knowing how independent a person wants to be during their sessions with us is something I’ve made sure we include in the onboarding for new clients. I know how important it was to me that I took steps on my own, and having people hover, wanting to help, is both frustrating and enabling. It’s easy to get in a habit of leaning on others, and that’s not to say having people there to lean on isn’t just as important. It is. But doing something on my own was equally vital, if not more. And for Macon, getting from point A to point B is a challenge he wants to conquer every time he faces it. He’s already making the trip to us faster than the first time we met, when we showed him what the arena looks like and walked him through our program. Like before, his mom waits in the driver’s seat of her sedan. I give her a wave, and she smiles as she waves back.

Macon’s neck tendons strain with his final few steps, but when he reaches us, the exhausted smile on his face is a good sign that the effort was worth it.

“Let me guess, time’s up! I need to head back to the car?” he jokes, his breathing hard.

Macon’s a handsome guy, only twenty-one. He probably envisioned spending his free time at football games or in bars, flirting with girls on campus—not hanging out with two old married women and a horse. But here we are. It’s good that he can be funny. That will help him in unexpected ways. Humor always did for me.

“Well, I fed Otis extra carrots this morning, so after fifteen minutes on this gassy boy, you may find you can make the trip out of here in half the time,” my mom teases.Sort of. Otis does have his fair share of stomach distress.

“Noted,” Macon says.

I take his walker for him as he shifts his balance and grips the straps on Otis’s saddle. My mom goes through the introductions to Otis, familiarizing the two of them with one another, and I look on as I park his walker by the gate. I love watching the magic happen, and it always does. I didn’t always get it when I was a kid. I knew my mom taught people to ride, but I didn’t fully grasp the reason. I was too busy living in my own head back then, a spoiled girl who grew up on a ranch and had so much privilege that she didn’t appreciate.

My sister, Ellie, is in that phase right now—the world is unfair, we’re all embarrassing, and everything we do as a family is stupid. It’s knowing how my mind worked at thirteen that has me eyeing her extra close lately. Like I am now. I’ve noticed she hasn’t ridden her bike by us yet this morning on her way to school. I’m sure my mom has noticed, too.Nothinggets by our mom. But thirteen is hard. It’s been a while since my mom was thirteen. And I’m starting to wonder if there’s something more to my sister’s abrasive attitude beyond the obvious hormones drowning her emotions.

“Hey, you okay if I check on her?” I holler to my mom.

Our eyes meet for a breath, and my mom chews at the inside of her cheek for a second before nodding toward the house.

“I’ll be right back, Macon,” I say, knowing he couldn’t care less if I’m around or not. Otis is the star of the show. They’ve bonded. It happens in a blink.

My body aches today, more than normal. I’ve battled spasticity throughout my recovery, and some days are better than others. The way my muscles decide to spasm and tightenrandomly is one of those inconveniences I doubt I’ll ever fully be able to handle, but I’ve made huge mental strides with it. There are times, however, when I still think everything should work the way it used to. Peak performance at all times, minus the normal aches and pains. But what is normal anyway? That’s what my mom’s always preached. And if you ask me, the fact I can walk on my hands, tumble, and ride the horses when I need to escape for a little while is pretty peak.

I expect to hear my sister’s latest musical obsession blaring from upstairs, but when I enter the house, it’s incredibly quiet. She’s taken to faking sick a lot lately, something I never really did, and that’s what has my internal worry alarms set to sensitive. I know my mom’s are, too, even though she hasn’t said so.

I tiptoe my way down the hallway when I reach the top of the stairs, my ears primed for clues. I press my ear to Ellie’s door, listening for signs that she’s awake, and am relieved when I hear water running in her bathroom sink. I rap on the door and move my hand to the knob.

“Ellie? Can I come in?”

She doesn’t answer, but the sink faucet shuts off, so I knock again.

“Elle? You okay?” I move to the knob and give it a twist, half expecting it to be locked. It’s not, and the door opens a few inches.

“One second! I’ll be right out!” Her voice is quivering, and I know my sister well enough to read her tone. She’s panicking.

“Elle, I’m coming in,” I say, pushing the door wide open. She bumps the door to her bathroom closed with her hip just as I enter. She’s definitely into something. I just hope it isn’t dangerous.

“You’re going to be late. I’m working with Mom this morning, and I noticed you hadn’t left yet. Want me to give you a ridetoday?” I inch my way closer to her bathroom, the door open just enough that I catch a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror.

“I’m not going to school,” she gurgles out. I push the bathroom door open as she drops her face into her palms, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

“Ellie, what’s wrong?” I run my palm along her shoulders. She’s built differently than me, her shoulders thinner, arms slender, waist tiny. She’s a size four, and I eat a size four for lunch. But we have the same hair—an unruly combination of my mom’s dark brown and my dad’s natural waves that don’t really do either curly or straight well, no matter how many products we use. I can tell by the droplets of water on the sink and the wet strands matted to her cheeks that this is what Ellie’s been battling this morning.

“Let me see,” I say, my voice gentle as I coax her hands from her face and urge her to look at me.

It takes my mind a few seconds to compute the visual. At first, I’m not sure if the spiked hairs jutting in all directions are where they’re supposed to be, so I blink rapidly, trying to understand what my sister did. Then she drops her gaze to the scissors on the counter, and her eyes flit to the trash can by her right leg.

“Oh, Ellie . . .” There are long bits of hair piled in the plastic bag lining the small silver can. It looks a bit like one of the nests tucked into the eave of the house.

My sister’s head falls back as her hands drop to her sides, her shoulders bobbing up and down as tears run down her cheeks. She’s fallen victim to the age-old pitfall that strikes most women at some point in their lives—Ellie tried to cut her own bangs.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. Here,” I say, taking her comb in my hand and finger-feathering the rest of her hair out of her face. I comb the portion intended to be bangs down along her forehead, the length maybe two inches, and that’s onlybecause it’s wet. It’s as bad as she thinks, but like hell am I going to say that.

My sister’s eyes flutter as she fights off another round of tears, and her lips pucker as she blows out a wobbly breath.

“Be honest,” she says.

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