Page 54 of Sweet Escape
“Woah. Slow down, Em.”
I gather her favorite sippy cup and fill it with milk, which she eagerly accepts when I slide it across the tray. With Emmy tucked into breakfast, I pour myself a cup of coffee and settle in next to her on one of the stools.
As I’m bringing the mug to my lips, my eyes catch on the black and white photo stuck to my fridge. It still looks a bit like a cross between a gummy bear and an alien, and I’m awestruck at how that will eventually turn into another version of the ornery human currently scarfing down Cheerios like it’s her sole purpose in life. She can eat with a spoon, but she prefers to be chaotic. As a parent, I’ve discovered that it’s easier to embrace the chaos than to fight against it.
What would her mom think of this? I try to picture it—to hear her laugh—but I can’t remember what it sounds like anymore. If not for the videos on my phone, I may not even remember the sound of her voice. Jess is slowly fading out of existence, like she was never there at all, and that stings more than the memories do.
I glance back at Emmy, her tongue peeking out between her baby teeth as she extends her arm across the tray to gather the Cheerios that drifted out of reach. I dread the day she asks about her mom, and I take no solace in the knowledge that she doesn't remember her.
“What are we gonna get up to today, huh?” I ask, ruffling her bedhead.
She shimmies her shoulders, reaching for her sippy cup, passively ignoring my question in favor of her breakfast. It’s times like these I wish I had an adult around so I wouldn’t have to spend so much damn time talking to myself. I love my daughter topieces, but she’s not exactly a rousing conversationalist.
One thing’s for certain: when Emmy does start talking in fully enunciated sentences, she’s going to have some strong opinions on things, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I was raised by a strong woman, and I don’t expect anything less for my girl.
The phone chimes in my back pocket, snapping me out of my thoughts.
Griffin: Storm’s walking funny. Come down to the barn when you have a second.
Wilder: Be there in 15.
I rush around the kitchen, cleaning up Emmy’s disaster. I wish I had a dog to take care of the mess she left on the floor. Maybe that’s something we should look into.
I carry Emmy into her bedroom, replacing her footie pajamas with a pair of overalls and a simple white tee, and attempt to tame her wild hair as best as I can. Independent as ever, Emmy tries to put her boots on by herself, but they end up on the wrong feet. Once she’s all fixed up, we head out to the barn to check on Storm.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned. It could be anything from an abscess to a fracture, and none of it is ideal for a pregnant horse. When we arrive, Griffin takes Emmy into his arms, and they rub noses. His long hair, usually pulled back in a ponytail, falls around his face like a curtain today. He looks a little worse for wear.
“You good?”
“Yeah. Just came in to muck out some stalls and noticed Storm’s got a limp. Looks like her right front hoof, but she won’t let me get close enough to find out. Figured you might have better luck.”
He’s deflecting, and I’m too concerned about Storm to call him on it. “Thanks, Griff. You call Angie?”
He grumbles something unintelligible, then says, “Yeah. Said to keep her updated. She can be out here later today if need be.”
“Mind watching Emmy Lou for me?”
“Nah. I’ve got her. Wanna go for a ride, Emmy girl?”
Emmy’s face lights up, and she squeals in delight.
I nod my thanks and head off into the barn, checking that Storm’s stall is ready for her. It looks like Griff laid down new bedding already, so I follow the path to the west pasture where she usually grazes. She’s not far from the fence line when I approach, and it doesn’t take much coaxing for me to get her to follow me into the barn. Storm and I have always had a connection, and I immediately notice the change in her gait.
Once I have her secured to the hitching rail, I run my hand down her foreleg, and she instantly lifts for me. The problem is evident fairly quickly as I spot the large quarter crack that extends through the coronary band. There’s no blood or discharge, and it’s a repair I’ve made hundreds of times.
“I’ve got you, Stormy girl. We’ll get you all fixed up in no time.”
She releases a somewhat distressed snort.
I run a hand over her shoulder, letting her nuzzle at my neck. “I’ll be right back.”
Returning with my apron and tools, I set her up on the hoof stand and start rasping and trimming the area around the crack. Once the acrylic and fiberglass repair is in place, I set to work on installing a heart-bar shoe to redistribute the load and increase support to the affected area. Storm tolerates everything like a champ, and I reward her with a couple of peppermints.
It can take months for the crack to fully heal, but with any luck, Storm will be back to her old self in no time. I shoot off a quick text to Angie, letting her know the issue has been resolved, then search out Emmy. I’m unsurprised when I find her in the greenhouse with my mother, elbow deep in potting soil, working on what looks like a makeshift sandcastle. What I don’t expect to see is Olivia Sullivan right next to her wearing a set of Mama’s gardening gloves.
“What have we here?” I say.
“Daddy!”
