Page 29 of Christmas at the Ranch
Except that, as hard as I try to tell myself my memories of this place aren’t as good as I think they are, they follow me as I walk away, whispering in my ear, refusing to stop trying to convince me of what once was.
Dear Diary,
Last night, as the vet had feared she might, Mistletoe went into labor. Tate and I were in the hayloft together when we heard a sharp banging below us in the barn.
Although she had calmed down after being put on rest in the bigger stall, she seemed to have become worked up again. She was kicking, even rearing up. Frankly, it was scary.
Charlie called the vet, and things got worse. The vet was at another foaling, an hour away. We were on our own for now. I could tell Charlie and Tate were really worried—and I found out why, at least partially: It turns out, Mistletoe was Tate’s mom’s horse. Charlie told me quietly, but Tate overheard him. He walked away from me, and it surprised me that he just wanted to be alone. I started to feel afraid then that we weren’t becoming as close as I believed—but I had to put my emotions aside, because we had to focus on taking care of Mistletoe, all of us.
Charlie asked me to go get the plug-in kettle from the main house so we could boil water to sterilize things. I ran there, and when I was coming back, Tate was waiting for me outside the barn. I grabbed him, hugged him. He held on to me for what felt like dear life. I promised him Mistletoe was going to be okay. And the foal, too.
At this, Tate pulled away and looked into my eyes. He said, “I know you mean well, Emory—but you can’t promise me that. You don’t know how this is going to end.”
That scared feeling was back, but I pushed it aside again. I held up the kettle and said we’d just better get inside to help Charlie.
In her stall, Mistletoe was lying down, looking weak. But when she saw Tate, she stood and started pacing, making strange, agitated noises. It was as if she just couldn’t get comfortable, no matter what she did. I felt for her. She seemed to be in such pain. All at once, her water broke, and Charlie said there was no stopping it now: The foal was going to be born, two weeks early.
Even though I had no idea what I was doing or how to help with a foal’s birth, I knew I was going to have to learn on the fly. I kept thinking that I wanted to be able to keep my promise to Tate, even if I had no control over the world. I wanted Mistletoe and her baby to be okay,so badly. But Mistletoe really seemed to be struggling. She was sweating and weak, clearly wanting to get up and change position, but now unable to even stand. When she rolled onto her side, Tate and Charlie looked terrified. Charlie explained that she was already in the final stages of labor, with the vet still half an hour away.
He told Tate and me to back away from her, even though I know Tate wanted to stay close, soothing her with his words, talking in her ear. But, Charlie explained, if a mare is distracted or agitated by anything during labor, she may try to delay things. In this case, with a premature foal, and with the water already broken, it was important to avoid any holdup in the birth canal or the foal could die. We did as we were told, but I knew it was torture for Tate not to be able to be close to his horse. Iheld his hand, but his was limp. He barely even seemed to be breathing.
Time slowed. Every second felt like an hour, every moment Mistletoe was in pain, that we spent wondering if her foal was going to come out okay, felt like an eternity. And then, all at once, everything began to happen fast. Mistletoe seemed to get a burst of strength, first standing, then crouching. I’d never seen a horse do anything like this. She was almost human in the way she was behaving, as if she knew exactly what was best for herself and her foal. Charlie spread out a clean tarp for the foal to land on, and had us all put on rubber gloves that went up to our shoulders, just in case he needed to reach in and help the foal out. I’ll admit, this idea made me feel a bit sick—but anyway, we didn’t have to do it.
First, we saw little hooves—and held our breath until Charlie made sure they were front feet and not back. Mistletoe labored and pushed, and at the very moment the vet came running in, the foal was born, encased in a blue membrane sac, but visible through it—impossibly small but, the vet said, breathing well. We waited for the foal to break the sac itself. When that didn’t happen, I felt so heartsick. Until the vet broke the sac, and there she was. A filly. The tiniest, most perfect creature I had ever seen. Covered in amniotic fluid, but we could still tell her color: palomino blond with a platinum tail. She looked like an angel.
Meanwhile, something was going wrong with Mistletoe. She appeared to be in great pain, and the vet said that was because she was having trouble expelling theplacenta. He gave her an injection to help it along. Tate sat by her head, talked to her. All we could do was wait. For the placenta to be expelled, for the foal to stand on her own and start to drink, the only way she was going to be guaranteed to survive without major medical intervention. Tate grasped my hand now, held it so tight it hurt. But I didn’t want him to let go.
Outside of Mistletoe’s large stall window I could see it was getting dark, that the first star was out—the North Star, so bright and pure. I closed my eyes and made a wish, for whatever it was worth.Please let Mistletoe be okay. Please let the foal be okay.
The injection worked. Mistletoe’s fever broke, she expelled the placenta, she stood up. And then, the foal struggled to her feet, too. Her skinny legs didn’t look strong enough to hold her, but somehow, they did. She wavered for a moment while we all held our breath, then stepped toward her mother, nuzzled below her flank, looking for milk.
“This is a miracle,” the vet said. “For a premature foal to already be standing, already be feeding—honestly, I didn’t think there was any chance of this tonight. I thought I’d be taking her with me to the intensive care unit at my animal hospital.”
I realized I was crying, but I think we all were. We watched the foal nuzzling against Mistletoe as she leaned down her head and began to lick away the amniotic fluid from her foal’s gorgeous, sunbeam-colored coat. Once the foal had finished drinking, she turned her head and looked at us, blinking, dazed, perfectly adorable, taking in everything about this new world she was in.
“Look at that,” I said. “She has a blaze on her forehead, just like Mistletoe does.” It shone white against her golden coat. I stepped closer, careful not to get too close and upset Mistletoe, but she didn’t seem to mind. She nickered at me as if to say,Look how beautiful my foal is.“It looks just like a shooting star,” I said, pointing to the marking.
And that’s how Star got her name.
Thirteen
It doesn’t matter to me that I have nowhere to go. It doesn’t matter that I’m going to be letting Charlie down again. I need to leave. I call Frank the taxi driver to ask for a pickup as I walk to Tate’s cabin to get my bag. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Frank assures me.
Inside the cabin, I force myself to be quick. But I can’t help it: My bag now in hand, I pause in the living room and take it all in, one last time. It’s perfect, this place. It’s just what he wanted. And I don’t belong here. And yet, I still find it hard to leave. I walk to the living room and pick up the bell hooks book I gave him back then.All About Love.I almost scoff at the title now. What did I ever learn about love, after my days here? But it looks likehelearned something. At least one of us is happy.
A sound at the door. Tate has opened it and stepped inside. He holds up two hands in surrender.
“Don’t throw anything. It’s just me.” He’s trying to make a joke about my first night here, but I can’t work up a smile.
“I was just getting my things,” I say, and realize I’m still holding the book. He looks at the cover, then at me. He bites his full lower lip.
“You can have that back, if you want,” he says. “It’s yours, after all.”
“Right. Why would you want it?” I shove it into the outer pocket of my gym bag. “I called a taxi,” I say. “I need to go.”
His brow furrows. “Where are you going?”
“To town, to talk to the mechanic about my car. I need to find out how long it’s going to be.”
