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Authors: Jo-Ann Mapson
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her cells, feed-
ing her heart, causing the muscle to beat slower and deeper than usual, every hard thud echoing in her blood. The lightest of rains peppered her face, and she shut her eyes and enjoyed every drop. At times like these she was grateful Amanda had abandoned the horse.
“Hey, Mama.”
Rose set her book down on the couch and looked up to see her daughter standing in the back doorway. Chachi roused himself from a pile of cushions and barked once. “Amanda?”
“Great watchdog.”
“He tries.” Her daughter’s long brown hair was twisted into those grubby ringlets her boyfriend favored. They shrouded her pale face so that her kohl-rimmed eyes looked sunken and haunted. The overall effect was like something a cat might throw up. Amanda’s clothes were damp, as if she had walked a little way in the rain, like maybe someone had cowardly dropped her off in town rather than drive up to the door. As she stood up, Rose forced herself to smile, to say nothing she would regret. “Well, this is a surprise. Towels are in the hall closet if you want to dry off. Are you hungry? I could heat you up some lentil soup. That’s what I had for supper.”
Amanda shook her head no. “Caleb’s band was opening for a concert in Santa Fe. I thought since we were in the area I’d—you know—drop by, see how you were doing, maybe spend the night.”
“This is your home, Amanda. You’re always welcome.”
Amanda reached down to pet Chachi, who was so delirious to see her he kept performing his begging trick over and over. “Chachi, that’s enough,” Amanda said. Then, casually, “So, how’s Max do- ing?”
Oh, no. She wanted money. Periodically Amanda pointed out that since Max was technically her horse, she had the right to sell him. No matter that she hadn’t contributed a dime to his upkeep, and as if an old horse would bring anything more than two hundred dollars from the dog food people. In the kitchen Rose put the kettle on to boil. She took down the boxes of tea bags, plunked Sleepytime into one cup and Mandarin Orange Spice into another. She deliberated, measuring the effect of each word before she said it aloud, certain that Amanda’s agenda would unfold in time as long as her mother didn’t push. “Your horse seems very happy here, despite his back troubles. Doctor Donavan sees him every couple weeks, and I exer- cised him today. Max, I mean,” she
added quickly, hearing the unfortunate double-entendre in her words. “We got a nice ride in before the rain started coming down so hard. Weatherman says it’s supposed to clear up by tomorrow.” Amanda picked up the book her mother had been reading.
“Mother, are you reading romance novels?”
Rose flushed. “What’s so terrible about a happy ending now and then? It’s nice break from real life.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rose poured the hot water, then brought the cups in and set them on the coffee table. Talking to her daughter was like learning chess; she constantly had to project several possible moves into the future or find herself cornered. Amanda stared into the unlit firebox of the woodstove. She had her knees drawn up to her chest under one of those import store dresses, a dull green material with a pattern that looked like hopelessly tangled vines. Her Birkenstock sandals stuck out under the hemline. Funny how such an expensive shoe always looked two steps away from the trash. “Nothing earth shattering. I like to read about things working out. It gives me hope.”
Amanda sighed as she picked up her cup. “You are so clueless,” she said. “There is no such thing as hope.”
“Wow. That’s a pretty cynical thing for a girl of twenty to say.
May I ask what contributed to your opinion?”
Amanda blew across the surface of the tea. “It’s just how I feel since Daddy died.” She took a drink, her eyes blazing, daring Rose to try to convince her otherwise, just aching to engage her mother in battle in
ing her heart, causing the muscle to beat slower and deeper than usual, every hard thud echoing in her blood. The lightest of rains peppered her face, and she shut her eyes and enjoyed every drop. At times like these she was grateful Amanda had abandoned the horse.
“Hey, Mama.”
Rose set her book down on the couch and looked up to see her daughter standing in the back doorway. Chachi roused himself from a pile of cushions and barked once. “Amanda?”
“Great watchdog.”
“He tries.” Her daughter’s long brown hair was twisted into those grubby ringlets her boyfriend favored. They shrouded her pale face so that her kohl-rimmed eyes looked sunken and haunted. The overall effect was like something a cat might throw up. Amanda’s clothes were damp, as if she had walked a little way in the rain, like maybe someone had cowardly dropped her off in town rather than drive up to the door. As she stood up, Rose forced herself to smile, to say nothing she would regret. “Well, this is a surprise. Towels are in the hall closet if you want to dry off. Are you hungry? I could heat you up some lentil soup. That’s what I had for supper.”
Amanda shook her head no. “Caleb’s band was opening for a concert in Santa Fe. I thought since we were in the area I’d—you know—drop by, see how you were doing, maybe spend the night.”
“This is your home, Amanda. You’re always welcome.”
Amanda reached down to pet Chachi, who was so delirious to see her he kept performing his begging trick over and over. “Chachi, that’s enough,” Amanda said. Then, casually, “So, how’s Max do- ing?”
Oh, no. She wanted money. Periodically Amanda pointed out that since Max was technically her horse, she had the right to sell him. No matter that she hadn’t contributed a dime to his upkeep, and as if an old horse would bring anything more than two hundred dollars from the dog food people. In the kitchen Rose put the kettle on to boil. She took down the boxes of tea bags, plunked Sleepytime into one cup and Mandarin Orange Spice into another. She deliberated, measuring the effect of each word before she said it aloud, certain that Amanda’s agenda would unfold in time as long as her mother didn’t push. “Your horse seems very happy here, despite his back troubles. Doctor Donavan sees him every couple weeks, and I exer- cised him today. Max, I mean,” she
added quickly, hearing the unfortunate double-entendre in her words. “We got a nice ride in before the rain started coming down so hard. Weatherman says it’s supposed to clear up by tomorrow.” Amanda picked up the book her mother had been reading.
“Mother, are you reading romance novels?”
Rose flushed. “What’s so terrible about a happy ending now and then? It’s nice break from real life.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rose poured the hot water, then brought the cups in and set them on the coffee table. Talking to her daughter was like learning chess; she constantly had to project several possible moves into the future or find herself cornered. Amanda stared into the unlit firebox of the woodstove. She had her knees drawn up to her chest under one of those import store dresses, a dull green material with a pattern that looked like hopelessly tangled vines. Her Birkenstock sandals stuck out under the hemline. Funny how such an expensive shoe always looked two steps away from the trash. “Nothing earth shattering. I like to read about things working out. It gives me hope.”
Amanda sighed as she picked up her cup. “You are so clueless,” she said. “There is no such thing as hope.”
“Wow. That’s a pretty cynical thing for a girl of twenty to say.
May I ask what contributed to your opinion?”
Amanda blew across the surface of the tea. “It’s just how I feel since Daddy died.” She took a drink, her eyes blazing, daring Rose to try to convince her otherwise, just aching to engage her mother in battle in
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