“That is the problem,” she says, and I notice that her index finger taps the bed. Something she does when she’s nervous. “It’s a toss-up.” We stare at each other, both of us unwilling to look away. “Between a cop or a therapist.”
My laughter fills the room. “Why do you think I’m a cop?” I lean back in the chair, putting my hands on my stomach as I watch her.
“For one, the way you ask me questions indirectly,” she says right away. “You dance around a lot, trying to get me to say something without you saying it.”
“Is that because you have been arrested or questioned in the past that you know that?” I watch her eyes get just a touch darker.
“Not that it’s on the record,” she admits and waits for me to answer her.
“Okay,” I tell her. “I’m not a cop. But,” I say, putting up my index finger, “my uncle Jacob is a sheriff, and well, he’s been my role model since I can remember. I spent a lot of summers trailing him. Much to my mother’s begging.”
“She didn’t want you to be a sheriff?” she asks, and I chuckle.
“She didn’t want her child to be hurt,” I say, and her next words slice me through the heart.
“Be happy. Not all mothers are like that.” She swallows. “Trust me, I know.” I want to ask her what she means, but I know for her to open up to me, she has to trust me, and talking to her will help. “So you’re a therapist, then?” she asks, and I shake my head.
“Not exactly,” I say, not sure I should be happy she guessed it. “But close.”
“What does that mean?” she asks me, confused.
“I run Barnes Therapy Program,” I say, smiling.
“What is that?” she asks, her eyes waiting for my answer.
“It’s an equine therapy farm,” I say and see her eyebrows pinch together. “It’s horse therapy.” She opens her mouth. “I started it when I turned twenty,” I say, describing my baby to her. “With two horses. Initially, it started with soldiers who would come home with PTSD symptoms. They would come by every day and do a couple of hours with the horse. Then we expanded it to women who come from abusive homes.” I see the flicker in her eyes. “It’s a different approach to healing.”
“So they ride the horses?” she asks.
“Oh, there are a lot of things to do before you ride the horse.” She tilts her head. “You have to gain the horse’s trust. But yes, eventually, you work your way up to that,” I say. “I started with two horses, and I’m up to twenty, and I have a waiting list a mile long.” I don’t tell her that I have three centers, and one is about to become a rehab for soldiers who come back home.
“It helps?” she asks, and I can see she wants to ask me more questions.
“It helps because you have to be calm and relaxed with the horse. Most of my horses are also rescue horses.”
“So you just like to save everything and anyone that is broken?” She laughs.
“Not everything,” I say. “But I definitely relate more to horses than I do to people.”
“I mean, your bedside manner,” she says, “could use some help.” She laughs, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard in my whole life.
“Is that so?” I’m about to say something else when Shirley comes in.
“Did I just hear someone laughing?” Shirley walks into the room holding a tray in her hand, looking at me and then Willow, who has a smile on her face. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before.”
“I don’t usually have anything to laugh about,” Willow says, looking over at her. “Is that my breakfast?”
“It is.” Shirley sets the hospital tray down on the table. “Now, don’t get your hopes up too high,” Shirley says. “We have to wean you into solid foods.”
“I know,” she says. “Besides, I had two bites of blueberry pie.”
“Did you now?” She smiles at her. “Well, eat up because I have to draw your blood, and then we have a CT scan and an MRI.”
“Why?” she asks.
“We want to make sure that the swelling in your brain went down,” Shirley says. “Make sure you are healing. They are totally normal.”
“Okay,” she answers softly, her head going back on the pillow as she closes her eyes.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, and she shakes her head.
“Not really.” She closes her eyes a touch more.
“Rest, sweet girl,” Shirley says, and Willow’s eyes close and don’t open again. Shirley motions with her head for me to follow her out of the room.
“Is she okay?” I ask, worried. Looking over my shoulder, I make sure she is still sleeping.
“She is fine,” she says. “Does she know about this afternoon?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t told her yet,” I say, running my hand through my hair. “She was light and laughing, and I didn’t want to.”
“You better get your balls ready because in less than five hours, that woman is going to be raked over the coals.” She points at the room. “And there is nothing that anyone can do about it.”
She turns to walk away, leaving me with a nagging feeling in my stomach. The burning takes over, and it moves up my neck, my mouth getting drier. My legs feel like I have concrete in my shoes as I walk back into the room and sit in the chair by her bed.
Her face has gained color in the past couple of days, and the circles around her eyes have gotten lighter. The swelling on one side has gone down just a touch. The sound of her laughter echoes in my ears, and I want to hear it again. Over and over again.
I take my phone out and send my father a text.
Me: What time is everyone coming?
I watch as the bubble with three dots comes up and see that it’s just after seven. It doesn’t surprise me that he’s awake. My father might sit behind a desk most of the day, but he always starts his day at five thirty with a walk to the barn.
Dad: We are going to be there at one.
Me: Can you bring blueberry pie?
Dad: Yeah, I’ll get one on my way there. Are you okay?
Me: No. Not even close.
Dad: It’ll be fine. Have faith.
I put the phone down and roll my eyes. My phone beeps again.
Dad: Don’t roll your eyes at me. I can still kick your ass.
I laugh, and it wakes her up. She jumps, gasping out for air. “It’s fine,” I say, grabbing her hand that is shaking in mine. “It’s fine.” Her chest rises and falls, and the machine shows her heart going higher than before but coming down just a touch. “It was a nightmare.” I rub my thumb over the top of her hand. “It’s just a nightmare.”
“Sometimes, your nightmares are reality,” she says, licking her lips. “I’ve found that out way too many times.”
“Not anymore.” I wait for her to look at me. “Nothing will ever hurt you again.”
Her eyes drop to look at our hands, and I can feel her trying to come up with something else. “Willow, look at me.” Her eyes come back to me. “You never ever have to feel fear again.” My thumb rubs across her hand softly. Her eyes go from my eyes to my hand on her and then up to the ceiling, and I know I have to tell her. “Um,” I start to say, and she looks at me. “I’m sorry to have to do this to you.” Her eyes never leave mine. “But they need to come and get a statement.” I swallow. “I tried to push it off as long as I could, but …”