| The two sisters
were rinsing the buckets by the water tap when the back door of
the farmhouse opened and the tall figure of Jack Bartlett, their
grandpa, appeared.
"Almost
finished?" he yelled, his deep voice trailing across the
yard. Suddenly his upright shoulders jerked forward and he coughed
heavily.
Amy frowned.
"Are you OK, Grandpa?"
Jack cleared
his throat as he walked toward them. "It's just a bad cold,"
he said, nodding. "I guess I picked it up the other night
when we were foaling Daybreak." He changed the subject. "Now,
are you coming in? Dinner's ready."
"We're
coming," Lou replied.
As Grandpa
turned back into the house, Lou gently took the water bucket from
Amy. "Come on, Amy," she said. "It's time to eat."
Amy took a
deep breath and followed Lou down to the back door. It's going
to be alright, she told herself. She looked at Lou. Her sister
appeared so composed; it was almost as though she didn't care
that this was their first Thanksgiving since Mom had died. But
Amy knew her sister better than that. Lou cared as deeply as she
did. It was just that she had a different way of coping. Lou channeled
all her energy into being practical and sensible.
Reaching the
porch, Amy pulled off her boots as Lou opened the door into the
warm, brightly lit, cluttered kitchen. Grandpa was lifting a perfectly
golden roasted turkey out of the oven.
"It smells
delicious, Grandpa," Lou said, going over to the sink to
wash her hands. "Can I do anything to help?"
Amy stopped
in the doorway, her heart pounding. Everything looked so familiar
- the white candles on the table, the huge pumpkin pie cooling
on the counter, the dishes of homemade cranberry sauce, sweet
potatoes, and chestnut stuffing. As her eyes fell on the place
settings, she tried to hold back the tears. At the far end of
the table, where Mom had always sat, the tablecloth was bare.
Lou and Grandpa
turned around at the sound of her crying.
Grandpa, his
face creased in concern, put down the turkey and hurried over.
As his arms
folded around her, Amy felt the grief that she'd been controlling
so well during the last few months overwhelm her. She didn't know
how long she cried, but at last she became aware of the room again
and of the rough wool of her grandpa's sweater prickling her face.
"I'm
sorry," she muttered, pulling back and trying to regain some
control over her feelings.
"It's
OK, honey - it's natural," her grandpa said. "Times
like these are never easy when we've lost someone we love."
Amy looked
into his blue eyes and saw the understanding there. "I miss
her, Grandpa. So much…" she whispered, her heart clenching
with loss. "And it's not just today, it's every day."
Grandpa kissed
her hair. "We all miss your mom. We always will. But we've
got each other, and today of all days we need to give thanks for
that. It's what your mom would have wanted. You know how much
she believed in looking forward to the future, not back at that
past."
Lou rubbed
Amy's arm. "Grandpa's right, Amy."
Amy swallowed
and nodded.
"Come
on," Grandpa said, hugging her one more time. "Let's
eat."
The atmosphere
around the table was subdued as they sat down. "I wonder
what Daddy's doing right now?" Lou said, breaking the silence
as they began to pass around the hot vegetable dishes.
Amy glanced
at Grandpa. His face had tightened. "Probably nothing special,"
she said quickly. "They don't have Thanksgiving in England,
do they?"
"No,"
Lou admitted. "But he might be thinking of us."
"I'm
sure he is, sweetheart," Grandpa said, only his taut mouth
betraying his feelings. Amy knew Grandpa had never forgiven Tim,
their father, for abandoning them and their mom after a riding
accident had ended his international show-jumping career twelve
years ago.
"I hope
he got my last letter," Lou said, referring to the one she
had put in the mail the previous week. "I asked him to call
us today."
"Well,
maybe he will," Grandpa said.
Sensing the
awkwardness, Amy hurriedly looked at her grandpa. "We haven't
said thank you for the horses yet," she said, blurting out
the first thing she could think of to change the subject. "Mom
always used to. We should, too."
Grandpa nodded.
"You're right." He stood up and took down a thick, dusty
photograph album from it's place on the top shelf of the chest.
He offered it to Amy. "Would you like to?"
Amy hesitated
for a moment. She hadn't really thought beyond the need to divert
the conversation from Daddy. "Oh," she said slowly.
She took the heavy leather book and opened it, swallowing a lump
in her throat. Page after page was filled with photographs of
horses they had treated at Heartland. Amy looked inside the front
cover and saw her mom's familiar writing: By healing, we heal
ourselves.
"If you
don't want to…" Grandpa began, looking at her face in
concern.
"No,"
Amy said. "I want to." And suddenly she meant it. "Mom
often told me how privileged she was, being able to work with
the horses, and well, I feel the same," Amy said thinking
of all the horses she had helped in the five months since her
mom had died - Sugarfoot, Spartan, Promise, Melody. Glancing up
at Lou and Grandpa, she continued, "Every Thanksgiving, Mom
said that by healing, we heal ourselves, and it's true. The horses
I've helped have given me so much, and so I'd like to give thanks
to them, just like Mom would have done."
Grandpa lifted
his glass. "To the horses," he said. "To those
in the past, the present and those still to come."
"To the
horses," Amy and Lou echoed quietly.
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