down the stairs, where the world spun on its proper axis and nobody was tanked unless it was due to anesthetic.
Smarting a little from Paloma’s words, Rose sat for a long time on the end of the bed, studying the vet’s whiskery face against the pillow. Even in sleep his expression was stubborn. His lips parted slightly, and
moved the way they might if he were kissing a child. The wings of his shoulder blades lifted and settled with each heavy breath. Did drunks dream? Rose could hardly lay her head down on the pillow at home without entering some complicated dreamworld where she argued with Philip over the children or tried and failed to outrun faceless strangers. Sometimes she saw her daughter in profile and called out to her in a strangled voice, but Amanda, having long ago turned a deaf ear to her mother’s wishes, never heard. In her late thirties Rose had thought about having another baby because her life suddenly felt so empty. An infant in one’s arms certainly presented an all-encompassing task, but all that longing turned out to be about was throat-clearing for grandparenthood. If that ever happened, Rose would face it alone. She pressed her fingers to the pulse in Austin’s foot. Like the Achilles’ tendon, the arch of the foot was such a vulnerable place. From time to time she thought that if the human heart rested there instead of bracketed inside the rib cage, people might be a little more careful of what they did with it. Aus- tin’s blood beat solidly, like the trot of a well-trained horse. Her fingers tightened protectively; then all of a sudden the idea that she was sitting here comforting a drunk made her skin crawl. She let go and stood up. Austin’s arm dangled from the mattress and his fin- gertips grazed the floor. For no reason other than that he was unable to stop her, Rose rubbed her knuckles against his scraped cheek. He moaned in his sleep but didn’t rouse.
“I’m warning you,” she whispered. “There are people here who care about you, but they are quickly losing patience.” Then she went downstairs to move his truck.
Two hours later Austin was still asleep when she switched off her monitor and headed for home. Paloma walked out back with her, and they stood by their cars, talking in the fading sunlight.
“Why don’t you come home with me for supper? Nacio’s making rabbit with that mole he brought up from Oaxaca. I can set out a third bowl. Afterward we can play cards.”
Her friends suffered these attacks of kindness once or twice a week. Rose carefully chose when to say yes and when to decline. “Sounds wonderful, Paloma, but I’ve got the dog to see to, the horses to feed, plus I’m in the middle of a really good novel. Bring me some leftovers on Monday?”
Paloma’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “You better not be coming back here to check on you-know-who. I’ll know if you do; I have codependent radar.”
Rose laughed. “Cross my heart, swear to the Virgin.”
Paloma seemed satisfied as she drove away in her silver Dodge Ram. Rose opened the door to the red Bronco, a ’68, practically an antique. It was one of her father’s old ranch vehicles, and she’d driven it since she was sixteen years old. Wouldn’t win any beauty contests, and parts for it were difficult to locate, but it ran like a top and had four-wheel drive for the winter snow between home and the three miles to the veterinary office. Philip had driven a decked- out Ford Taurus, totaled in the accident. Rose had thought about buying a new car, but in the end decided it made more sense to save the insurance settlement for a larger crisis. When she spent money these days, it was on repairs to the barn or toward the horses’ keep. She was counting on Winky’s foal to bring in a little extra cash, planning her future one day at a time. In some ways it felt as if her life were regressing back to a simpler time, and that only concentrat- ing on horses would make it manageable. She drove home
Smarting a little from Paloma’s words, Rose sat for a long time on the end of the bed, studying the vet’s whiskery face against the pillow. Even in sleep his expression was stubborn. His lips parted slightly, and
moved the way they might if he were kissing a child. The wings of his shoulder blades lifted and settled with each heavy breath. Did drunks dream? Rose could hardly lay her head down on the pillow at home without entering some complicated dreamworld where she argued with Philip over the children or tried and failed to outrun faceless strangers. Sometimes she saw her daughter in profile and called out to her in a strangled voice, but Amanda, having long ago turned a deaf ear to her mother’s wishes, never heard. In her late thirties Rose had thought about having another baby because her life suddenly felt so empty. An infant in one’s arms certainly presented an all-encompassing task, but all that longing turned out to be about was throat-clearing for grandparenthood. If that ever happened, Rose would face it alone. She pressed her fingers to the pulse in Austin’s foot. Like the Achilles’ tendon, the arch of the foot was such a vulnerable place. From time to time she thought that if the human heart rested there instead of bracketed inside the rib cage, people might be a little more careful of what they did with it. Aus- tin’s blood beat solidly, like the trot of a well-trained horse. Her fingers tightened protectively; then all of a sudden the idea that she was sitting here comforting a drunk made her skin crawl. She let go and stood up. Austin’s arm dangled from the mattress and his fin- gertips grazed the floor. For no reason other than that he was unable to stop her, Rose rubbed her knuckles against his scraped cheek. He moaned in his sleep but didn’t rouse.
“I’m warning you,” she whispered. “There are people here who care about you, but they are quickly losing patience.” Then she went downstairs to move his truck.
Two hours later Austin was still asleep when she switched off her monitor and headed for home. Paloma walked out back with her, and they stood by their cars, talking in the fading sunlight.
“Why don’t you come home with me for supper? Nacio’s making rabbit with that mole he brought up from Oaxaca. I can set out a third bowl. Afterward we can play cards.”
Her friends suffered these attacks of kindness once or twice a week. Rose carefully chose when to say yes and when to decline. “Sounds wonderful, Paloma, but I’ve got the dog to see to, the horses to feed, plus I’m in the middle of a really good novel. Bring me some leftovers on Monday?”
Paloma’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “You better not be coming back here to check on you-know-who. I’ll know if you do; I have codependent radar.”
Rose laughed. “Cross my heart, swear to the Virgin.”
Paloma seemed satisfied as she drove away in her silver Dodge Ram. Rose opened the door to the red Bronco, a ’68, practically an antique. It was one of her father’s old ranch vehicles, and she’d driven it since she was sixteen years old. Wouldn’t win any beauty contests, and parts for it were difficult to locate, but it ran like a top and had four-wheel drive for the winter snow between home and the three miles to the veterinary office. Philip had driven a decked- out Ford Taurus, totaled in the accident. Rose had thought about buying a new car, but in the end decided it made more sense to save the insurance settlement for a larger crisis. When she spent money these days, it was on repairs to the barn or toward the horses’ keep. She was counting on Winky’s foal to bring in a little extra cash, planning her future one day at a time. In some ways it felt as if her life were regressing back to a simpler time, and that only concentrat- ing on horses would make it manageable. She drove home
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