Chapter 47: All the Pretty Little Horses

April

I've been here with Bree all week long while she regains strength. Usually, after a C-section, the mom and baby only have to stay for two or three days. But given Bree's blood loss, they want to keep her here longer and monitor her progress. If she goes home and starts hemorrhaging again, it could be deadly.

My teachers have all been real cool about it though. I'm submitting everything online and helping Bree get through some of her test material so she can get credit by exam in May.

Colt is doing awesome. That's what we named him—Colt Grady Chaplin.

I mean, that's what we named him after a lot of debate. I was right. Bree had a long list of names written down in her little pink journal, most of which I thought sounded kind of pretentious. Like Banks. Who names a tiny baby Banks? It sounds like a butler's name. Colt was the only one I could stomach. It suits him. And Grady was her mom's maiden name, so I caved because I'm trying to get back on Gram's good side. Bree's Gram seems pretty irritated by the way everything went down. Turns out that if Bree had more consistent prenatal care, they would have seen the red flags and possibly averted the complete disaster we went through. Even with insurance, the hospital bills are going to be stupid expensive, given Colt's round-the-clock care for what they estimate will be another five weeks.

Honestly, I don't care because I'm so relieved that they're both alive and well. The nursing staff says they've never seen a preemie born at twenty-eight weeks thrive like Colt has. So, the money's worth it, and I'll find a way to pay Gram back some day.

Bree was real tired for the first few days after surgery. She slept almost the whole time. But today she's finally strong enough, so they wheeled her in to the NICU for some kanga time.

I'm actually kind of jealous because it was sort of our thing, mine and Colt's.

When I rock him now, I sometimes sing, mostly when none of the nurses are lurking around. The song he likes best is one Ma used to sing to me, All the Pretty Little Horses. My voice isn't pretty, but I don't think Colt cares. I hold him chest to chest and sing "Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, go to sleep you little baby. When you wake, you'll have cake, and all the pretty little horses. Blacks and bays, dapples and greys, a coach and six white horses. Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, go to sleep you little baby."

It's our bonding time.

But it's important that Bree bond with him too, so I'm giving them some space.  

While she's out, I try to organize the hospital room. Things can get a little disorderly when two people live in a room the size of a cracker-box all week. I line our books along the windowsill, fold up the blankets and stack them on top of the pillows at one end of the couch, and pick up the wrappers, empty water bottles, and random computer and phone chargers. Bree left her laptop on her bed, so I plug it in and place it on the movable tray.

Her pink journal had been tucked under a sheet, so I lay that next to her computer.

Then I sit on the couch and open All the Pretty Horses. I'm almost to part four, but I've been reading at a snail's pace with all the other crap that's been going down. I start where I left off—John and Rawlins just got out of the hospital, and they're banged up pretty bad—but for some reason, I can't focus.

My eyes keep drifting to her journal. What the hell is the matter with me? Why do I always get the urge to know what she's writing? My eyes dart to the clock. She's been in there about twenty minutes, which means I have another forty-five. 

I reach over and swipe the thing, tucking it between the pile of blankets. Then I go ease the door all the way shut, sit back on the couch, and open her book of riddles.

I find the first blank pages and start flipping backwards. The first few pages I come to are lists—baby names, gear she needs to register for, wedding venues, to-do items regarding high school graduation. So I flip back further—to the month of March where she ripped out the page with my poem on it.

The poem before the ripped page is short, but I have to read it very slowly to understand what the hell it's about.

First, there was you.

Then, there were two.

But you only wanted me,

so I had to make it three.

Because you could not

give me more,

now of us there are

four.

I have no idea what that's about. Some kind of complicated math poem. I'm not great at math or poetry, so I flip to the next one.

Love is not math

Not a story problem to be solved

With addition and subtraction

That divides again then multiplies

There is no proof

That explains this equation

Exponentially tripling by rule

No principle that simplifies

Love is physics

It obscures and abstracts

And coils back on itself

It amplifies and mystifies

It triangulates

And separates

A double helix

That relentlessly self-justifies

Turns out, this one is about math and physics. I'm screwed. Who writes poems about physics? This is obviously getting me nowhere. I don't know why I'm obsessing about the contents of this damn journal. For some reason, I can't shake the feeling that she's hiding something. I think it has to do with a conversation I had with Melanie the other day. She'd come to check on Bree while she was still out of it. So, we chatted a bit about what all happened and why.

"I told her that her lack of weight gain was a concern. Did she mention that to you? And was she ever able to kick the nic?" Melanie asked.

"Kick the nic?"

"Yes, her vaping. She confided in me about it and asked if the baby would be okay. I told her then that she absolutely had to quit. And that quitting nicotine would help her gain weight. I know with all of her anxiety she was struggling to cope."

I nodded. "Yeah, she quit," I lied. I didn't even know she was still vaping! Later that day, I opened her little handbag, and, sure enough, the vape was at the bottom blending in with the purse lining. And what did Melanie mean by "struggling to cope"? Bree always told me everything was perfect. If it was so fucking perfect, why the anxiety? Why the vaping? Was she drinking too? Anyway, that day I started to wonder what else she was hiding from me. It's not like I was about to confront her in her condition, but these paranoid thoughts won't stop nagging me.

I glance at the clock again. Twenty minutes to go. I flip all the way back to the time around homecoming, to the first poem I ever read of hers. I remember that one is about secrets. The lines that jump off the page at me are these:

A secret can grow inside

until you split open.

It enters the world screaming,

innocent eyes searching

for a host.

That's the thing about secrets.

They have a life of their own.

But they feed on the lives of others.

More damn riddles. None of this makes sense to me. I think I'm maybe starting to get cabin fever. I tuck the journal back under her sheets and scribble a note to Bree telling her I'm running home to get some things and to text me if she needs me to pick anything up for her.

Ma and Dad dropped my truck the other day, so I grab the keys from my duffel bag along with my wallet. As I'm leaving, I turn and look back at this little room that's been our home for the past several days.

I mean, it's only natural right? Being cooped up somewhere like this for so long has to wear on a man's mental stability after a while.

When I drive up to the house, Homeless dog comes running out to the truck. I hop down and greet him from a squatting position. "Hey boy," I say. "What are you still doing here?"

Ma walks out on the front porch. "Hey, Bud," she says. "Everything alright?"

I nod. "Just needed to get out of there for a while. Cabin fever."

She walks down the steps to give me a hug. "Yeah, hospitals are the worst. People coming in and out all night long. The constant beeping and nurses asking about all kinds of personal things. I hated it."

"You sure did do it a lot for someone who hated it," I say grinning.

She shrugs. "It's worth it."

We walk back up the steps with the dog following close behind. "What's Homeless dog still doing here?"

"Oh, yeah. Well, I had him scanned. No chip. So I posted pictures and information on Petfinder and other sites. Nobody's claimed him. And now it looks like your dad's gotten attached."

"Really?" He's refused to get another dog ever since our bloodhound died seven years ago. 

"Yeah. You know how he was about Ace. He never could bring himself to get another. But little Homie here just wormed his way right into your dad's heart."

"Homie?"

"Yeah. Short for Homeless." She smiles down at him. "But you're not homeless anymore, are you?"

He wags his little stump and looks up at her with his big brown eyes. He looks good—all the matted fur is gone, replaced with a shiny, soft coat. And he's put on some weight. "Looks like he's been well-fed," I say as we walk into the kitchen.

"You know me. Can't bear to have my boys go hungry. Speaking of, you should stay for dinner. I'm sure a homecooked meal will be nice after all that hospital food and takeout."

*****

It was nice. I feel a lot better after having a normal dinner and talking with my parents. They seemed good. My dad was going over the plans for the cabin. Now that Colt will be coming home in a few weeks, they've really upped the pace on the renovation. Right now, it's a bit of a disaster area, what with ripping out the floors and replacing appliances and countertops. But they're hopeful that it will all be done by the time Colt is ready to live there.

I'm pretty excited to tell Bree all about it. When I get to her door, I hear another woman's voice. Probably a nurse, so I go ahead and barge in.

It's not a nurse.

It's a woman with a cloud of dark Dallas hair sitting in the chair next to Bree's bed. She's small and round, sort of pretty, with navy blue sparkling eyes hooded by shoots of false eyelash extensions. She smiles at me through her bright pink lipstick.

I glance at Bree. Her expression tells me she's uncomfortable.

"Jack, right?" The woman asks as she stands and moves in my direction. She puts her hand out. "Ruby Faye Carson," she says. "Cash's Mama."

Her smile, her tone, makes something like poison seep into my bones, dark and menacing.

I take a deep breath, exhale, and ask her, "what brought you here?"