Heart of the Country by Rene Gutteridge

cut, and nearly always mismatched clothes.
    “He’s read all the Judy Blume books.”
    It lasted about a week, but I knew my girl looked for substance, and in those blue eyes that kept my gaze, I saw substance.
    I was drawn to my metal reflection again, and this time I told myself that I had to look. Not just glance. But look.
    “Blood pressure is rising again,” he said.
    I stared at it for a long time. The pain was coming back. It made me want to scream, but I couldn’t move. His hands were still over my belly.
    Blood on his gloves.
    Yellow here and there.
    A moment of clarity interrupted the pain and the terror that I felt, and I saw it clearly. I saw me clearly. And I knew I’d made a mistake. The metal wasn’t distorting me. It was perfectly capturing me.
    “Her heart rate is . . .” His voice trailed off. I don’t know why. But I couldn’t look at myself any longer. Maybe I trailed off.
    I had to ask myself, was I better off dead? And maybe at that moment I was because I felt nothing at all. No hope. No love. No peace. No memories. Complete emptiness, except for the flickering of my soul against a harsh, dreadful wind.

17
    FAITH
    “Y OU’RE FAR AWAY .  . .”
    I gasped, turned. Dad had crept up on me while I was lost in my thoughts of Luke and our life before. “Hi. Sorry. Was just . . .” I didn’t have to say it. He knew. I hung the saddle up and grabbed the brush.
    “Good day for a ride. Nice weather.”
    “It was perfect.”
    “How was he for you?” he asked, nodding toward Silver.
    “The best. A real gentleman.” I nudged Dad. “Mom used to say the same thing about you.”
    He stared off into the horizon. Then he turned back toward the house. “Well, your sister has fixed dinner.”
    “What?”
    “It’s a special day.”
    “She didn’t have to go to that trouble.”
    A wry smile crossed his face. “That’s what your sister does. She goes to the trouble. It’ll be better than anything I come up with, that’s for sure. I’ll meet you back up at the house.”
    He ambled toward it, taking his time, and I took mine. What had I done, coming back here? I was already a huge inconvenience. And I could tell Olivia didn’t approve. How could I explain the last few . . . ten . . . years? How could anyone possibly know how I got here? Why I came here. Why I left, for that matter.
    My mother’s face rippled in my mind as if it were laid against water. She told me that no matter what, I’d always have home.
    But I don’t think she could’ve predicted what a mess all of us would become.
    I spent a little while with Silver, brushing his coat. Used to be that the shine came back when I did that, but no matter how much I brushed, the sheen didn’t return. It was okay, though. We understood each other.
    I walked back to the house in my bare feet, feeling the grass between my toes. I loved being in my bare feet. Luke and I used to go to Central Park and I’d always kick off my shoes, which inevitably led to a much-loved foot rub from the man of my dreams.
    At the back door I slipped on my shoes and walked in. Dad was in the recliner. Just the top of his head peekedover the worn leather. A football game droned into what was otherwise a silent house. Off the kitchen was their bedroom. I slipped in there quietly. I didn’t know why, but it just felt like I needed permission to wander this home I’d grown up in.
    The familiarity of the room greeted me, but the warmth was gone. I’d spent hours in here talking with Mom about boys, horses, singing. The arrangement hadn’t changed. A soft layer of dust was at first the only indication a woman wasn’t keeping the room. The pictures were still around. But it had been stripped down to simplicities, serving a man with simple needs. I stepped quietly, carefully, my hands clasped behind my back as I wandered from picture to picture.
    I noticed Dad’s Bible on his nightstand. Well worn. A bump in the middle. I wondered what it was and walked