Читать онлайн "Home Field" - Gersen Hannah - RuLit

The room was filled with new energy as they prepared for departure. Dean folded up all the sheets and blankets while Robbie changed into the clothes Dean had brought for him to wear. He frowned as he pulled on his sweatshirt, and Dean wondered if he had picked the wrong thing.

“What’s the matter?” Dean asked. “Do you want to take a shower? You can, if you want.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Do you want to skip the race? We don’t have to go. Bryan will understand.”

“No, I want to go.”

“Okay,” Dean said. “Is it something else? Do you feel all right?”

“I feel fine, it’s just that I wanted. . I wanted to go to the barn.”

“The barn?” Dean repeated. It was all he could think to say.

“Never mind.” Robbie looked ill. “Forget it.”

“No, it’s okay,” Dean said. “We can go.”

“I just wanted to see it when it’s normal inside, with all the horses there like they are in the mornings. So I can remember it a different way.” His chin trembled. “I know it’s strange.”

“It’s not strange.” Dean knelt down to take his hands. “Hey, listen to me, it’s not strange. Nothing is strange in this world.”

Robbie nodded, taking deep breaths to hold back his tears.

Dean put his hand on Robbie’s shoulder and led him through the kitchen where Stephanie and Bryan were sitting quietly with his father, aware that something important was transpiring in the next room. Dean signaled for them to follow him outside.

He didn’t have to say where he was going; it was obvious. They followed the driveway up the slight hill that led to the barn. Dean remembered driving away from it to go to the hospital, seeing it in his rearview mirror and knowing his life had changed forever. But he hadn’t really known. He wasn’t the kind of person who understood things in an instant.

When they reached the barn, Dean’s father helped him slide the heavy doors open. The horses stirred as light shone into their stalls. Dean could smell their bodies. There were only four horses; the white barn was the smallest of three barns on the property, and most of it was devoted to storage. The rope swing had been toward the back of the barn, near the hayloft, but it had been removed.

Robbie stood still, and then he walked down the dirt aisle to a particular spot. He looked up toward the barn’s vaulted ceiling and then he knelt down and he touched the floor with his hand flat on the ground like he was trying to make an impression. Dean wished he had a wreath or a flower or a stone to offer. He thought of his visits to the battlefield, the potent sense of lives lost. His wife had fought hard for her life; she had fought hard and she had been defeated. He had to honor that. Maybe that was all anyone ever meant by forgiveness.

THE RAIN HAD already passed over the valley and the sky was a rinsed blue. Dean stood on a hill, watching the teams line up on the field below. His legs and chest ached pleasantly from his sprint across the parking lot. He was too far away to identify his girls, and he had no idea of the course they were about to run. But he didn’t care, he was just grateful to have made it to this spot.

Next to him, Robbie, Bryan, and Stephanie were yelling, “Go blue!” and trying to get the attention of the crowd of Willowboro spectators at the bottom of the hill. He felt an easy happiness, a desire simply to be near the people who meant the most to him.

The crowd went quiet as the starter walked out onto the field. He raised his arms and shot the pistol. A cloud of smoke appeared, floating like a ghost above the advancing runners. Dean watched it dissolve before following his children down the hill and across the playing field.

Acknowledgments

First, to Maura Candela and Courtney Knowlton, who coaxed this — and many other stories, essays, and novels — into existence. You are my first, most generous readers, and I can’t thank you enough for your kindness, discernment, and insight — and of course, for all the gossip you’ve shared with me over the years.

To Emma Patterson, my agent: your support of and attention to my writing have made me a better storyteller. Thank you for everything.

To Margaux Weisman, my editor, and everyone at William Morrow: thank you for bringing this book to life with so much care and intelligence.

To Jennifer Acker, Kimberly England, and Krista Hoeppner-Leahy: your friendships have enriched my life in too many ways to list.

To Katie Bradley and Amanda Delong: you eased the loneliness of working alone. I couldn’t have written this book without you two.

To my family, especially my husband, whose love and support have meant the world to me.

Andrew Solomon’s The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression was an inspiring and invaluable resource in writing this story.

I grew up in a beautiful corner of western Maryland. I am indebted to this landscape, and I tried to capture its essence in the fictional town of Willowboro. The events and characters in this book come from my imagination and should not be confused with real people or situations.

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