CRASH by Elena Batt

Sometimes your past follows you around like a shadow, or in the shadows, waiting just around the corner or in the basement so that you turn suddenly and come face to face with it. Your old self and your new self stop abruptly and stare not speaking into the void between you.

Last summer when I moved to Saugerties I was only vaguely aware of the horseshow grounds. And then me and my husband and my dog went to check it out. What were the chances? I thought as wandered through the lanes between the temporary barns. But I knew they’d be there and they were. My old trainer and his wife, and their son who was about the same age I was when I first started riding with them. And I saw myself as they must see me, then and now, and those judgments follow whenever I walk past the deserted barns, covered with snow, and now that it’s summer again I simply avoid them.

My saddle was in the basement and I’m cleaning it in preparation for tomorrow’s ride. The nylon case which is lined with synthetic sheepskin is moldy and I’m alarmed to find that the saddle is ensconced in three different colors of mold, white, green and a rust color that turns the sponge the color of old blood. I’m sitting on the floor of the kitchen, cradling my saddle as I clean it. A Hèrmes, made in France, that carried me for so many years. We’re becoming acquainted again, straps and flaps and the worn places, grimy spots. It cleans up real good.The next morning I’m zipping on my blue suede chaps. A sixteenth birthday present. They were custom made and my initials are in needlepoint on the back strap. And they still fit.

Alison’s friend just finished telling me that the horse I’m riding today is a little crazy. Not malicious crazy, just a little green. I may have a fancy French saddle and custom chaps but it’s been ten years since I rode regularly. I just gulp and try to savor the sensation of fear.

It’s just me in the woods with my new friends and this horse. My sportsbra is digging into me because my tits are so much bigger than they were then and it’s only been 15 minutes and I have saddle sores already but this here today is an act of defiance. We skirt a field, rushing by the trees and my body is lightning, everything is coming back to me: balance, contact, effortless communication. Everything rushes back into me and we are going too fast. Sit up straighter. I try not to hear that cold voice coming over the swamp that I can barely make out through the woods. You’re a fucking disaster. You’re going to ruin that horse. I wanted them to be my parents. I whittled away at myself to become accepted, acceptable. The whites of my eyes were always showing. We’re jumping fences now. Fuck you! I’m jumping fences with everything you taught me, running away with it and the image of you kicking that dog and your rages, we’re clearing them, jumping clean over them and I’m still on.

I see wild turkeys running through the woods out of the corner of my eye. Awkward and ugly. Bailey, the mare I’m riding, always has to be in front of the other horses and she’s stubborn about it so I let her stay ahead. She trots and jogs impatiently and I let her have her way just enough to keep her content. You almost never had mares in the barn back then, you didn’t like them. Too moody and bitchy.

We lose the trail which is marked with orange ribbons. I’m in front so I’m supposed to spot them but they fly by too quickly. It feels like we’re going in circles and we hear the sound of shotguns in the distance. They’re getting closer. Run, turkeys, run, and now we’re all running and singing, too, so the hunters hear us.

We find the trail which leads us by the swamp again, maybe on the other side now and the woods are thick. The cruelest things you ever did to me lie at the bottom of that swamp. The time you gave me a leg up and said I was like a sack of potatoes. I was supposed to jump up as light as a feather so you hefted me over so hard that I flew over the horse and landed in the dust on the other side. To teach me a lesson. Or when my father sold my beloved horse Abby before I went to college. Is yer dad happy? chimed your Irish accent. I bet he’s so happy, was your response to my despair. I was in love with you for a time, your dark hair and muscular shoulders, the way you sat on a horse’s back. A crush. I became a machine, and all the points and ribbons and championships and even the praise I could only meet with a wooden smile. I think I had finally become as close to perfect as I could be, almost invisible.

There are two log fences in front of us and I’m game. Bailey clears the first one and my reins are too loose after landing, my legs still coming back into position. She’s distracted by something in the woods. I’d noticed this tendency of hers earlier, maybe she was daydreaming. She’s not paying attention to the jump ahead of us and swerves left sharply. She saw something, maybe she saw you and your cold blue eyes waiting there by the swamp. By the time I realize what’s happening it’s too late, I’ve lost my balance, the saddle slips, something is pulling me down. I hit the earth like a stone, like something dead, as if the weight of the past came crashing down on top of me. I hear snapping sounds and hope that it’s not me, that it’s branches.

Quickly instinct takes over, I get up mumbling assurances to my companions and walk unsteadily over to Bailey, approaching her slowly so she doesn’t run away. She’s standing by the banks of the swamp, staring out across the gray and yellow emptiness. My saddle has slipped and I unbuckle the girth to fix it but my right arm isn’t working properly. And then the lesson you engraved in my soul prevails: that weakness is unacceptable and pain inevitable. I right the saddle and remount and we head home. I’m less trusting. I make Bailey jump more fences to reassure us both. But she’s bored and tired and wants no more of this, wants to be in her stall munching hay. Misbehaving now, pulling me like a rag doll, my hands blistered, shoulder pounding, drenched in sweat, no longer in control. I’m thinking about the fact that I have to be at work at 2 and that I’m not going to make it.

That last summer before I went to college and after I sold my horse I worked for you as a groom to earn some money and started riding again, riding your horses. After one particular afternoon of dust and sweat and shouting I found excuses not to ride anymore, staying on the ground, feeding and mucking. Still your temper snaked out like the lash of a whip until finally during a long silent truck ride home from a horse show I told you, “After this summer I’m never going to work for you again.”

“Ah, you’re just tired,” you said, irritably.

And I was, I was so tired on that ride home until finally we came out of the woods and even though I was hating it, battling with Bailey, fighting just to stay on and feeling broken beyond repair, still, despite everything, I had risen out of the shadows.

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AUTHOR BIO: For three years Elena Batt ran away with the Big Apple circus, traveling up and down the east coast in a unique world that often appears in her writing. She lives now with her husband Adam -- whom she met on the road -- and her pets Java and Saffron in Saugerties, NY and is the Box Office Manager at The Fisher Center at Bard College. Writing and the arts have always been her passion and lately she is allowing her own art to flourish and take center stage.