Post by syrinx on Jan 18, 2008 12:34:58 GMT -5
Integrity
by Syrinx
Rating: PG-13
A/N: This is my Giant Gap ficathon response. The challenge requested an Ashleigh fic set post-miscarriage. It was to include Ashleigh's thoughts on miscarriage and the sale of Champion, the miscarriage of a mare, an American flag before an upcoming storm, no flashbacks, and no Ashleigh/Mike fluffiness. Also, had to be written in something other than third person. I hope this is written to your requirements, Phoenix! Also, great thanks to superjouer for being the fabulous beta that she is. Here's the story:
There’s a fresh, April breeze today. It’s the kind that smells like ozone and drags storms along in its wake; makes everything cool and crisp for three days before the humidity, which arrives early in the year like usual, takes over again. It’s momentarily pleasing, to feel that cool air hit my bare arms, before it becomes uncomfortable.
That’s how most of my life is these days anyway, so I’m used to it. I stand in the clubhouse at Keeneland, watch the breeze play with the American flag that’s stationed in the center of the infield, and wait for the storm to roll in. It’s slow in getting here, which is a glimmer of hope for Honor, who hates the rain and despises the mud.
She’s out there in the starting chute, standing unusually calm as the other mares load before her. Tommy’s hunched on her back, the gold and green silks for Townsend Acres shimmering just before the clouds take over the sun and inch closer to the track. There’s a distant rumble of thunder, and from so far away I can see Honor tense, her ears flicking back.
“Just had to happen now,” I hear a disgusted voice next to me, and I turn my head ever so slightly to acknowledge it without speaking.
The filly moves forward into the gate, bangs her hindquarters against the metal chute as Tommy settles himself for the break, and then the gate doors open. Honor jumps out onto the track, her red bay body digging down and shoving forward with the other six fillies in the race. She gains good position in fourth, two wide as they run down the backstretch. Switching leads in the turn, Tommy puts her into motion, and the two go cruising to the front.
By the quarter mile pole, Honor is in front and drawing away, reaching the wire to win by three and a half lengths under a hand ride. It’s textbook perfection for a Grade III, seven-furlong race. A part of me sparks with pride over a job well done. The other part of me wants to squirm out from under the hand that’s clapped enthusiastically around my shoulder.
“Let’s head to meet them, Griffen,” I’m told as Brad heads out of the owner’s box and waits for me just outside of it. I motion for him to wait a moment and he nods, watching me without emotion as I reach down to Christina, who’s been standing on my dress shoes, and lift her up to settle on my hip.
“Lead the way,” I say, and he does just that, clearing the path as I walk close behind him down to the track, where Honor comes jogging up to meet us with a dirt splattered Tommy grinning ear to ear.
“Couldn’t have been an easier trip,” he says down to us as we position for the photo. The filly snorts and Christina giggles as she reaches for Honor’s nose. Amazingly, Honor doesn’t tug away as soon as Christina’s little hand pats her dark muzzle, again confirming that Christina’s been a horsewoman since she was three.
The photo snaps and I want to get a look at Honor’s legs before she’s led off, but my only helpers are non-existent. I often fail to remember that. It’s always hard to remember these things for some reason, as if I’d gone so long taking them for granted that I’m always shocked to discover they really aren’t there anymore. Samantha is off in Ireland, married and blazing a new path. Cindy jumped off into the deep end, accompanying Champion off in Dubai. Ian’s preparing Integrity for the Wood Memorial with Mike, and Beth has her own concerns. It’s Honor and me today, with Christina on my hip.
“I’ll take her,” I hear that voice again, and look back at Brad with an expression I know must come off as aghast. That sets him to laughing, and he motions to me to hand my daughter over into his arms. I pause, considering what he’s asking.
“Ash, you want to check the filly. If you want to risk getting the kid’s head kicked in, that’s your call,” he says, the laughter gone. “Hand her over.”
With a look at Honor and back at Brad, I land a kiss on Christina’s cheek and give her up. Christina climbs up into Brad’s arms, her little white sundress riffling in the breeze as she grips to his broad shoulders through his charcoal suit. Brad gives her a cheerful smile and Christina smiles back, which momentarily derails me before I remember where I am.
The filly’s legs feel fine. Honor huffs at the attention and shakes herself as soon as Len pours water over her steaming back. Seven furlongs must have been the perfect distance for Honor’s five-year-old debut, and she looks no worse for wear. My inspection complete, I turn from the horse to my daughter, who’s singing along to “Ba Ba Black Sheep” with Brad.
Briefly, I feel the need to pinch myself. Brad singing a children’s song with a four-year-old does not qualify as normal, and my face must be broadcasting that loud and clear because when he looks up and sees me he starts laughing. Christina, caught up in mimicking Brad, does the same.
“Okay,” I say after startling myself out of this surreal image. “I think I can take her back now.”
“You sure about that?” he asks. “It’s a long trek back to the shedrow.”
“I’m pretty sure,” I answer, unsure of how I could possibly wrestle Christina away from Brad. Who was I kidding? It wasn’t like I couldn’t trust Brad to carry a toddler a quarter of a mile. I don’t retract my statement, however, so Brad hands her back to me and Christina pouts. Literally pouts, and I think my heart might break.
“Come on, sweetie,” I tell her, trying hard to appear upbeat. “Want to see Honor before we take a nap?”
I get a reluctant nod in response, and with a desperate look toward Brad we head off.
~~~
Sleeping doesn’t come easy anymore, and I find myself yet again sitting in front of the television watching the Late Show with little interest. Christina is dead asleep upstairs, and all the lights are off save the luminous blue glow of the television set. There were no phone calls tonight, not even considering Honor’s win in the Vinery Madison Stakes earlier this afternoon.
The thought crosses my mind that perhaps the filly’s race had simply been forgotten. With Integrity preparing for the Wood Memorial as the second betting choice, a little seven-furlong race at Keeneland could be easily forgotten, but it had never happened before. Mike had never been so forgetful before.
Briefly I consider other options and get stuck on thinking that perhaps I had been ignored. The thought makes my stomach turn over and for a second I refuse the notion. Fine, so I’ve only seen Mike twice since January. The business of running a small farm with active racing strings in three states means sacrifices must be made, and now as a mother I had Christina to anchor me at Whitebrook. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I could up and gallivant around the country like I used to, and before Christina I’d stay away from Kentucky for weeks at a time. That hadn’t been unusual.
This didn’t get down to explaining away being ignored, and I slump a little lower in the sofa with what I know is a petulant frown on my face. It was ridiculous, and to prove it I reach over and pick the cordless up off of the coffee table. I punch in Mike’s number and listen to the ringing tone five times before the voicemail picks up. With a sigh, I find something to say.
“Mike, hi. I wanted to check in and see about Integrity. I know he runs tomorrow and I wish you guys all the luck up there. Honor won her race down here; she just cruised, it was so impressive. Christina’s great, farm’s great, I’m great. Please call when you’ve got the time. Miss you. Bye.”
I punch the end button and toss the phone to the end of the sofa, disgusted by myself. Out of sight, out of mind, I think, but try not to feel bitter. It’s so easy to remove yourself from responsibility, and here I am trying to make it easier by pretending.
I get up and turn off the television, standing quietly in the dark for a moment, not even thinking about going to bed. I’m restless, my legs want to move, and my body’s aching to do something, anything. Instead I sit back down. Then the phone rings.
I jump and answer it, asking hello with a tone in my voice that makes me want to cringe, it sounds so desperate.
“Ashleigh, it’s Jeff,” answers the voice of my broodmare manager, and I instantly tense. “Princess is down. It looks like we’ll have a foal on the ground in the next half hour.”
“I’ll be right there,” I say, and hang up without another word.
~~~
I remember exactly two things before I rush from the house and run down to broodmare barn. The first was to wake up Maureen, profusely apologize, and demand that she sit in my living room in case Christina wakes up. The second is to snatch my cell phone from the kitchen table before I’m out the door.
The grass is slick under my feet from the thunderstorms earlier in the evening, and I nearly fall flat on my ass on my way to the barn. Fortunately I’m lucky enough to keep my feet underneath me and I arrive at my destination flushed, but otherwise injury free. Jeff is standing in the aisle of the broodmare barn, his attention on Princess. He doesn’t look at me when I approach, so I stop next to him and watch the mare labor in the straw.
“How are things so far?” I ask in a small voice that I don’t entirely trust not to betray me.
“She’s pulling through,” Jeff says, although I can hear the concern all throughout his answer. It was understandable; Princess hasn’t successfully delivered a foal since Honor.
I watch quietly as Princess goes through the motions, her body quivering with contractions as she gently lowers herself to the ground. The birth is easy, and before long two little hooves and a nose appear, pushing into the straw as the baby’s body slowly slides into the world. It feels serene, and I almost feel a little cheated that I never could have experienced it, although I know at the same time the word “serene” could not have been applied to natural childbirth and me.
Once the foal’s shoulders emerge the rest of the baby’s body tumbles out onto the straw, and Jeff is quick to act. I watch, although I don’t want to. In the pit of my stomach I already know what kind of news he’s going to come back with.
“Blue,” I hear, and I shut my eyes.
~~~
The baby looks like Princess, with a white snip on its nose and four white socks. Its eyes are closed, its wet body immobile in the straw. Princess lurches to her feet and turns to inspect her baby, her dark brown eyes wide with wonder and her ears pricked with interest. She nudges the foal’s shoulder with her nose and it’s more than I can take.
With a shaky breath I leave the scene, frantic to get away. I vaguely hear Jeff say that he’ll be in the office waiting it out, but by the end of his sentence I’m out of the barn entirely and standing in the empty gravel lot outside, trying not to hyperventilate.
The night air is cold, and the cotton tank top and pants I’m wearing don’t offer much resistance. I can’t make myself go back inside and sit in the office; I can’t be that close. I can’t go back up to the house; I can’t be that far away. Then suddenly the knowledge that I can’t decide between the two has my eyes spiked with tears, and I’m letting out a frustrated sob into my bare hands.
Then I remember the cell phone I’d slipped into my pocket before leaving, and hastily grab it like it’s a lifeline. When I peer at the glowing face of the phone I can’t think of who to call. Mike isn’t answering, Samantha and Cindy are worlds away and I couldn’t distress them with the kind of call I’m going to make. I pace, I stare at the phone, and then, in what I recognize as a poor decision before I do it, I speed dial Brad.
In one ring he answers.
“Griffen?” he asks, sounding exhausted and irritable.
“You have to come here,” I say, fully aware that I sound belligerent.
“I have to come where?” he asks.
“Here!” I demand, as though he doesn’t know where “here” is. He knows damn well.
“What’s going on, Ashleigh?” Brad asks, his tone changing, becoming concerned.
“Princess foaled tonight,” I say. “Just now, actually. The thing is…”
“Ashleigh,” he says, breaking in.
“It’s stillborn, and,” I gasp out, trying not to cry and failing miserably.
“Christ,” he mutters.
“I don’t think I can…” I trail off, not knowing what to say. “I don’t know who to tell. It’s…”
“Ashleigh,” he says, suddenly sounding very loud. I blink and stop pacing. “You stay where you are. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“But,” I start to say, “Townsend Acres is further than…”
Then the phone clicks dead in my ear.
~~~
by Syrinx
Rating: PG-13
A/N: This is my Giant Gap ficathon response. The challenge requested an Ashleigh fic set post-miscarriage. It was to include Ashleigh's thoughts on miscarriage and the sale of Champion, the miscarriage of a mare, an American flag before an upcoming storm, no flashbacks, and no Ashleigh/Mike fluffiness. Also, had to be written in something other than third person. I hope this is written to your requirements, Phoenix! Also, great thanks to superjouer for being the fabulous beta that she is. Here's the story:
There’s a fresh, April breeze today. It’s the kind that smells like ozone and drags storms along in its wake; makes everything cool and crisp for three days before the humidity, which arrives early in the year like usual, takes over again. It’s momentarily pleasing, to feel that cool air hit my bare arms, before it becomes uncomfortable.
That’s how most of my life is these days anyway, so I’m used to it. I stand in the clubhouse at Keeneland, watch the breeze play with the American flag that’s stationed in the center of the infield, and wait for the storm to roll in. It’s slow in getting here, which is a glimmer of hope for Honor, who hates the rain and despises the mud.
She’s out there in the starting chute, standing unusually calm as the other mares load before her. Tommy’s hunched on her back, the gold and green silks for Townsend Acres shimmering just before the clouds take over the sun and inch closer to the track. There’s a distant rumble of thunder, and from so far away I can see Honor tense, her ears flicking back.
“Just had to happen now,” I hear a disgusted voice next to me, and I turn my head ever so slightly to acknowledge it without speaking.
The filly moves forward into the gate, bangs her hindquarters against the metal chute as Tommy settles himself for the break, and then the gate doors open. Honor jumps out onto the track, her red bay body digging down and shoving forward with the other six fillies in the race. She gains good position in fourth, two wide as they run down the backstretch. Switching leads in the turn, Tommy puts her into motion, and the two go cruising to the front.
By the quarter mile pole, Honor is in front and drawing away, reaching the wire to win by three and a half lengths under a hand ride. It’s textbook perfection for a Grade III, seven-furlong race. A part of me sparks with pride over a job well done. The other part of me wants to squirm out from under the hand that’s clapped enthusiastically around my shoulder.
“Let’s head to meet them, Griffen,” I’m told as Brad heads out of the owner’s box and waits for me just outside of it. I motion for him to wait a moment and he nods, watching me without emotion as I reach down to Christina, who’s been standing on my dress shoes, and lift her up to settle on my hip.
“Lead the way,” I say, and he does just that, clearing the path as I walk close behind him down to the track, where Honor comes jogging up to meet us with a dirt splattered Tommy grinning ear to ear.
“Couldn’t have been an easier trip,” he says down to us as we position for the photo. The filly snorts and Christina giggles as she reaches for Honor’s nose. Amazingly, Honor doesn’t tug away as soon as Christina’s little hand pats her dark muzzle, again confirming that Christina’s been a horsewoman since she was three.
The photo snaps and I want to get a look at Honor’s legs before she’s led off, but my only helpers are non-existent. I often fail to remember that. It’s always hard to remember these things for some reason, as if I’d gone so long taking them for granted that I’m always shocked to discover they really aren’t there anymore. Samantha is off in Ireland, married and blazing a new path. Cindy jumped off into the deep end, accompanying Champion off in Dubai. Ian’s preparing Integrity for the Wood Memorial with Mike, and Beth has her own concerns. It’s Honor and me today, with Christina on my hip.
“I’ll take her,” I hear that voice again, and look back at Brad with an expression I know must come off as aghast. That sets him to laughing, and he motions to me to hand my daughter over into his arms. I pause, considering what he’s asking.
“Ash, you want to check the filly. If you want to risk getting the kid’s head kicked in, that’s your call,” he says, the laughter gone. “Hand her over.”
With a look at Honor and back at Brad, I land a kiss on Christina’s cheek and give her up. Christina climbs up into Brad’s arms, her little white sundress riffling in the breeze as she grips to his broad shoulders through his charcoal suit. Brad gives her a cheerful smile and Christina smiles back, which momentarily derails me before I remember where I am.
The filly’s legs feel fine. Honor huffs at the attention and shakes herself as soon as Len pours water over her steaming back. Seven furlongs must have been the perfect distance for Honor’s five-year-old debut, and she looks no worse for wear. My inspection complete, I turn from the horse to my daughter, who’s singing along to “Ba Ba Black Sheep” with Brad.
Briefly, I feel the need to pinch myself. Brad singing a children’s song with a four-year-old does not qualify as normal, and my face must be broadcasting that loud and clear because when he looks up and sees me he starts laughing. Christina, caught up in mimicking Brad, does the same.
“Okay,” I say after startling myself out of this surreal image. “I think I can take her back now.”
“You sure about that?” he asks. “It’s a long trek back to the shedrow.”
“I’m pretty sure,” I answer, unsure of how I could possibly wrestle Christina away from Brad. Who was I kidding? It wasn’t like I couldn’t trust Brad to carry a toddler a quarter of a mile. I don’t retract my statement, however, so Brad hands her back to me and Christina pouts. Literally pouts, and I think my heart might break.
“Come on, sweetie,” I tell her, trying hard to appear upbeat. “Want to see Honor before we take a nap?”
I get a reluctant nod in response, and with a desperate look toward Brad we head off.
~~~
Sleeping doesn’t come easy anymore, and I find myself yet again sitting in front of the television watching the Late Show with little interest. Christina is dead asleep upstairs, and all the lights are off save the luminous blue glow of the television set. There were no phone calls tonight, not even considering Honor’s win in the Vinery Madison Stakes earlier this afternoon.
The thought crosses my mind that perhaps the filly’s race had simply been forgotten. With Integrity preparing for the Wood Memorial as the second betting choice, a little seven-furlong race at Keeneland could be easily forgotten, but it had never happened before. Mike had never been so forgetful before.
Briefly I consider other options and get stuck on thinking that perhaps I had been ignored. The thought makes my stomach turn over and for a second I refuse the notion. Fine, so I’ve only seen Mike twice since January. The business of running a small farm with active racing strings in three states means sacrifices must be made, and now as a mother I had Christina to anchor me at Whitebrook. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell I could up and gallivant around the country like I used to, and before Christina I’d stay away from Kentucky for weeks at a time. That hadn’t been unusual.
This didn’t get down to explaining away being ignored, and I slump a little lower in the sofa with what I know is a petulant frown on my face. It was ridiculous, and to prove it I reach over and pick the cordless up off of the coffee table. I punch in Mike’s number and listen to the ringing tone five times before the voicemail picks up. With a sigh, I find something to say.
“Mike, hi. I wanted to check in and see about Integrity. I know he runs tomorrow and I wish you guys all the luck up there. Honor won her race down here; she just cruised, it was so impressive. Christina’s great, farm’s great, I’m great. Please call when you’ve got the time. Miss you. Bye.”
I punch the end button and toss the phone to the end of the sofa, disgusted by myself. Out of sight, out of mind, I think, but try not to feel bitter. It’s so easy to remove yourself from responsibility, and here I am trying to make it easier by pretending.
I get up and turn off the television, standing quietly in the dark for a moment, not even thinking about going to bed. I’m restless, my legs want to move, and my body’s aching to do something, anything. Instead I sit back down. Then the phone rings.
I jump and answer it, asking hello with a tone in my voice that makes me want to cringe, it sounds so desperate.
“Ashleigh, it’s Jeff,” answers the voice of my broodmare manager, and I instantly tense. “Princess is down. It looks like we’ll have a foal on the ground in the next half hour.”
“I’ll be right there,” I say, and hang up without another word.
~~~
I remember exactly two things before I rush from the house and run down to broodmare barn. The first was to wake up Maureen, profusely apologize, and demand that she sit in my living room in case Christina wakes up. The second is to snatch my cell phone from the kitchen table before I’m out the door.
The grass is slick under my feet from the thunderstorms earlier in the evening, and I nearly fall flat on my ass on my way to the barn. Fortunately I’m lucky enough to keep my feet underneath me and I arrive at my destination flushed, but otherwise injury free. Jeff is standing in the aisle of the broodmare barn, his attention on Princess. He doesn’t look at me when I approach, so I stop next to him and watch the mare labor in the straw.
“How are things so far?” I ask in a small voice that I don’t entirely trust not to betray me.
“She’s pulling through,” Jeff says, although I can hear the concern all throughout his answer. It was understandable; Princess hasn’t successfully delivered a foal since Honor.
I watch quietly as Princess goes through the motions, her body quivering with contractions as she gently lowers herself to the ground. The birth is easy, and before long two little hooves and a nose appear, pushing into the straw as the baby’s body slowly slides into the world. It feels serene, and I almost feel a little cheated that I never could have experienced it, although I know at the same time the word “serene” could not have been applied to natural childbirth and me.
Once the foal’s shoulders emerge the rest of the baby’s body tumbles out onto the straw, and Jeff is quick to act. I watch, although I don’t want to. In the pit of my stomach I already know what kind of news he’s going to come back with.
“Blue,” I hear, and I shut my eyes.
~~~
The baby looks like Princess, with a white snip on its nose and four white socks. Its eyes are closed, its wet body immobile in the straw. Princess lurches to her feet and turns to inspect her baby, her dark brown eyes wide with wonder and her ears pricked with interest. She nudges the foal’s shoulder with her nose and it’s more than I can take.
With a shaky breath I leave the scene, frantic to get away. I vaguely hear Jeff say that he’ll be in the office waiting it out, but by the end of his sentence I’m out of the barn entirely and standing in the empty gravel lot outside, trying not to hyperventilate.
The night air is cold, and the cotton tank top and pants I’m wearing don’t offer much resistance. I can’t make myself go back inside and sit in the office; I can’t be that close. I can’t go back up to the house; I can’t be that far away. Then suddenly the knowledge that I can’t decide between the two has my eyes spiked with tears, and I’m letting out a frustrated sob into my bare hands.
Then I remember the cell phone I’d slipped into my pocket before leaving, and hastily grab it like it’s a lifeline. When I peer at the glowing face of the phone I can’t think of who to call. Mike isn’t answering, Samantha and Cindy are worlds away and I couldn’t distress them with the kind of call I’m going to make. I pace, I stare at the phone, and then, in what I recognize as a poor decision before I do it, I speed dial Brad.
In one ring he answers.
“Griffen?” he asks, sounding exhausted and irritable.
“You have to come here,” I say, fully aware that I sound belligerent.
“I have to come where?” he asks.
“Here!” I demand, as though he doesn’t know where “here” is. He knows damn well.
“What’s going on, Ashleigh?” Brad asks, his tone changing, becoming concerned.
“Princess foaled tonight,” I say. “Just now, actually. The thing is…”
“Ashleigh,” he says, breaking in.
“It’s stillborn, and,” I gasp out, trying not to cry and failing miserably.
“Christ,” he mutters.
“I don’t think I can…” I trail off, not knowing what to say. “I don’t know who to tell. It’s…”
“Ashleigh,” he says, suddenly sounding very loud. I blink and stop pacing. “You stay where you are. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“But,” I start to say, “Townsend Acres is further than…”
Then the phone clicks dead in my ear.
~~~