Chapter 25: Storm Warning - New Life

 

Kong barks his head off when everyone leaves for the rehearsal dinner. I drag to the stable. Dusk shines pink on the few clouds sitting like cotton candy in the sky.

Kong dances around me. When we walk toward the kitchen, I see the white tent and huge water fountain. My stomach growls, and I vow to see everything after I eat.

I make myself a ham sandwich with mayo, mustard, pickles and cheese on sourdough bread. I throw Kong a slice of ham and chow down. The food tastes awful.

Suddenly, I hear the frightened whinny of a horse. Fear socks me in the stomach. The hair on my neck prickles. I struggle with waves of nausea and hurry out the kitchen door.

Wind and rain splat me in the face. Dark, bunching clouds hurl through the sky like a herd of stampeding horses. All light is gone. I’ve never seen a summer storm come up this fast.

I run to the stable. Lightning zigzags through the sky. Kong scuttles behind me and hides in Dad’s office.

I switch on the aisle lights. Thunder rolls closer. The horses move restlessly in their stalls. I check each horse.

When I reach Sunshine’s stall, I stop in surprise. Lying on the floor, her side heaves and fluid gushes out. She’s delivering early. Except for grouchiness, she’s shown none of the usual signs - no milk, no swelling. She’s a maiden mare, her first foal, so we didn’t expect this.

Sunny moans with a powerful contraction. One, tiny foot protrudes from her body. I want to holler in joy, but I don’t. If I’m lucky, it shouldn’t take more than an hour or two. Her belly rolls with another huge contraction.

I long for Dad to be here. Sharing the miracle of birth is awesome. Beyond cool when a horse can deliver a seventy-pound foal.

Sunny struggles to her feet. I wait a minute, but don’t see the other foot. I enter the stall to check if it’s a breech birth, hind feet first.

“Easy, girl,” I murmur. I look carefully at the tiny hoof. It faces down toward the mare’s hooves. I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s a front foot, a normal birth.

I scratch Sunny. “Not long now. Good mare.”

My heart thumps inside my head as I run through the sequence of birthing events; feet first, head, hips, back feet, afterbirth.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m pacing and trying to ignore my growing uneasiness.

Sunny lies down and pushes again with a contraction. She whinnies in pain. My heart leaps to my throat and I can hardly breathe. Some horses make more noise than others. I don’t want to take any chances. I need the vet. I race down the aisle toward the stable telephone on the wall.

BOOM! Thunder rolls over the stable.

CRACK!

The lights go out. I wait a second for the generator to kick in and remember that Dad is waiting for a new part.

I stand in complete darkness. Spooky. Shivers spiral down my spine. My hand slides along the wall for the telephone. I’m glad I have the vet’s number memorized. I pick up the phone. It’s dead. Shaking now, I realize that I can’t call Dad, either. He has the cell phone.

The chills don’t stop when I realize I’m alone in the dark with a pregnant mare that might be in trouble.

“Help,” I call. “Faro. Faro!”

CRACK!

I scream. Lightning flashes outside the barn.

Sunny whinnies.

I hurry along the wall to the supply room. Trip over a chair that’s not supposed to be there and sprawl to the floor, ripping my jeans on the concrete. Dragging myself up, I search for the bottom shelf and find the battery-powered lantern. I click it on. Relief. I grab the foal kit, race to the bathroom, wash my hands and arms and dash back to Sunny.

No foal. Sunny’s large brown eyes stare at me as she moans.

“Easy Sunny.” I re-enter her stall.

I put the lantern in a safe corner away from the mare’s eyes. It casts shadows across the stall, making everything seem unreal.

“Dad, I can’t do this. What if something happens and I lose both horses?”

I stroke Sunny’s head. “You’re gonna’ be fine. Push, girl.”

Sunny whinnies as another contraction hits.

Mom’s face flickers in my mind. I remember her words, “There will be times when you have to make decisions by yourself. Trust your instincts and act.”

I take off my jacket and open the foal kit. My fingers fumble with the jar of lubricant. I’m going to have to go inside Sunny to see where the foal’s head is, so I grease my left hand and arm. My heart races. My gut twists in nervous spasms. I’ve only watched this procedure.

I move slowly toward the mare. “Easy, Sunny. I’m gonna’ help you. I’m pretty small. It won’t hurt.”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I take a deep breath. Sunny stands still. I slide an arm along the protruding foot into the birth canal and warmth.

“Whoa, easy, Sunny. Good. Relax.”

I find the other hoof and straighten it. Elbow-deep, I feel the chest and stretch for the head. Find it. It’s turned at an awkward angle.

“Please don’t be broken. Please don’t be broken,” I whisper.

I push gently on the top of the head and move it forward and down toward the front hooves. A contraction hits and I gasp from the muscles clenching my arm like a vise. Sweat drips down my face. I slip my arm out before the next contraction.

Sunny whinnies and lies down. The second hoof comes out.

I hold my breath. The head comes out. Sitting back in relief, I wait for the rest of the delivery.

Sunny’s nostrils quiver. Another contraction doesn’t move the foal.

“Please come, please come.”

Sunny whinnies and doesn’t look like she’s resting between contractions. I take a deep breath and grab a dry towel from the foal kit. Gently, I wrap it around the foal’s slippery feet. Hold my breath and pull down toward the mare’s feet. The foal moves a few inches. I stop and gasp for breath along with Sunny. I know the hips come next and I pray they’ll slip out fast and easy.

The minutes creep by, punctuated by cracks of lightning. Still no hips.

Another contraction hits. I grab the foal’s feet and try to rotate the hips. The foal slips out, and I land on my butt with the baby horse in my lap. The clear sack covering the foal shines like a present.

I can’t stand up with the weight. I scoot across the straw and slide the foal off my lap by Sunny’s head. She starts licking off the sac. I crawl away to give her space. Panting, I fumble around in the foal kit, find the watch and check the time of birth. Seven thirty-three.

My body is rock-hard with tension. I sit nervously to see signs of life from the foal. It wiggles its head. Tears leak down my face. Great sobs of relief shake through me.

Sunny rests for about ten minutes after removing the sac and then stands up, breaking the umbilical cord.

I coat the foal’s navel to protect against infection and realize we have a colt. Another possible stallion for Smith’s Paso Finos.

I sit there in the gloom. Grinning. Drained. Unable to move a muscle. Thunder rolls in the distance. If Dad approves, I want to call the colt, Storm.

Encouraged by his mother, the colt tries to stand. He makes it up on his two front feet and collapses. Tries three times before he stands there wobbling on four legs. I stare in rapt joy. He’s perfect. Black, like his sire, with a white blaze on his forehead and three white socks.

Sunny licks him all over and I start to dry him with a towel. The mare expels the afterbirth and I clean it up, sighing with relief. My legs drag in slow motion. I’m so tired I can hardly stand.

Shoving the foal kit and towels out the door, I crawl back inside the stall. Turning the lantern on low, I sit against the wall watching the foal nurse. My eyes close with heaviness.

“Win! Are you in here?”

I wake with a start. Sunny nickers.

“Win?”

It’s Jac! I stumble up and let myself out of the stall. “Back here!”

A light shines in my face with three shadows hovering behind it.

“Too bright!” I yell painfully. The flashlight moves.

Jac says, “Oh, gross. Is that dried blood?”

Her mom stares at me in horror. “Oh, Chiquita, what has happened? How you hurt yourself?”

Peering into the stall, her dad says, “I think Winifred just delivered a foal. Congratulations!”

I grin. “Thanks.”

Jac and her mom join Mr. Garcia in looking at the colt.

“Ooh, he’s so cute!” says Jac.

“A beauty,” adds her Mom.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Mrs. Garcia says, “My Jacinda call cell phone when we get back from vacation.

Your dad tell us you stay home and no go to restaurant. When lights go out, we worry for you.”

“How come you’re not at the rehearsal dinner?” asks Jac.

“Long story.”

“You come inside. Get clean and tell us,” her mom insists.

My throat tightens with her genuine concern.

We go to the kitchen and suddenly the lights come on, flooding the room. I blink in the brightness.

“Gotta’ clean up,” I say wearily.

I’m glad I didn’t have time to put the clean clothes upstairs. Staggering to the laundry room, I wash up and pull on jeans and a t-shirt. Then drag into the kitchen.

Mrs. Garcia puts a bowl of ice cream in front of me. My favorite.

“Eat, you look like scarecrow,” she says.

I dig in and the small, chocolate peanut butter cups melt in my mouth. I should have tried ice cream sooner. It’s the only food that’s tasted good all day.

“Talk,” Jac says.

I tell them everything, except about Fairy Godmonster.

“What ruined the wedding heart?” Jac asks.

“They don’t know.” I don’t lie, but I can’t tell her the truth.

Mr. and Mrs. Garcia whisper together.

“We can use your phone?” asks Mrs. Garcia.

“Sure.”

She makes one phone call and turns, smiling. “I have big surprise for you.”

I love Mrs. Garcia’s accent. She is the only one in her family who doesn’t speak perfect English. Mr. Garcia was born in America and married her in a poor village in Mexico when he was in the Peace Corps.

Twenty minutes later, I hear a bunch of cars honking in the driveway.

Mr. Garcia smiles. “The troops have arrived.”

“He watches old war movies,” laughs Jac.

“What’s going on?” I ask, opening the front door.

Jac’s brothers and sisters, wives and husbands stand on the porch. About twenty-five people. They smile, say “Hi” and swarm into the house.

I gasp. “What are they doing here?”

Mrs. Garcia says, “We rebuild decoration. Before David get home.”

I shake my head. I don’t think I hear her right. “What? Where are the kids?”

“Angelita is watching them,” Jac says.

Angelita is Jac’s sixteen-year-old sister.

“How many cousins do you have?”

“About forty,” she answers.

“Forty! How can she take care of them?”

Jac laughs. “Don’t worry. Some are at camp. Besides, we all take care of each other.”

I guide the family to the hay barn. “There it is.” I point to the broken pieces.

“Bello!” exclaims Mrs. Garcia. She turns to her husband. “Can we fix in time?”

Jac’s Dad looks around at the leftover supplies. “Yes. If we stay organized. I leave that to you, my love.”

The family works hard and fast, cutting, twisting and piecing the broken parts together like a puzzle. Her brothers, Raoul and Jesus, skillfully weave the different vines. Although Jac’s dad is a banker, her whole family is artistic. They work together like a machine.

Jac and I keep out of their way. We carry lemonade to the workers. Occasionally, Mrs. Garcia asks me a question about what the heart looked like.

Three hours later, the last string of lights is added.

We follow all the men as they carry the heart to the garden and secure it to the footings. I’m surprised there is little water on the ground after the storm. I glance over at the tent and see it hovering like a white ghost.

My legs feel like concrete as I move one leg in front of the other. I blink with light-headedness.

Mr. Garcia plugs in the lights.

I can hardly breathe with the beauty that shines in the darkness. I stumble to Mrs. Garcia. “I will never be able to thank you enough.”

“Your smile is thanks enough, Chiquita. We get you to bed now and see you at wedding tomorrow.”

We start moving out of the garden toward the kitchen, me in the middle of this amazing family.

Dad comes racing out of the house.

“Winifred! Winifred!”

“Here Dad.”

The family moves apart.

“I saw all the cars and panicked! Are you all right?”

“Fine,” I whisper. I take a step toward him and fall into blackness.