Emory’s Gift by W. Bruce Cameron Read Free Book Online Page B

thing?”
    “Check the airway,” I muttered. My pulse was hammering in my head so hard I couldn’t really hear myself. I lowered myself to my knees. What was I thinking? Was I really going to do this?
    Her nose was soft and delicate. I pinched it shut. Her head was back. I shakily put my mouth on hers.
    If I did everything as I was trained—watched for her chest to rise, simulated rolling her over to press the water out of her lungs, timed my breaths—I have no memory of any of it. But I will never for a moment forget the light, warm, amazing sensation of touching my mouth to Kay’s. It wasn’t a kiss, not really. But it was close enough.
    “Good, Charlie,” Kay said with her studied blandness. I could feel that the boys on the wall were ready to raise their hands and ask for another go at it, but Kay had me practice on the dummy a few times so she could watch, and then class was over.
    When I saw my father’s Jeep waiting for me in the parking lot, it held none of the usual dread for me. For once I didn’t approach the passenger door knowing that I’d spend the whole car ride wrestling with the thick silence from my father, seeking desperately to draw him into conversation. I didn’t want to talk to anyone; I just wanted to think about Kay.
    My dad waited for me to put on my seat belt before he yanked the Jeep into gear. Safety was his biggest concern, since Mom died.
    “How’d it go, Charlie?” he asked.
    I shrugged. There was simply no answer to that question.
    “Well then. You want to go see what I’ve been putting all my time and money into, lately?”
    No, I didn’t, but this was the most engaging thing my father had said to me since We’re going to the Becks’ for Sunday dinner. I gazed at him with eyes that I supposed were as unreadable as Kay’s.
    “Okay,” I said.

chapter
    FIVE
    BEING with my father spoiled my mood, a little—his presence interfered with my intentions to wallow in sweet enthrallment over Kay, the way someone’s radio can rattle you with a competing tune when you’re trying to sing a song of your own. I decided to put Kay away to savor later, like a dessert brought home after dinner in a restaurant.
    When my dad turned off on the rutted two-track that led up to the handful of graying, sagging buildings that was Grassy Valley Ranch, my stomach lurched independently of the bouncing Jeep. It was a familiar sensation that upset my insides whenever a strong memory of Mom collided with the unreal reality of her death.
    My dad grew up with horses—when we moved to Selkirk River, he made glowing promises about how healthy we’d all be, out in the clean air, riding horses everywhere. I pictured myself going to school on horseback. I thought maybe I’d be sent into town to buy groceries on my own horse, whom I planned to name Flash.
    None of that happened. When I got around to noticing I didn’t own a horse, I put a heartbroken tone in my voice and asked about it. (As was true of any good child, I knew precisely how deep to stab my mother and father in their guilty consciences.) And it worked, to a degree: we started taking family trips to Grassy Valley Ranch to rent horses.
    Grassy Valley was where my dad met Rod Shelburton, who bought the ranch for the same reason my dad moved us to a thirty-acre property on top of a hill, only the Shelburtons were from Chicago and not Prairie Village. My dad and Mr. Shelburton liked to have what sounded like loud, heated arguments about Vietnam and the environment and Richard Nixon, only they agreed with each other on everything.
    More than two years before, when my mom’s chemotherapy ended, the two of us took a horseback ride up into the hills. It was a wonderful May day, wildflowers dancing in front of us as we left the barn.
    Normally when we rode, Mr. Shelburton put me on Nanny, a gentle old horse who could not be spurred into a gallop regardless of how many clicks I made with my mouth or unsubtle hints I gave her with my boot