Free Funerals for Horses by Catherine Ryan Hyde Page A

always glad to do anything to help Simon out. “What did she do?”
    About two weeks later he got me an appointment at Mental Health. He took the day off work to wait in the big, bare outer office with me, stiff on folding metal chairs, staring down at our feet and the checkered linoleum.
    “Look,” he said, “they’re going to let you talk to a lady. Her name is Miss Rose. I want you to tell her everything that might help. Anything you can think of that’s important.”
    “Okay, sure, Simon. How do I know what’s important?”
    “Well, just whatever bothers you, or what goes through your head. Just be real honest with her, okay? So she can help you.”
    Miss Rose wore a gray suit with a straight skirt, and a little teddy bear pin on her lapel. Her hair was thick and wild, like mine, only drawn back in a barrette and not given its freedom.
    Her face was kind, but worn down.
    She led me into a room with a narrow table and two metal folding chairs. I wasn’t afraid, as far as I could tell.
    “My name is Wilhelmina,” she said, “but call me Willie. I like it much better. I hate the name Wilhelmina. What about you? Do you like the name Ella?”
    I shrugged with genuine curiosity. I watched her face, looking for things to like about her, and doing well so far. “I never really thought about it. I mean, it’s my name, right? Like it or not.”
    “How old are you, Ella?” I knew that Simon had told the lady at the desk, who had written it down on the same chart Willie held on her lap, so I concluded that she was attempting to put me at ease, which I already was. I debated how long I should humor her.
    “I’ll be thirteen next month.”
    “Your brother Simon brought you here, I see. Was it his idea, or yours?”
    “Well, he thought of it, but I don’t mind.”
    “Good,” she said. “That’s important.”
    My eyes drifted out her window to a solid wall of ivy that I knew in my head was a freeway embankment, but which I found strangely beautiful in that contrast, that frame. I’d been focusing strongly on green since my days in pasture seeing through the eyes of a horse. Just gazing out the window brought light into my field of vision.
    “May I say some things?” I said. I knew it might take a while her way, and I wanted to tell her everything Simon would want me to say.
    “Yes, of course, Ella—you can say anything you like.”
    “I can think of three things.” I decided that sitting on a metal chair with my hands on my knees felt confining. “Can I sit on the windowsill?”
    “Wherever you’re comfortable, Ella.”
    From my window seat perch, if I looked up, I could see the cars on the freeway, feel the rumble of the big rigs rolling by, but I didn’t mind any of that.
    “Here’s one, Willie. Have you ever met somebody—I’m just learning about this—who thinks they were born the wrong sex?”
    “Yes, I have. Does that feel like you, Ella?”
    “I don’t think so. But have you ever met anybody who thinks they were born the wrong species?”
    I didn’t watch her face, so I’m not sure how any of this affected her. I fixed on green, my visual lifeline.
    “Well, I’m not sure. Can you tell me any more about it?”
    “I think god made a mistake with me. I think I should have been a horse. He probably has a lot on his mind, you know. I don’t just mean I want to be a horse, or I wish I was. I mean I think I am, only stuck in the wrong shell.”
    “You think and talk well, Ella. I can tell you have a person’s brain.”
    “Yes,” I said. “That’s the very most tragic part of the whole thing. Here’s something else I need to tell. I feel all the time like I’m standing on something about the size of a toothpick. Over a deep well. A well with no bottom. And every single minute of every day, it’s all I can do to stay up. It’s a full-time job. Believe me, I get plenty tired. But what can I do?”
    “Are you afraid of the well, Ella?”
    “Oh, no. It’s inviting. I’d love to