Free Chosen by a Horse by Susan Richards Page A

organic mesclun and free-range eggs to say how sorry I was for being unforgiving and unavailable; for being a lush and a cheap lush, too—Gallo, $4.95 a gallon. Maybe Jerry was no prize but neither was I.
    I think it was the idea of being with Georgia for the next thirty years that made me think about my life and where it was going, like deciding to have a child and realizing it meant having to change some things first. I didn’t want to bring anyone into the lie that was my life, not even a horse.
    At the very least, it meant taking the steps to end my marriage. Forget about saving face or saving Jerry, it was time to save myself.
    We walked until Georgia was dry and it was getting too dark to see where we were going. She never settled down, dancing and bucking at the end of the lead, but it didn’t change how I felt about her or how eager I was to get those awful shoes off her.
    I took her back and put her in one of the big box stallsin the dairy barn that had only partially been converted for horses. Then Sarah and I hung over the stall door for a while and watched her eat grain. She had a blue-ribbon face with a low tail set and a beautifully arched but short neck. These flaws would eliminate her from being shown in a halter class or being considered good breeding stock. Still, she was classic Morgan with the deep chest, the rounded neck, and the chiseled Arab face. Her coloring wasn’t a flaw, but red (called chestnut) was not popular with Morgan enthusiasts. In show circles it was well known that judges were prejudiced against chestnut Morgans. I had always wanted a chestnut, though, and, looking at her, it was impossible to imagine why everyone didn’t feel the same.
    We were quiet a long time, and then Sarah spoke. “Three thousand and you pay for shipping,” she said.
    Three thousand seemed too low. Surely it would be shortchanging Sarah. “Who’d do the shipping?” I asked.
    “Me,” she said.
    “When?”
    “Whenever you want.”
    “Tomorrow?”
    “Just gimme the directions.”
    Oh my. Thirty years.

[   7   ]
    I WENT HOME , and the next day Georgia arrived, and then it was time to tell my husband I was leaving, but I didn’t. I was waiting for the right moment. Whatever that moment would look like, I didn’t know, but I waited for it anyway.
    While I waited I schooled Georgia on a lunge line, which is a long rope with a person at one end and a horse on the other. The horse moves in circles around the person, practicing walk, trot, and canter by voice command. When we both had had enough of that, I saddled her up and rode her over miles of logging roads through fragrant white pines. At night I drank Gallo.
    I did some terrible things when I was drunk. I drove a hundred and ten miles an hour in my new Saab and never gave a second thought to the cars I flew past, or if I did, itwas only to feel superior. Once I drove to Boston to catch a plane for Aspen. I left the house late because I was too hungover to get up, and an hour before my flight was due to take off, I still had a hundred miles to go. I got a ticket for driving a hundred miles per hour: driving to endanger. I remember the officer’s eyes as I waved my airline ticket at him in a fury, blaming him because I would miss my flight. His eyes were big and unblinking, and I saw in them a mix of shock and pity as he listened to the screaming bitch on the side of the highway.
    I’d owned Georgia for six months, and she was turning into a dream horse. I rode her all winter, through deep snow on which she seemed to float and even at night, if there was enough moon to light the way. On bitter cold days I rode her bareback to keep me warm. I rode her to get through hangovers and to get away from the ongoing arguments with my husband. I rode her because it was the only thing left in my life I wasn’t doing wrong.
    One night in March, my husband started drinking again, and I knew it was the right moment to leave. The truth was, the right moment to