Healed by Horses by Carole Fletcher

Author:Carole Fletcher
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2005-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

9

“It Wasn’t Your Fault”

IF I WAS FATED to be burned in the fire, I was also fated to survive and turn to a life with horses. But I would need a kick start to begin building that life, and I got it thanks to a chance encounter.

The years from 1976 through 1979 had been marked by endless rounds of surgery and therapy as doctors in Boston attempted the recasting of Carole Fletcher. But during a visit back to New Jersey in September 1977—long before I found the cottage at Hyannisport—I happened to connect with Don Goldman. He had invited me to accompany him to synagogue for the Jewish High Holy Days. Although I hadn’t attended these ceremonies in years, for some reason I decided to go and afterward to break the traditional fast at his parent’s home. We were just leaving the temple when a man approached me. He was short and rotund, with a ruddy complexion, small piercing eyes, and a confident swagger.

“Excuse me,” he said, his soft voice at odds with his bearing, “my name is Richard Weiner. I don’t mean at all to be forward, but I couldn’t help notice your injuries. Was it some sort of accident?” His boldness and frankness took me aback, and I was both embarrassed and emotional in response.

Don’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes,” he said, “she was badly burned in the basement of her house, working on a car.” Don then grabbed my hand and started to pull me away.

Weiner must have been used to such rebuffs. He offered a bland smile. “The reason I ask,” he said, “is I’m a lawyer, and if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to talk to you about the accident. There might be some negligence involved.” He handed me his card, which I slipped into my pocket, and I thanked him.

To that point I had given no thought to how the accident had happened—only to recovering from it. But this lawyer now prompted me to give it some thought. Just how did the accident happen? I took out the calling card and just stared at it: “Richard Weiner, Attorney. Accidents, Products Liability and Negligence.”

The old Porsche sat in the garage of my Aunt Rose’s apartment building—home for the time being. I hadn’t driven the car in more than a year, but one day something compelled me to get behind the wheel. It was a beauty, with classic touches—wooden dashboard and steering wheel. After a few minutes in the parking lot to get the feel of this powerful machine, I mustered the courage to drive it on the street. I had in mind a certain destination: Richard Weiner’s office.

The building was old but comfortable, and I hobbled into the office bearing his name. The receptionist asked me if I had an appointment, and though I said no, she did buzz Mr. Weiner to let him know I was there. Immediately he opened his office door and welcomed me in.

“Mr. Weiner,” I started stammering, “I never considered how the accident happened.

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