I left the hospital without a baby, but I got a care package instead. Along with the extra-absorbent maxi pads and mesh panties meant to curb the bleeding, the nurses sent home a piece of the “bereavement gown” my baby had been buried in. Stapled to the gown was a business card with the name and number of the woman who donated shrouds to the hospital. Laying the satin fabric on my knee, I pull my laptop out, and a quick Google search finds a Facebook business page for Angel Gowns. Under the ABOUT ME heading, I learn she uses donated wedding dresses to supply hospitals with gowns meant for stillborn babies. Her most recent status update indicates she’s in need of dresses. A few more clicks and I’m private messaging the woman. To my relief, there’s a donation box on her front porch. I can drop my dress without having to speak to anyone, and better yet, she’s only fifteen minutes away.
Owen comes in as I’m closing the computer and sets a bowl of chicken soup on the side table. My stomach growls, but the thought of food makes me nauseous.
“Eat,” he says, holding his own bowl on his lap and blowing on it. “You haven’t eaten in days,” he says, as though I don’t already know.
“I told you,” I repeat, staring at him defiantly. “I’m not hungry.”
He slurps his soup, and I cringe at the sound. Listening to people eat is irritating when I’m in a pleasant mood. Now it fills with me with a near murderous rage. “I want to donate my wedding dress to the company that made the burial gown.” I speak loudly, hoping to drown out the sound of the gulping. “Can you bring it downstairs when you’re done?”
He nods, wiping his mouth. “I think that’s an amazing idea,” he says, putting the spoon down. I feel my shoulders ease a little. “Of course I’ll get it down for you.”
I cock my head at him and raise my brow. “I want to donate it today,” I say, daring him to argue. “I told the woman I’d drop it this afternoon.”
Owen opens his mouth, confused. “Cass, can’t it wait a few days? We just got home. I think you should rest,” he sputters.
I stand, the blanket falling in a puddle to the rug. “I’ll get it myself,” I say. “I thought you’d be happy to get rid of the dress; you complained about it enough,” I hiss.
He frowns, wounded. I just look away. “Cass, sit down. I’ll get it for you.” He stands to follow me.
“No, it’s fine.” I take the full bowl of soup and head to the kitchen with him on my heels. “I need to do this now.”
He stops me as I stand in front of the sink and wraps his arms around me. I pull away, desperate to escape his embrace, but he holds me tighter. I throw my head back and catch him in the nose, but he’s undeterred. “Shhh,” he whispers in my ear, shushing me like I’m a child having a tantrum. As I struggle harder, the bowl clatters into the sink, sending soup everywhere. “Shhh,” he whispers again.
“Stop it,” I growl, trying to claw his arms off mine, but he’s too strong. He spins me around and I stiffen my back, pulling away but I’m stuck between Owen and the sink. “Let me go,” I mumble.
“No,” he says, entwining his hands behind my shoulders. “I won’t.”
I curse at him under my breath, the fight leaving me. A deep whimper escapes my mouth, and I crumple like a rag doll into his arms.
“Why?” I ask again. “Why did this happen?”
Owen hugs me tighter, and I lean my forehead against his shoulder. My body heaves with dry sobs. He rubs my back and lets me shudder against him. I scream into his chest, spit soaking through his shirt and mixing with our tears.
“I’ll get the dress and take you wherever you want to go,” he murmurs, rubbing his hand over my hair, and I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I love you.”
I close my eyes and let him hold me. My mind races with all the things I should say, but don’t. There’s no reason to donate the dress today, and Owen’s right, I should rest. I knew he’d protest my request, but I asked anyway. I wanted the fight. Lashing out felt good, and part of me wishes Owen fought back. But he agrees to my crazy whim because that’s Owen, and he loves me. He’d do anything to ease my pain—anything. Without a doubt in my mind, I know he’ll be an amazing father. Blinking back the hot tears bubbling from my eyes, I wish I had as much confidence that I’ll be a good mother.
♦ 10 ♦
JOAN
After
May 23
CASSIDY DIDN’T LEARN TO talk, she learned to argue. For example, thirty odd years ago we sat at this very table with a pack of crayons and a coloring book and she haughtily declared I was coloring the sky wrong. When I said the sky was blue, she informed me it was actually purple. This was the start of a lifetime of contrary views. Once I mentioned that she looked lovely in yellow dresses and with her hair pulled back. From that day forward, she kept her wild mane loose and untamed and refused to wear anything besides jeans. She avoided the color yellow completely until some boyfriend convinced her it looked nice on her (well, duh). When she was thirteen, I encouraged her to explore the arts. Some of her sketches (mostly of horses and animals) were so promising. To spite me, she abandoned her pencils and dedicated her focus to studying science and math. We couldn’t even share an after-dinner snack. If I was in the mood for something sweet, she wanted something salty. Which is the perfect word to describe my firstborn daughter—salty. Thankfully, she was a gifted student who kept out of trouble. I always worried she’d develop a drug habit or an affinity for bad boys as a sort of teenage rebellion. Instead, she mostly ignored me. Not sure which was worse.
“Why hasn’t she called?” I ask. Jack lifts his eyes from the crossword puzzle perched on his knee but doesn’t move from his easy-boy recliner. While I’ve been running around all morning like a chicken with her head cut off, he’s been sitting here, mindlessly filling in the boxes and asking for help with clues every so often. This normally irritates me, but it’s much easier maneuvering around the kitchen without him hovering at my shoulder trying to “help.” For this occasion, I haven’t even asked his opinion. I found a recipe for some good old-fashioned comfort food promising to bring family together and warm the soul all on my own.
He raises a brow and drops his pencil to the side table. I wince as he cracks his knuckles, one of his worst habits. “I don’t know, Joanie. I’m sure she’s just taking it easy,” he says, glancing toward the kitchen. “Sure smells good in there.”
No surprise he’s sticking up for Cassidy. Rolling my eyes, I flitter back to check on the bread machine. Claire, my youngest, gave it as a gift a few years ago, but this is my first time using it. With all the low-carb, no-carb diets phasing in and out, I’ve been hesitant to serve bread with dinner anymore, afraid of committing some modern faux pas. Maybe cauliflower bread would be a cool substitute. Everything seems made of cauliflower nowadays.
My sourdough is rising properly. Well, it’s rising, anyway. There’s still twenty minutes left, but the warm, yeasty smell fills the kitchen, mixing pleasantly with the garlic and onions in the stew. Pleased with myself, I stare at the phone on the wall, willing it to ring. It stays stubbornly silent, just like my daughter.
“She’s infuriating,” I proclaim, standing in front of the brick fireplace. A framed picture of Cassidy and Claire as adolescents sits front and center. Cassidy was fourteen, the age when daughters naturally pull away from their mothers. Since Cassidy had started that phase a decade earlier, fourteen was just another rough year among many. Claire was only eleven, still my baby girl, but eager to please her antagonistic big sister. The picture captures a harmonious moment, but it’s only a brief snapshot of a brutal day that began with Cassidy refusing to wear the matching outfits I’d set out for her and Claire. Once Claire realized her big sister thought it was dorky, she adamantly refused as well. Resigned, I let them choose their own clothes. We proceeded to fight about everything, from where to take the picture to how to stand and smile. Eventually I snapped one picture of them smiling with their arms around each other. I’m pretty sure one of us was in tears at ever
y point during that nightmare of a photo shoot.
Heaving himself back to an upright position, Jack settles me with one of his long looks, one that usually puts me in my place. “You can’t be mad at her today,” he chastises. “I’m sure she’ll call you as soon as she can.”
I shrug, but I’m skeptical. Most likely she’ll call Jack before reluctantly agreeing to talk to me. The chances of her calling me outright are slim to none. I pull my phone out of my back pocket to check the screen, even though it’s set to vibrate. Nothing. No calls or texts. At this point I’ll settle for one of her short, rude text messages. Something’s better than nothing.
“Maybe you should call her,” I suggest, sitting on the plaid couch across from Jack. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind hearing from you.” I can’t hide the bitterness in my voice. “I just don’t understand that girl,” I say, shaking my head. “A girl needs her mom at a time like this.”
Jack nods slowly, stuck between us like he so often ends up. Quick to defend Cassidy’s tantrums and acts of defiance since childhood, Jack remains loyal to her moody ways, even now. Sometimes he stands up for me, eager to soften the blows between his two stubborn women, but the scales have always been tipped in Cassie’s favor. There are times when I’m careless with my words, especially when stressed, and I’m thankful he’s always been there to translate what I mean but can’t verbalize. Still, I wish he’d stand firmly on my side—just once—even if I’m being irrational or harsh.
“Please, Jack,” I plead. “I need to grieve too. I want to be there for her.”
He bites his lip but nods once in agreement. Surprised, I refrain from outright gloating, though I can’t help a slight smile. “But let me do the talking, all right?” he says, taking out his own phone. He waits for me to agree before dialing her number. Eagerly I nod my head, but I cross my fingers behind my back.
“Put her on speakerphone.” Glaring at me, he lifts a finger to his lips and beckons me to be quiet. Satisfied I’ll remain silent, he hits speakerphone and sets the phone on the side table between us.
It rings and rings, and just as I fear she’s screening the call and sending us to voice mail, she answers. “Hi, Dad,” she says, her voice raspy, as if she’s been crying. Although a normal response, it’s still shocking. Cassidy never cries. Even as a baby she let us know we upset her in other ways.
“Hi, sweetie, how are you doing?” he says, his voice soft and soothing. I sit on the edge of the couch, waiting with bated breath.
A pause. “I’m okay. Upset, obviously,” she stammers before clearing her throat. “We’re just trying to make sense of it.” Another long pause. It takes all my willpower not to speak up. God, how do Jack and Cassidy ever have phone conversations?
“Take all the time you need. Your mother and I are here if you need us,” Jack says. Sensing the conversation is already ending, I wave my hands and point toward the kitchen. Why isn’t he inviting her over for dinner? Do I really have to spell it all out for him? I curse at myself for not giving him a list of talking points before asking him to make the call. I’m not sure what I expected. He’s never been much for small talk.
Jack squints at me and shrugs, puzzled as to why I’m swinging my hands around wildly. I lean back on the couch in frustration before pointing at the kitchen and mouthing invite them over as clearly as I can. Exasperated, I grab the phone from the table before he can say good-bye and hit the speaker button again. Pressing the phone to my ear, I scurry to the kitchen.
“Joan,” he scolds, standing to follow me. Casting a quick glance over my shoulder, I shrug and give him my best innocent look. He glares at me, his thick eyebrows a stern line across his forehead.
“Cassidy,” I murmur. Despite the distance between us, I sense her tension, right through the phone line. The subtle exhalation followed by pregnant silence. “We are just so sick over what happened,” I say, ignoring her lack of response. Picking up the ladle, I stir the stew. It’s thickening up nicely and smells exactly like I hoped, warm and inviting. Good Housekeeping was right, just the meal to cure the blues.
“Thanks.” Her voice is hard, not thankful at all. My hand stutters and stew spills over the side of the pot, sizzling on the burner. I replay my words, unsure what I’ve said that makes her sound so angry.
Placing the lid back on the pot, I trudge on, determined to get through to her. “What I mean is, we’d love to have you and Owen over for dinner.” Smiling into the phone, I wait for her reply. The moment stretches on. “I really think we need to grieve together,” I add, remembering a bit of advice I heard on Oprah, or maybe it was Dr. Phil. Whoever it was told the audience how important it is to mourn the loss of a family member together and how isolating oneself is detrimental not only to the grieving process but also to your health in general.
“This was our grandchild, and we’re mourning too.” My voice cracks, but I suppress my tears. Even though this baby is gone, we considered him a grandchild just as if he were alive and well.
Cassidy snorts into the phone. “You would make this all about you,” she says. If she were standing in front of me, she’d be rolling her eyes. I can see it clearly in my mind’s eye. “Unbelievable. Can I speak to Dad again, please?”
I’m speechless. Again I’m at a loss as to where things went wrong. I’ve only ever wanted to support my daughter, and here she is, throwing it in my face and accusing me of being selfish. Me. I look around the kitchen at the overflowing sink full of dishes, the mess of ingredients on the counter, the bubbling stew. My eyes settle on the red light flashing on the bread machine. I missed the timer. Rushing to the counter, I see the once-golden crust has turned a dark brown and is spilling from beneath the lid. Ruined.
Unplugging the machine, I switch the phone to my other ear. “No, you may not speak to your dad again. You can come over and eat the dinner I’ve spent all day cooking and talk to me and your father together,” I grumble, eliciting another look from Jack. “You need to be with family today.” Silence over the line. “Cass, you there?”
A sigh. “Yes, Mom, I’m here,” she says. “I’m not feeling up to leaving the house today. I just delivered my dead baby and want to curl up on my couch and not talk it out with family right now. Say ’bye to dad for me.” She hangs up.
I hold the silent phone to my ear for a moment before setting it down on the table. Jack looks at me with concern, and I shake my hand at him, heat rising to my cheeks. It was so typical of her to lash out when I was only trying to help. Cassidy has always twisted my words and turned even the most innocent statement into a criticism I never intended. Half the time I keep my mouth shut for fear of having my head chewed off. But I couldn’t keep my mouth shut about this. That would have been heartless.
“What did she say?” Jack dares to ask. “She coming over?”
I let out a frustrated groan. I’m not sure who’s more maddening, Jack or my daughter. They’re both so purposefully obtuse, it makes me want to scream.
“No, Jack, she’s not coming over,” I say. “Your daughter was clear she has no intention of spending any time with us today. Like always, she’s got it all figured out herself.” I bite back the hysterical tears I feel boiling to the surface. A cup of lavender tea and a cool compress will ease my nerves. Inhaling through my nose, I relax my shoulders and purse my lips, keeping my jaw relaxed like my yoga instructor taught me. As I exhale through my mouth, some tension melts away.
“I just don’t understand why she’s always so hard on me,” I lament. “Not just today, but every time we have a conversation, it ends with her talking down to me like I’m nothing,” I say, sniffling. I’m not one for self-pity, but sometimes a mother feels abused by her daughters. Enough is enough already. If only I’d had sons.
Jack licks his lips, a surefire sign he is about to dig in and offer some pearls of wisdom. I’d be more annoyed if they weren’t often spot-on. I married the man for a reason. I brace myself for some hard truth.
“Joanie, you never say what you
mean when you’re talking to Cassie,” he starts, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand before continuing. “Take right now, for instance. You’ve been worried sick about her for the last twenty-four hours, cooking up a storm and preparing to have her over and take care of her like she was a baby girl again,” he says.
Nodding in agreement, I’m glad he understands where I’m coming from. If only Cassidy weren’t so bullheaded.
“I’ve watched you pace around this house so many times, I’m surprised there isn’t a divot in the rug from those slippers.”
I nod again, but my relief is replaced with irritation as his face changes. I sense a but.
“But then you get on the phone and you don’t say any of that. You change, and I’m not sure how to describe it, but you do. Suddenly you’re bringing up this, that, and the other thing, and none of them are what you ought to be saying. Then she talks back like she always does, and you get all flustered and you dig yourself deeper down the hole you’ve dug, and neither one of you gets anything good from the talk.”
Inhale deeply and slowly through your nose, I remind myself. I can’t help but purse my lips as I exhale loudly, scowling at Jack. So typical. He understands me, but he’s taking Cassidy’s side. Like always.
“I do not get flustered,” I argue, feeling a little flustered now, but I’ll be damned if I let him know that. “She just refuses to listen. I don’t know why it’s so hard for her to come over here,” I mutter. “I never have this problem with Claire,” I insist, knowing it’s not fair to compare the two girls. Claire’s always been my steady child. Where Cassidy wanted to argue and fight, Claire wanted to keep the peace. Claire’s never been a pushover, but she’s diplomatic about picking her battles, even more so now that she’s a mom herself. It must take the patience of a saint to raise a house with three young boys, and Claire makes it look easy. Cassidy could learn a thing or two from her little sister, if you ask me. Which she never does.
What We Carry Page 5