What We Carry

by Kalyn Fogarty

  Jack looks at me, one side of his mouth lifting in a knowing smile. “Maybe we let her have a pass this one time,” he whispers. “She’s been through the ringer, and I doubt she meant to hurt your feelings. Why don’t we take some stew over to their place tomorrow instead?”

  I shrug halfheartedly. As much as it kills me to admit it, he’s right. I can’t imagine the heartache Cassidy is suffering. If I could take her pain away and make it my own, I would. If only I could say as much to her without sticking my foot in my mouth. Somehow I just never get it right. I’ve always tried too hard or not hard enough, never mastering the perfect motherly amount some women are naturally gifted with. If only I could be more like Jack. In Cassidy’s eyes, Jack can do no wrong. Sometimes I’ve hated him for it, but mostly it’s a blessing. I’m not sure what would have become of us if Jack hadn’t been around to soften our hard edges.

  “Fine,” I agree, letting out one last deep breath. He holds out his arms and I fall into his embrace, snuggling deeper into his big bear hug. Laying my cheek against his broad chest, I let him comfort me, the way only Jack can.

  ♦   11   ♦

  CASSIDY

  After

  May 29

  MY FIRST DAY BACK at work is a blur of well-wishes and platitudes, depending on whether the client has heard the bad news or not. Hoping a little mindless shopping might erase the torture of each overly sympathetic face, I take the long way home and end up drawn to the giant red dot like a moth to a flame. Now I wonder if I should’ve cut my losses for the day. Gritting my teeth, I push my cart around a woman parked sideways across the aisle, brushing against her purse and eliciting an angry stare. I bite my tongue and stroll deeper into the store. No sympathetic faces here, just a lot of self-involved jerks.

  You look amazing! Absolutely glowing! Cherish this time; it’s over in the blink of an eye! Mrs. Kennedy clearly hadn’t heard that my glow had been extinguished, although her last little nugget was on point. It was all over in the blink of an eye.

  I’m so sorry, Doc. At least you know you kids can get pregnant; that’s half the battle. This one irritated me a bit more than the others, especially after hearing it so frequently from members of our own family. Owen reminded me the intention was good, but still. Too soon. Yes, I can get pregnant. But that doesn’t bring my baby back or offer any explanation as to why this tragedy happened. What good is being able to get pregnant if I can’t stay pregnant?

  Another text pings, my phone a relentless source of “comfort” in the wake of my loss. I don’t bother pulling it out of my purse. I can guess what it says. Some message meant to ease the discomfort and guilt someone has over having healthy children, for not being broken themselves. It always ends the same—you don’t have to respond, I just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you. Usually a few heart emojis are stuck to the end for good measure. It makes me evaluate all the benign but hollow texts I’ve sent over the years. The ones I sent in hopes of warding off my own bad luck, hoping karma would one day reward me for my kindness. The truth is, they don’t want my response and I don’t plan on giving one.

  * * *

  “Shit!” I mutter, the front tire of my cart hitting a paper towel display and scattering a few across the tile. Throwing two rolls into the cart, I quickly turn the corner, hoping no one saw.

  Everything happens for a reason. By far my least favorite and the most common of the bunch. It’s thrown around all the time to explain the inexplicable, often followed by a tale of heartbreaking loss and resilience, promising that some exceptional thing will come from this shitty situation. I’m not a heartless person, but I wish they’d shut the fuck up. Nothing good is coming from losing my baby. Maybe someday I’ll feel differently, but right now it’s just a terrible thing that happened. No greater meaning need be discerned. Promising that everything happens for a reason only eases the discomfort of the person making the promise.

  Like magic, I end up in the baby section. People joke that you don’t know what you need when you walk into Target—Target tells you what you need. This has always applied to me. Somehow a quick trip for laundry detergent inevitably ends with me spending hundreds of dollars on stuff I didn’t realize I needed … until Target told me so. Looking up at the ceiling, I wonder what cosmic prank the universe is playing on me but stroll down the infant aisle as though pulled by an invisible force.

  Standing in front of a clothing display, I feel like a fraud invading a space reserved for mommies and mommies-to-be. I flip through a rack of onesies, my heart tugging painfully as I finger one with a tiny dinosaur on the front. A shelf lined with stuffed animals floats above the display, a blue It’s a boy! teddy bear sitting in the center. Without thinking, I snatch the bear and toss it into the cart, glancing around furtively to see if anyone caught me, the fake mom, buying toys for a baby who doesn’t exist. The blood rushes to my head and I backtrack, adding the dino onesie and some socks into the cart. I see a bib with Mama’s Boy emblazoned across the front and throw it atop my growing pile. My body tingles and my heart races. This must be what shoplifters experience when they slip a tube of lipstick into their pocket, unseen.

  A woman pushes her stroller into the aisle space next to me, startling me from my sneak shopping. Her baby is about six months old and wears an enormous pink bow. It’s hard not to stare at her cute and gummy smile, those chubby cheeks and little toes that she keeps grabbing at while giggling in my direction.

  “I’m expecting a son,” I hear myself say to this stranger. Her hand pauses on a frilly dress as she glances at me without making eye contact. Using her free hand, she pulls the stroller a little closer to her hip. I’m aware I’m holding my flat stomach and nodding my head manically, but I can’t stop myself. I’ve no control of my actions. Sensing something is off, the other mom smiles without showing her teeth and makes her way down the aisle. As they turn the corner, the baby cries. It starts as a quiet whimper but turns into a full-blown wail once they’re out of sight, the baby also sensing something’s amiss.

  The baby’s cry echoes in my brain, triggering some primal instinct of my own. I clutch my hand across my chest, afraid I’m having an acute heart attack in the middle of Target. For a brief second I’m embarrassed someone will find me collapsed next to my cart of fraudulent baby goods and debate pushing it out of reach. Pain spreads across my chest again, but I realize it’s not a cardiac event. It’s worse. My boobs, already bigger from the pregnancy, swell and harden beneath my palm. A tingling around my nipples turns into a sharp pulling and tightening that radiates toward my armpits. The wailing seems to get louder, even though I know that’s impossible. The baby is long gone by now, probably halfway to the checkout line if the look on her mother’s face was any indicator. My shirt stretches uncomfortably across my chest. A vision of The Hulk ripping through his civilian clothes comes to mind. My milk is coming in. The rational, scientific part of my brain comes to the rescue, struggling to quell the panic rising inside me. Glancing down, I see two large wet spots circling either nipple. Pain and mortification fight the logical part of my psyche and come out victorious.

  Looking around for someplace to hide, I see a sign for MATERNITY. Another cosmic sign I’ll meditate on later. Grabbing a sweatshirt from the closest rack, I push my cart to the dressing room.

  “How many, miss?” the cheery attendant asks, her smile too wide and happy for my current disposition.

  “One,” I snarl, clutching the hoodie to my chest and pulling my cart behind me. “Can I leave this here?” I ask, eager for the woman to open a room so I can have my moment of shame in solitude.

  The woman eyes my cart full of baby paraphernalia and notices my stained shirt. She nods sympathetically. “Oh, honey, it’s happened to us all,” she says, shooting me a grandmotherly look over her shoulder as she unlocks a room. She holds it open as I scurry inside, afraid my face will melt off I’m so ashamed.

  “After my first, whenever I heard a baby cry, my milk would let right out an
d I’d be a soaking mess,” she says, her kind eyes wrinkling at the corners as she loses herself in a memory. “Mine are all up and grown now, but I remember when they were little. It’s so hard to leave them, isn’t it?” She shakes her head, bringing herself back to the present. “You take all the time you need in here,” she says before finally closing the door. I let my breath out in a whoosh and sit on the plastic seat, avoiding my reflection in the fluorescent-lit mirror.

  A light tap on the door. “Cabbage leaves,” the woman says without waiting for my permission. “Little trick to ease the pain when those milk machines fill in. They work miracles,” she adds. “Oh! And there are some nursing pads in the formula aisle.” Each little piece of advice is like a bullet to my heart.

  Glancing up, I see a disheveled woman staring back at me in the mirror. Her hair is loose from its clip and sticks out on either side, and her mascara is smudged under one eye. This woman looks haggard and sad. Desperate. I don’t recognize her. Some other woman has taken over my body.

  Exhaustion hits me like a truck. My breasts ache, but the worst of the pain has already spilled inside my bra and down the front of my shirt. Even my boobs are crying now. Pulling the new sweatshirt over my head, I ignore the rest of my hair that falls loose from the clip. I stare at myself a moment longer in the mirror and almost laugh at the ironic slogan on my chest—LITERALLY PREGNANT. Ripping the price tag from the sleeve, I stuff it in my pocket so I can pay for this forty-dollar monstrosity at the register.

  Sparing myself one last glance in the mirror, I lift my chin and try to tame my wild hair. Peeking out of the dressing room, I say a silent prayer of thanks that the attendant is busy somewhere else. I don’t think I can stand any more unwarranted advice about my boobs. Rushing to my cart, I wheel my embarrassing stash away from maternity toward the grocery section of the superstore. Before heading for the self-service register, I make a detour to the vegetables and grab a head of cabbage, just in case. Like every other time I’ve checked out at Target, I marvel at the amount of money I’ve spent and curse the store for insisting I need every last item.

  * * *

  The bright glare of the truck’s headlights warns of Owen’s arrival just a moment before the familiar crunch of gravel travels in through the open window. For a brief second they illuminate the nursery, a spotlight first on the diaper-changing station (still in its cardboard box), then the crib (missing the mattress), and settling on the half-finished forest mural on the wall opposite the window. Owen helped me paint after agreeing upon a camping theme for the room. It was a unisex nod to our mutual love of the outdoors.

  The headlights fade as the truck door slams and darkness descends on the nursery. It doesn’t matter; I can describe the room with my eyes closed. In the back corner is a little tent filled with stuffed animals and toys, a perfect hideaway for a little boy or girl. I imagined my child snuggled in his tent with his favorite book, pretending he was holed away in a magical forest. The hazy purple moonlight filters in from outside and the tent casts a long shadow across the room, like an arrow pointing toward me.

  Rosie studies me, her inquisitive eyes soft and unblinking and her nose resting on her paws. We’ve been sitting together on the thick carpet for so long I’ve lost track of time. The room went from dim to dark quite a while ago. Resting on my lap is a blue box labeled Baby Box. A gift from my mother, it’s supposed to hold all the special “firsts” you’re meant to collect and cherish—the hospital receiving blanket, first tooth, first lock of hair. My baby won’t have any firsts, so I’m improvising. I’ve folded up the T. rex onesie I bought and placed it beside a pair of blue socks and the teddy bear. The burial gown made from some stranger’s wedding dress is draped in the corner over a silver rattle. Maybe the woman who wore this white dress lost a baby herself and donated it on the day she left him at the hospital. It comforts me to think I’m a member of a secret club of bereaved mothers shrouding the children of those who come after us.

  As I stroke the soft fur of the teddy bear, my gaze circles the dark nursery. I had plenty of things to add to the box right here in this room, but none belonged. Everything in the room is from before. Before miscarriage and death were blips on my radar and my only concern was which mobile to buy and which sheet set matched the theme of the room. Sometimes I complained about all the trivial stuff needed to prepare for a baby. My registry was a source of anxiety as I tried to discern which items were essential versus wastes of money. Diaper Genie or regular trash can? Swing or rocker? What I wouldn’t give for those worries now.

  I hear Owen’s footsteps climbing the staircase an instant before the hallway light flicks on, a ray of yellow light sneaking under the crack of the door. Rosie lifts her head and wags her tail but doesn’t get up. She looks at me, waiting.

  “Cass?” Owen calls, the floorboards in the hall creaking and moaning as he makes his way toward the nursery door. Everything in the big old house is swelling. We’ve skipped right past spring and straight to the heat and humidity usually saved for August.

  Holding my breath, I clutch the baby box closer to my body, pressing the cool cabbage leaves tucked inside my bra closer to my chest, their presence another reminder of all that I’ve lost. Rosie stays by my side even though she stares at the door, eager to greet Owen. She’s always favored me slightly. Owen once joked that she loved me more, and even though I denied it, it’s true. Like humans, dogs can’t help but have favorites. She inches a little closer to me, nudging my bare feet with her cool wet nose.

  The doorknob twists and I brace myself. Owen pushes the door open, his silhouette dark against the bright hallway. Blinking back the hot tears streaming down my cheeks, I turn my face toward the wall. He hesitates in the doorway, letting me compose myself.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, one foot poised to step inside the mausoleum that is our baby’s room, the other foot safely in the hall. “Want me to order dinner?”

  No, I’m not okay. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay. Please don’t leave me. Hug me. Hold me. Cry with me. I don’t say any of these things. I’m afraid to lay them out in the open where they might take on a life of their own. At least, with them trapped inside my heart, I can save Owen from their anguish.

  I shrug, keeping the box pressed against my chest to cover the ugly words strewn across the sweatshirt I’m still wearing. “I just want to be alone a few minutes,” I whisper, gulping back the lump in the back of my throat. Don’t go. Closing my eyes, I pray he reads my mind and throws open the door and falls to the floor to cry over this pathetic box with me. But it’s wishful thinking. He’ll close the door and give me some time alone because that’s what I’ve always demanded of him.

  “Okay,” he says, but I know he’s torn. It’s my own fault. I’ve punished him too many times for pushing back when I asked for space. He’s learned his lesson over the years. “I’ll order Chinese food,” he says, holding the door open a second longer, giving me one last chance to change my mind. “Come down when you’re ready.” He pulls the door shut with a click, leaving me and Rosie enveloped in the heavy darkness. His footsteps retreat down the hall and fade away down the stairs, leaving the room thick and alive with silence. The quietness thrums in my ears like a live wire. Pulsating. Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum.

  ♦   12   ♦

  OWEN

  After

  June 2

  SHE THINKS I DON’T hear her crying, but I do. Each night I lay down next to her, and even though we’re only inches apart, we might as well be miles. I close my eyes, but it’s only the start of my nightly vigil as I wait for her silent sobs to start, the ones she tries so hard to muffle against her pillow and dampen beneath our comforter.

  She assumes I’m asleep, but since we lost our son, everything’s changed. Our nightly ritual has fallen apart. We used to go to bed together, but not anymore. Now I leave her alone on the couch, sipping a cup of herbal tea and staring at a novel. She barely notices when I leave the room. Before she would’ve begged me
to wait while she finished one more chapter—which always turned into three. I’d wait a million pages for her now if only she’d ask. But she doesn’t ask, and I don’t stay.

  Alone, I trudge up the narrow staircase to our bedroom and fall into our queen-sized bed, where I watch some stupid TV show for thirty minutes before shutting it down, enveloping the room in silence. Later she’ll slide into bed without a word, careful not to let even a toe brush up against my leg. I’m wide awake, but I feign sleep, hoping she might whisper something to me across the divide. Good night. I love you. Anything.

  The space between us is just a sliver of cool sheets, but it feels like a bottomless chasm. Words fail me every night as she climbs under the covers and rolls to her side, creeping closer to the edge of the bed, farther away from me. Her slight body shakes as she cries herself to sleep. It’s like sleeping in an earthquake, each tiny shudder shifting the seismic plates of our union further apart. I used to have the words. I’d make her talk to me in the safety of the darkness. Sometime, somewhere, the words disappeared.

  In the morning we pretend everything’s normal. It’s been just over a week since the miscarriage, but the days are long and every minute pulls and stretches us apart. I never imagined ten years unraveling in ten days, but here we are. How many good mornings will we waste by neglecting to say good-night? Ten more? A hundred? Maybe we won’t make it that far before we fall so far apart there’s nothing left.

  Cassidy moves around the house like a ghost of her former self. On the outside, not much has changed. Even at almost five months pregnant she’d barely gained any weight, so her body doesn’t reveal the pain she feels inside. Her stomach had just started to round but never “popped.” At the time, she’d been thrilled to fit into her prepregnancy clothes. I wonder if she misses the slight tightness in her jeans now that it’s gone. Cassidy thought those weekly bump pictures everyone posted were corny. I should’ve forced her to let me take them.