What We Carry

by Kalyn Fogarty

  “Have a good day at work,” I say as she grabs her to-go mug.

  She hesitates, one eye on the door. Stepping back toward me, she brushes a dry kiss on my cheek before muttering for me to have a good one too. The door slams behind her, and my stomach churns. Popping an antacid with my morning coffee is my new normal.

  The Bourne project is a welcome distraction, keeping me occupied ten long hours a day. While at work I can pretend things are fine at home. I’m fine, Cassidy is fine. We’re both just fine—it’s what I tell anyone who asks. Maybe if I repeat it often enough, it’ll be true.

  Days turn into more days, and those will keep turning into more. The sun comes up, the sun goes down. We lost a baby and the world kept spinning. Work keeps working and life keeps living. But I’m stuck and her nightly tears are proof she’s stuck, too. Talking about it would help us, but we’ve both been struck silent. A therapist might help, but I’m too scared to mention the idea. She’ll shut me down, and I can’t bear her closing me out any more than she already has. So, I’m giving it time and space. Maybe it’ll heal our wounds enough for her to let me back in.

  I caught her crying in the kitchen yesterday. Before I would’ve run to her, held her in my arms, and told her everything would be okay. But I’m broken. I’ve lost my nerve. I don’t know if I can make things right this time. I’ve never lied to her, and the thought of promising something I can’t deliver breaks my heart all over again. Instead, I try to do other things for her. I do the grocery shopping. I bring home dinner. I do the laundry and feed the dog. My goal is to take care of all the little details in hopes the big ones will take care of themselves.

  My parents call to check in and I lie, tell them we’re fine. They promise to visit soon, answering my lie with a lie of their own. Although I know they’re sad for us, sympathy and grief aren’t in their wheelhouse. Stoic, midwestern stock, their answer would be to get back on the horse and have another one. I’m not sure either of us is ready to hear the wisdom in such a statement.

  Tonight she’s on an emergency call and I’m sitting alone at the kitchen table eating leftover spaghetti and meatballs. Finding a half-empty bottle of red wine on the counter, I pour myself a generous glass even though I prefer beer. I’m drawn to a framed picture from our engagement shoot centered on the side table. In it we’re sitting intertwined like lovestruck teenagers while Rosie, still a puppy, lies on the grass before us. Cass’s chestnut hair was longer then. Mine was shorter and I was clean-shaven. In this picture I gaze at my beautiful fiancée like I’m the happiest man in the world. We were so in love, we didn’t have to force the cheesy poses. Our love was easy to capture, shot after shot.

  Where are those kids now? What I’d give for even one moment of such radiant bliss in our lives today. Sipping my wine, I wipe a smudge from the corner of the glass before placing it back on the table.

  Minutes tick by slowly. Finishing the last of the wine, I retrieve another dusty bottle from the shelf. Glass in hand, I study the pictures hanging in the hallway, finding it difficult to reconcile the me in those photos with the man I am today. I refuse to believe that in ten days we’ve grown so different from the couple we once were that we can’t get back.

  As the wine settles into my bloodstream, it loosens up my thoughts. It’s been a bit longer than ten days, and you know it. I refill my empty glass, almost draining the second bottle. Perhaps the alcohol is right. Maybe we’ve been drifting toward this point for some time now. This catastrophe just sped up the process.

  Rosie rushes to the door a moment before it clicks open. Cassidy pushes into the foyer, soaked to the bone and dripping on the mat. When did it start raining? She crouches to pet Rosie before noticing me standing in the hallway. Frowning, she shrugs off her rain jacket.

  “Hey,” I say, my tongue thick in my mouth.

  She kicks off her boots and nudges them closer to the door. “You’re up late,” she answers, not meeting my eyes.

  Not hostile, but not friendly. She doesn’t move to kiss or embrace me, just stands awkwardly in the entrance as though she’s waiting for me to get out of her way. Though she’s wearing her raincoat, her jeans and shirt are soaked through. She’s probably eager to get out of her clothes and into something warm and dry, but I’m stuck in place, drinking her in. Purple circles fan both eyes, made worse by the mascara starting to smudge after a wet sixteen-hour workday. Her hair hangs heavy and damp, a wildfire extinguished by the elements.

  “What?” she sighs, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the day and all the days before.

  Maybe it’s the wine talking, but I’m emboldened. I miss my wife. Just one touch. Something before she’s too far out of reach.

  Placing my wineglass on the desk in the foyer, I take the leap, crossing the room in two steps and pulling her into my arms, her damp shirt sticking to my chest. She squirms in my embrace, stiffening both arms to her sides and pushing against me with her shoulders. Rosie sits on the doormat, watching us with interest. I think she’s rooting for me.

  “Stop,” she yells, “I’m soaking wet!” She jerks her head away from my chest. I pull her tighter. “Let. Me. Go.”

  I don’t. I hold her tight and let loose everything I’ve been holding back. Before I can stop, I’m sobbing into her hair, my tears more raindrops soaking into her curls. My knees give out and I fall to the ground in front of her, still holding on, pulling against the back of her thighs and resting my cheek against her flat stomach. My body trembles and heaves. She stands stiff and tall, unwavering.

  She doesn’t flinch, and I keep crying, my body purging itself of the pain it’s tried to hide. I don’t know how long we remain like this, maybe only a minute, maybe much longer. Cassidy doesn’t move a muscle. Just lets me release.

  “I’m sorry,” I whimper. “I’m sorry for everything.” I sniff back the tears, pulling myself together.

  I look up and she’s staring down the hall, her face vacant. I wonder if she’s heard me.

  “Cass,” I whisper, desperate for her to respond. “I’m sorry,” I repeat.

  Running her cold hand through my hair, she lets it rest for a quick second on the back of my neck. Every nerve in my body lights up at this simple touch. But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

  “Me too,” she whispers before gently pushing her way out of my loosened embrace and heading toward the kitchen. Rosie whines in my direction, then follows Cassidy into the other room, leaving me alone once more.

  ♦   13   ♦

  CASSIDY

  After

  June 6

  THE TOILET SEAT IN my sister’s house is always up. One of the many perils of living in a house full of boys, she always says. Knowing I’m fighting a losing battle, I set it back down, wondering how she keeps up with all the mess. From the outside, Claire’s large, modern home on the elm-lined cul-de-sac looks neat and peaceful, almost a cookie-cutter image of the other futuristic-looking houses neighboring it. Aside from her chic style and fashionable furniture, the inside of the house is anything but serene most hours of the day. Upon entering, you’re bombarded with the crashes and clatters of three little boys weaving their way through the rooms. Claire must constantly trail behind them, picking up the destruction left in their wake.

  “How are you feeling?” Claire asks as she fills two mugs with steaming coffee and slides one across the island toward me. She pushes the cream and honey in my direction after adding some of each to her own cup. Different though we may be, we take our coffee the same peculiar way.

  Before I can answer, Claire’s youngest son, Matt, or “Little Matty” as everyone calls him, runs around the corner, nearly knocking himself out on the edge of the kitchen table. Another inch taller and he’d be flat on his back right now.

  “Mommmmmmmy!” he wails, his face beet red and his strawberry-blond hair disheveled. He’s wearing only a diaper, and I wonder if he started the day with clothes and lost them along the way or if he prefers the freedom. Claire’s wild chil
d, he throws himself around her thigh, burying his grubby face in the expensive Lycra of her yoga pants. Just two years old, he’s going through a clingy stage and learning some new phrases. “Want you, Mama,” he says, his lower lip trembling. Eyeing my sister, I’m amazed at her patience. From what I’ve witnessed, his newfound speech mostly involves needing something from his mommy. Feed me. Pick me up. Give me a toy.

  Steve bursts into the room with their middle son squirming and giggling under one arm. “Where’s my babe?” he asks before nodding a quick hello in my direction. “Sorry about that. I swear, I look away for one minute and he’s gone,” he says, shaking his head good-naturedly. He sets Shane down, and my nephew immediately runs back toward the den without so much as a glance in my direction. “How you doing, sis?” Steve asks, kissing me on the cheek now that his hands are free. “Glad to have you at the circus.” Before I can answer, he’s scooping Matty up from the floor, leaving us in relative quiet.

  “As you were saying,” Claire continues, sipping her coffee and smirking at me, “better talk quick. I give it five minutes before Little Matty escapes Steve’s ever-so-watchful supervision again.” She’s teasing, but I don’t doubt it for a second. Steve’s a great dad, the fun and attentive weekend warrior every little boy craves. Always eager to get down and dirty with his boys, he loves to roughhouse and play, but I sense he prefers to leave most of the “boring” parenting duties to Claire. The feminist in me wants to resent him for this, but he’s a hard guy not to like. Plus, Claire loves her life as a stay-at-home mom and kicks ass at it. To each their own.

  “I’m okay,” I say, eliciting a frown from my sister. “Well, as good as I can be,” I admit, withering beneath her shrewd gaze.

  “Cut the bullshit, Cass.” Adding a little more honey to her cup, she sips and nods approvingly. “Talk to me. How’s Owen doing? You guys working through it?” Somehow Claire manages the cooking, cleaning, and chauffeuring, all the while maintaining a beautiful home and keeping up her killer body. As a result, she’s always a little strapped for time and cuts straight to the chase. Normally I appreciate her ability to weed through the nonsense, but more so when it’s directed at someone else. It’s a little uncomfortable feeling the weight of her focused intensity aimed at such a personal aspect of my life. Although we’re close, we generally stick to lighter conversation—where to get the best yoga pants, what shows to stream on Netflix, and anything having to do with our mother. Pinching the bridge of my nose and rubbing gently, I fear a migraine is brewing.

  “He’s fine. Giving me some space,” I murmur as she lifts one eyebrow. Claire’s never hidden her disapproval of our problem-solving tactics. When I first told her how Owen and I preferred to let a little time and space come between our disagreements, she laughed and offered to help find me a divorce lawyer in a few years.

  “Space?” She snorts, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Space is literally the last thing either of you needs.” Looking at me seriously, she frowns. “This happened to both of you. You know that, right?” Guilt washes over me, and I turn away so she can’t see the color rising to my cheeks. Typical Claire, seeing through my crap within five minutes and hitting the nail right on the head. I’ve told her multiple times she should’ve been a therapist. She insists she is. She’s a mom.

  Owen and I both lost a son. Still, I can’t help but feel like the loss is a little more mine than his. My body swelled and changed as he moved inside me. My breasts engorged and eventually leaked. My body held him inside before pushing him out before his time. My body mis-carried our son. He mourns the loss, but I wonder if he’s mourning this baby or the idea of a baby. Even though he’ll never admit it, I know in his heart he believes we’ll just have another.

  He didn’t even want this one. The thought creeps into my head now like it does late at night when I’m staring up at the ceiling through tear-bleary eyes, unable to sleep while Owen snores beside me. Somehow my mind makes its way back to that stupid conversation where Owen made the unilateral decision for us to wait to have a baby. He got what he wanted.

  “What?” Claire asks, refilling my coffee.

  Color rises to my cheeks and I shake away the nagging feeling of blame. Guilt shades everything lately. “Nothing,” I mutter. Sensing Claire won’t be satisfied with this, I pick my words carefully. “I wonder why we lost the baby and if it was something I did or didn’t do,” I say, biting my cheek to hold back the tears that are precariously close to falling. “I wonder if the baby knew we didn’t want him.”

  Unable to hide her shock, Claire sets her mug down too hard, coffee spilling onto the marble. “You guys were trying for months!” she exclaims. As far as she knew, this was the case. For months I moaned and complained about our struggle to conceive, but I never told her Owen asked me to put things on hold.

  Backtracking, the flush on my face creeps down my neck and across my chest. Expressing my emotions has never been easy for me. “No, we were,” I say, taking a deep breath. “But we’d decided to take a little break on trying, and of course, that’s when we got pregnant. Maybe the timing was off and my body sensed it.”

  “Bullshit,” she says, waving her hand. “Are you serious? You know things always happen when you least expect them. Look at Derek,” she reminds me, referring to her first son. Claire got pregnant almost immediately after graduating college. Even though everyone assumed she’d marry Steve eventually, they’d planned to wait a few years for the wedding and then a few more for children. The plan was fast-tracked once she got that positive pregnancy test. I vividly remember her sobbing into the phone, telling me the news even before she told Steve. Claire knows a thing or two about bad timing. “Stop being so … you. Not everything has some concrete reason. Shit happens. Bad shit, good shit. You just have to roll with it. There’s not always some higher meaning or explanation. Sometimes things simply happen, and you move on.”

  Curbing my desire to stick my tongue out at her or flip her off, I make myself busy shredding a paper napkin. Maybe she understands bad timing, but our situations are far from the same. Even though motherhood came earlier than expected for Claire, she’s always been steadfast in her desire to have children. It’s no surprise that she has three perfect sons and lives in a perfect home in the perfect school district with her perfect husband. Claire never grappled with the decision to stay home and care for the kids; it was a given. Steve offered to hire a live-in nanny, but Claire refused. Conception, birth, and motherhood have all come naturally to Claire. She makes mothering look easy. She doesn’t get that it’s not like that for everyone.

  Once upon a time Claire had a future that didn’t revolve around playdates and soccer practice. Excelling right out of college, she was on track to move up the corporate ladder at a top marketing firm in Boston. Blindsided by her pregnancy and quick marriage, she put her career on hold. The company promised to keep her application on file, but she never went back. At first I thought she was waiting until Derek was old enough for day care, but the months turned into years and then she was pregnant again … and again … and even the quiet mentions of freelance work became fewer and further between. I still wonder if she regrets this path now. Looking around her warm home, filled with love and laughter, it appears not.

  Having dedicated my youth to my education and my adulthood to my career, it’s hard to imagine a version of my life where I’d give it all up. I love my job, but sometimes I dream of a life that doesn’t revolve around sick animals who get sickest during the wee hours of the morning or on weekends. Maybe then I’d have time to finish decorating my house or get my nails done. Maybe then I’d have time for a baby.

  “Earth to Cassidy,” my sister says, tapping the counter with her manicured nails. “Seriously, you need to stop beating yourself up over it and share the load.”

  I shrug, sipping my coffee while my thoughts spiral. Even Claire’s coffee is better than mine. Eyeing the expensive and complicated stainless-steel espresso maker in the kitchen’s corner, I realize I w
ouldn’t even know how to turn it on. Most days I settle for the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through and let Owen fend for himself. Claire probably has a fresh latte waiting on the counter for Steve every morning. Just another reminder of how I’m failing in my marriage.

  “So, I should stop my whining and move on?” I ask, unable to hide the bitterness in my voice.

  Claire sighs. “No. That’s the opposite of what I’m saying, and you know it.” Before she can elaborate, we’re interrupted by the pitter-patter of little feet running into the kitchen. Her oldest pops his head around the counter and smiles at me. “I’m saying you need to talk to someone, and if you can’t talk to me or Owen, maybe you should talk to a professional,” she hisses, plastering a fake smile on her face and pulling Derek in for a hug. At almost eight years old, he grimaces and pretends to pull away from her embrace as though he’s too old for such displays of affection. He betrays himself, leaning in a second too long.

  I lift my brows and nod. “You would suggest this,” I say, letting out a dry laugh. My sister the “woke” one. Next she’ll be telling me about some essential oil or herbal supplement that might help. “Mom tell you to say that?”

  Claire ruffles Derek’s hair and ignores me. “Hey, talk to your Aunt Cassie for a minute, hon,” she says. “I’m gonna go check and make sure your dad hasn’t lost the other two.”

  She hustles off toward the den, which has become suspiciously quiet, leaving me and my nephew facing off awkwardly in the kitchen. He turns his small but rather adult face up at me.

  The pregnancy books don’t prepare you for how to talk to a first grader—or maybe he’s a second grader? I literally know nothing about kids except what days of the month they can be made.