“What grade are you in?” I ask, desperate to break the uncomfortable silence.
He looks at his feet and fiddles with the cuffs of his shirt. “I’m going into third grade,” he answers, not looking up. “I’m seven and a half,” he adds for good measure. I remember always insisting on adding the all-important half to both my age and height when I was little.
“You’re tall for seven and a half,” I say, although I’ve no idea if this is true, just another thing I liked to hear when I was a kid. Being told I was smart for my age was my all-time favorite.
He puffs out his chest ever so slightly and lifts his chin toward me. “Thanks. I’m the tallest in my class,” he says with obvious pride. “Dad’s tall, so mom says I’ll take after him and not her.” He looks me up and down, furrowing his brow in sincere seriousness. “You’re short like Mom is,” he says, and laughs shyly. “But that’s okay, since you’re a girl.”
This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with Derek, and I’m charmed by his earnestness, so like his mother’s. “You’ll probably be taller than me by the time you’re in the fourth grade,” I guess, earning a wide grin revealing two missing teeth.
“You know what?” he says, his green eyes boring into my own. “You would’ve been a really good mom.” His eyes flick toward the doorway. “Mom and Dad told me I was going to have a cousin, but he went to heaven instead.” It isn’t a question, just a simple statement.
Not wanting to break down in front of my poor nephew, I swallow the tickle at the back of my throat. “You’re right. I had a baby, but he went to heaven already,” I say, my voice shaking. Not sure what he knows about death, I tread lightly. “Hopefully someday I’ll have another one who will grow up to be your new cousin,” I say. None of the books prepare you for how to talk to a child about miscarriage, that’s for certain.
He looks at me with his mossy-colored eyes, almost the same gray-green as my own. “Okay,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Could you make it a girl cousin? We have enough boys around here already.”
I laugh, and just like that the spell is broken. Derek pulls his hand away, eager to get back to the TV in the other room. “I’ll do my best,” I say, gesturing toward the door. “Go find your mom for me.” Though he’s too polite to run away without permission, I see the relief on his face when he’s allowed to escape back to something more fun than his sad aunt.
He scurries away and I sit alone at the counter, my coffee cold. You would’ve been a good mom. Turning the words around in my head, I lock them away for later. From the mouths of babes.
♦ 14 ♦
CASSIDY
After
June 8
HORSES RARELY MATE THE old-fashioned way outside in the wild anymore. Ever since they transformed from a beast of burden to a domesticated animal—one often considered extremely valuable for its athletic prowess—more civilized methods of breeding these expensive creatures have been used to protect the investments of all parties involved. Artificial insemination is the dominant technique employed now.
Live coverage, when stallion and mare join together to do the dirty, is saved for farm horses and the accidental pet whose owner didn’t realize it might not be wise to stable an ungelded colt next to a female horse. Like teenagers, stallions will find a way, whether they have to jump a fence or knock down a barn door to get there. The risk of injury is quite high when you mix two fifteen-hundred-pound beasts with raging hormones and minds of their own.
People assume the brawny stallion is the one that should be feared, but in my experience, it’s the opposite. I’ve had to treat quite a few stallions for lacerations and bites after their wanton advances were met with the sharp teeth and strong hind hooves of a mare not in the mood. Never underestimate a mare in heat. It’s for this reason AI is preferred.
As I pet Kitty on the rump, she swings her long neck around and fixes her light-brown eyes on me. I swear I see the same hope and frustration I’m feeling mirrored back at me. A surly redheaded mare standing just over 15.3 hands, what she lacks in height she makes up for in whippet-like speed and agility and a fiery personality to match. With a pedigree a mile long, she was one of the Lombardos’ prized racing mares until an unfortunate tendon injury on a muddy track stopped her promising career when she was only three years old. When rehabbing the filly back to racing wasn’t an option, the Lombardos switched gears and prepared Kitty for the next phase of her life—motherhood. Unfortunately, the road to producing a foal has been anything but straightforward. After three failed rounds of artificial insemination, the owners made the risky decision to attempt live cover in May.
Kitty let the stallion, Atlanta Gold, know exactly how she felt about his advances by landing a few blows on his wide-set shoulders and heavy flank. Thankfully, her steel shoes had been removed and no serious damage was done to the world-class stallion. If anything, he seemed more attracted to the chestnut temptress after being dealt a few warning kicks. Eventually the deed was done, and we waited two long weeks only to be disappointed once again.
With a final plunge of the syringe attached to the long pipette, I hold the instrument in place for thirty more seconds before withdrawing it and rewarding Kitty with another light pet on the side. Always an exemplary patient, she stood like a lady inside the breeding chute for forty minutes while I tranquilized her, poked her, and ultrasounded her before I even started the insemination process. Even though she’s an old pro at the procedure by now, it doesn’t make it any less unpleasant.
“So, how long until we know if this takes?” Joe Lombardo asks, watching me as I wipe down my instruments.
We’ve been over the protocol multiple times, but I repeat the drill again. I know better than anyone how reassuring facts and figures can be, especially when you’re helpless to do anything besides wait. Sitting idly on the sidelines is difficult for someone like Joe, who makes his living working hard and literally taking the reins. Considering the hefty price of each of these failed attempts must make it even harder.
“I’ll come back in two weeks and check whether the egg was fertilized. If not, we should be able to catch her next estrus cycle and start again,” I say, noting the way his weathered face falls. “I’m hoping this time it took,” I add. “The HCG injection we administered gave us a much better idea of when she ovulated, so I am optimistic we’re in the proper window this time.”
After all the failed attempts, we opted to utilize human chorionic gonadotropin—HCG—which induces ovulation thirty-six hours after injection. Guided by an initial ultrasound, we confirmed Kitty’s ovaries were ready and determined insemination would occur as planned. Since each vial of Atlanta Gold’s semen costs over $5,000, this nonexistent foal has already cost a significant sum. Apparently, this would be mere pennies if the foal ended up selling at auction for the same price as others in this famous bloodline. Million-dollar babies are not unheard of in the racing industry.
“Fingers crossed,” Joe says. “Feel bad prodding the little lady so much.” He takes a mint from his pocket and lets her nibble it from his outstretched palm. “When can we take her home?”
I study her for a moment, noting the color of her gums and the brightness in her eyes. The minimal amount of tranquilizer I gave earlier has almost worn off. Another thirty minutes and she’ll be her feisty self. Some say motherhood softens edgy mares, but I hope she keeps her spark and passes it on to her foals. “Let’s just put her in one of the clinic stalls while we go over some paperwork in the front office. By the time that’s done, she’ll be good to go.”
Our technician scurries to unhook Kitty from the chute and leads the mare off to a stall before I can ask. Smiling to myself, I remember being an eager intern not that long ago and make a mental note to acknowledge her work ethic later. Good technicians are hard to find.
Joe spares one last glance at Kitty before following me down the rubber-matted hallway toward the front office. Only a few more minutes of paperwork stand between me and home,
and relief settles over my body. It’s been a long day and every fiber in my body is yearning to rest, to lay my head down and close out the world. I imagine Kitty feels the same way.
* * *
Grief is a lonely pursuit. Work, normally my reprieve, hasn’t been doing the trick lately. Usually I enjoy the long drives between calls, but now it’s just more time stuck alone with only my thoughts for company, unable to escape the crushing weight of sorrow. Instead of listening to the radio or a podcast like usual, I mentally prepare what mask I must wear at the next appointment. Sometimes this means fake smiling my way through small talk at routine check-ups; other times it means acting appropriately stoic while delivering bad news. By the end of the day, I’m exhausted from all the effort spent pretending to be something else.
No one tells you how long it takes to get over a loss. I’m reminded of some common advice offered concerning breakups. Supposedly it takes just as long as the relationship lasted to get over a breakup, so if you dated for a year, it will take a year to move on. Can I apply this theory to my miscarriage and assume it’ll take one day for every day I was pregnant? I lost my baby 17 days ago, and he was inside me for 136. Do I have another 119 days to go before I’m ready to move on? Perhaps the pain will always remain but lessen a little more every day until I hardly remember the feeling of my son moving inside me, the grief a mere echo reverberating in my heart every once in a while. Maybe someday a new baby will grow in his place, pushing out the pain and filling it with joy instead. Maybe it hurts this bad forever.
Some days I’m surprised to remember what joy feels like. I find myself laughing, and sometimes the smile even reaches my eyes. But grief always worms its way back in and reminds me that every moment of happiness is a betrayal of my son and I end up choking on the treachery of my laughter, horrified I’m forgetting all I’ve lost. Grief taunts me with its cruel condemnations. A real mother mourns her child forever. A real mother cries over a future that’ll never be. A real mother doesn’t laugh or have fun or make love. Whenever life tempts me into living, these thoughts creep back in, convincing me to crawl back into the darkness. In the dark it’s easy to punish myself for wanting to move on, for wanting to work, for wanting something as primal as my own husband. A real mother only wants her child back, the grief whispers, reminding me of the worst parts of myself, the wanting parts.
Instead of drowning in grief, I drown myself in work. Pushing the chastising voice away, I fill my schedule and push myself so hard I fall into bed each night too exhausted to hear the wounds grief tries to inflict. It’s not healthy to run from your problems, but it’s easier. Unfortunately, I can’t run while trapped in the metal fortress of my SUV. No amount of loud music or unnecessary phone calls can save me from myself and the nagging insistence to remember.
Leaning my head against the headrest, I let my shoulders sag into the soft leather seats. I can’t wait to get home, but I dread the drive. I should stop at the grocery store, but the thought of even a few more minutes in the car is unbearable. I’ll call Owen to pick up something. Lately we’ve been eating too much takeout, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I think he’s eager to get out of the house and away from me.
At some point it starts to rain, light sideways drizzle at first, but the droplets get heavier and faster as I take the exit ramp and merge onto the long stretch of two-lane road between the clinic and home. My finger hesitates below the wiper switch as my eyes lose focus on the road through the blurry haze of raindrops on the windshield. It’s coming down hard, one of those late-spring storms that brings out all the flowers tomorrow. The road is narrow and windy up ahead, the speed limit dropping quickly from forty-five miles per hour to twenty-five and often catching drivers unaware. But it’s as familiar to me as the back of my hand. I can drive this road in my sleep. Dim headlights coming at me cast a foggy yellow light into the car, blinding me. I close my eyes for a second. Two seconds. Three. I let it all go.
Not today, a small voice from before scolds, and I blink back the surge of panic washing over me as I lose control of the wheel, tires hitting a patch of water as the SUV glides a few feet toward the edge of the road before traction control kicks in and jerks me forward so that my chest hits the steering wheel. I flick the wipers on full blast and the steady whoosh fills the silent car, beating in time with my racing heart. Letting out the breath I’ve been holding, I turn the radio on. Gripping the wheel firmly at ten and two, I focus on the dark road in front of me. Only a few more miles and then I’ll be home.
♦ 15 ♦
CASSIDY
After
June 15
“CASSIDY?” A VOICE BOUNCES off the cereal boxes and lands in my ear like it’s been whispered directly behind me. Lifting my gaze from the wide variety of oatmeal I’ve been debating, I search for the person calling my name. “Is that you?” High-pitched and tinged with a thick Boston accent, the voice is distinctly familiar. A few customers shift to make room for the woman weaving her way down the busy aisle. I throw a box of apple-cinnamon oatmeal packets and a container of steel-cut in the cart. Nothing like having a multitude of breakfast options.
Recognition hits a moment before I see her face. Janice Topping, all five foot nothing of her, is on a mission, and no one and nothing will get in her way. Proving this point, she maneuvers another customer’s cart from her path and shoots a pointed glare at the woman for good measure.
For a split second I contemplate ditching my cart and bolting to the nearest entrance. The doors aren’t far. I’m only in aisle four. As Janice comes into view, I see running is pointless. Decked out in full athleisure wear and donning a pair of sparkling white Nikes, I’m pretty sure she’d embark on a high-speed chase to get to me. Using my cart as a shield, I brace for the upcoming onslaught.
“Janice!” I exclaim in as exuberant a voice as I can muster, hoping it’s been long enough she won’t sense the false ring of my tone. “It’s so nice to see you!” I plaster a smile on my face as I take inventory of my old friend. Janice might be dressed for the gym, but her full face of makeup and perfectly coiffed hair suggest her Lululemon is more decorative than functional. Rubbing a hand through my hair, I try to smooth back a few errant strands. In my rush to hit the market, I threw my curls into a messy bun and left my face painfully bare, not even bothering to swipe a quick layer of mascara over my pale lashes. Washed-out and haggard is not how I would have wanted to look when I bumped into the prom queen.
“Oh, hon, come here.” She abandons her cart, nearly tripping over a display of cornflakes in her efforts to pull me into a hug. Her smothering embrace lasts a little too long and smells overwhelmingly like citrus-and-coconut shampoo.
News travels fast down the grapevine. Even though Janice and I drifted apart after high school, our mothers remain close friends and talk almost daily. I’m sure my mom couldn’t wait to tell Mrs. Topping what happened. From there, the news probably spread like wildfire. My mom’s friends thrive on gossip, and something as juicy and tragic as a miscarriage would have been headline news for at least a week.
Teardrops, comically fat, pool in her eyes. I resist the urge to roll my eyes and gag myself with a spoon, as we used to say. “How are you doing?” I ask, managing a sad smile. Her lower lip trembles and I clench my jaw, biting my tongue.
“No, how are you doing?” She draws out each word, each one louder than the last. A few other store patrons linger. I wonder if they’re my mom’s friends too. They have the look of eavesdropping busybodies.
Janice tilts her head, pouting at me. In school, she was one of the stars of the drama club. I’m pretty sure she always got the lead because of her big voice and ability to exaggerate every emotion as opposed to any discernible acting skills. Her ability to make a spectacle and draw attention is in full effect this morning.
Eager for this interaction to end, I take a step back. “I’m fine,” I say, and she scowls. “Hanging in there,” I add. She reaches her hands toward mine and grabs them, grippi
ng tightly. Hers are cold and dry.
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s just so terrible for you.” She pulls one icy hand away to wipe a tear from her cheek. “Your mom told my mom everything.” She cries in earnest now, her narrow shoulders shaking. My own skin crawls and my heart races in response.
Desperate to escape the stares of the other shoppers, I choke back my growing irritation and summon a thin smile. “It’s been tough, but we’re getting through it.” Lying is so much easier than the uncomfortable truth.
If Janice were a friend, I might confide that things suck and I don’t know if they’ll ever get better. But she’s not a friend, and I wish she’d say good-bye now instead of awkwardly standing in front of me offering up her overdramatic condolences. Does she think this makes me feel better? It’s like she wants me to comfort her because my miscarriage has made her upset. I’m about one hiccup away from slapping her.
She sniffles. “You know, I’m always here if you need anything. We were so close in high school. I miss you,” she adds, brown eyes sparkling. I get a cruel spark of pleasure when I notice her eyeliner smudging.
The worst part is, I can’t tell if she’s sincere. In high school, she fed off pain and suffering. Other people’s misery sustained her sense of superiority. One minute she’d be offering a shoulder to cry on, the next wielding those secrets like weapons to suit her needs. Mean-girl culture is real, and I’m guilty of my share of bad behavior too. It was eat or be eaten in high school, and Janice was always full. I’ve long since moved past this phase, but something in her deep-brown eyes makes me wonder if she has.
“Thanks, that’s very sweet,” I say, glancing at my watch. “I should get going. I have to work later this afternoon …”
What We Carry Page 8