What We Carry

by Kalyn Fogarty

  “She broke my toy and I hate that doll,” she said unapologetically. “It’s stupid and ugly and it looks better now,” she sputtered. She saw me crying behind my mom’s legs and sighed, a hint of remorse clouding her mossy eyes. “C’mon, Claire, dolls are for babies anyway. I’ll play with you outside later.”

  I sniffled and tried to control my sadness and confusion over why my big sister had chopped off my doll’s hair. Mom made Cassidy apologize formally, so I received a reluctant, “I’m sorry.” Four-year-old me was eager to accept it if it meant Cassidy wouldn’t hate me anymore. Later she fulfilled her promise, inviting me to build a snowman in what was left of the previous week’s snowstorm.

  After that day I left Olive behind, playing with her only when I was by myself. A few days (or weeks) later, I came home to find Olive’s hair trimmed equally on both sides. A blue ribbon was tied into either short ponytail. She did look better with short hair, I told Cassidy. My sister hugged me (which she never did) and dragged me into the living room to play some nerdy game with her. I left Olive sitting safely on my bed.

  * * *

  “I’ll call her and let you know what she says, I promise.” Resting the back of my head against the edge of the chair, I catch sight of the clock. 10:52 AM. So much for grocery shopping before the library.

  “Well, I’m not speaking to her until I get an apology. It’s simply unacceptable how she’s been treating me.” Her voice wobbles. She can’t cry. I’ll never get off the phone if she starts sobbing.

  “I understand,” I say quickly, hopeful that she’ll mistake it for agreement. “Mom, I have to run now. Sofia needs help getting the boys ready. I’ll call her soon, I promise,” I reiterate.

  She sighs, undoubtedly annoyed that I’m rushing her off the phone even though it’s been well over an hour. “Give those beautiful boys kisses from Grandma,” she says instead, her voice changing. And just like that, she makes it harder to be mad at her.

  “I will. Love you,” I say, hanging up before the call can linger any longer.

  Letting the phone fall to the desk, I rest my head in my hands and gently massage my temples. I’ve been mediating the fights between my mom and sister for so long, but they still bother me. Steve constantly cautions me against inserting myself into their battles, but he doesn’t understand. This is our dynamic.

  Cassidy insists Mom likes me better because we’re so similar. This insinuation would insult me if I didn’t know better. She doesn’t say it to be hurtful. But Cassidy sees only what Cassidy sees. Growing up, Mom never let us forget how she gave up her promising career as an artist to stay home and raise us. Mom once had dreams of curating an art house or painting her own exhibit. It was never clear exactly what she gave up, only that it involved her art and that the dream ended with us children. She blamed marrying young and having kids for stalling her “otherlife,” as she referred to it. For example: In my otherlife, I would be a famous artist in Boston or New York. Once Cassidy and I were grown, she began painting in earnest, and she’s actually quite talented. It was just easier for her to use her status as a stay-at-home mother as an excuse for not prioritizing her dreams than it was to explore why she romanticized her otherlife.

  Cassidy and I are simply products of our upbringing. Cassidy leaned hard into the idea of motherhood standing in the way of career and was determined not to make the same mistakes as Mom by studying hard and ensuring that her career would always come first. Mom thought Cassidy shoved her brilliance in her face, but I believe straight As and a scholarship were Cassidy’s misguided attempt at making Mom proud. Instead of binding them, it served only to create more distance between them. Naturally combative, they butted heads constantly. No matter what Mom might say, Cassidy found fault. If pushed to succeed, Cass was mad at her for pushing. If Mom warned her she was pushing herself too hard, Cassidy was angry that she didn’t support her. Cassidy was aiming to live the otherlife, but it only bred resentment and jealousy.

  Mom gravitated toward me because I was easier. I was smart without being obsessive. Popular and pretty, I was an all-around normal teenage girl. I made sense to Mom. Even though I went off to college, I ended up pregnant and married very young, just like her. To everyone’s surprise, I left the workplace to raise my first baby, then the next two, and never went back. This makes Mom proud and irritates my sister. I let them think whatever they want. Truth is, I leaned even harder against my upbringing than Cassidy. I saw the emotional turmoil holding the weight of my mother’s disappointment put on us, and I swore never to put such guilt on the shoulders of my own children. I had the otherlife, and I chose this one. Never will my children fear I want something more or something other. I pick my family every day. I saw my mother’s shortcomings and vowed to be better not for her, but for myself and my children. In my opinion, it’s the onlylife.

  ♦   17   ♦

  OWEN

  After

  July 4

  I’M ALMOST SORRY THIS job is ending. Almost. Bourne Mansion has consumed all my time and energy for months now. I ended up needing far more guys than projected and we almost ran over budget not once, but three times. By some stroke of luck—and luck it must have been, since I can’t take credit for smart planning—we finished on time and came in just under budget. The board of trustees was shocked and thrilled at this good news.

  When I bid on the project last year, I never imagined I’d win. Although I was confident in my qualifications, my résumé wasn’t nearly as impressive as those of the competing companies. Once the exhilaration of winning the job wore off, I quickly came to understand why I won. Even though my work is impeccable, the board was most impressed by my price point. If I wasn’t the best choice, I was certainly the cheapest.

  In my inexperience, I failed to take into account some of the more obscure building codes and federal ordinances placed on such a famous piece of public property and ended up spending many hours researching the various codes and double-checking them with lawyers. Some unexpected pushback from the community resulted in more research and time spent creating a “sustainable” design that changed my original land grading and storm management solutions. It was no wonder the more experienced companies were more expensive. Most came in at almost double my estimate. Ultimately it was a lot more work than I’d bargained for, but we got it done.

  Standing here with the mansion behind me and Revere Beach stretching across the horizon in front of me, it all feels worth it. All the blood, sweat, and tears my crew and I have spilled are built into every stone wall, fountain, and veranda on the property. Before we started, the grounds were a mess, acres of sprawling, untended lawns and overgrown gardens with walkways that crumbled beneath your feet and led nowhere. The marshlands abutting the back property line lent a dank air of despair to the entire place, the tall grass and murky waters threatening to close in on the once-majestic park. With some careful planting and a new drainage system, we reclaimed the land. Now the marshes serve as a beautiful boundary, blending seamlessly with rolling turf and sustainable gardens.

  Gracing the center of it all is the fourteen-bedroom brick mansion, power-washed and painted back to its former glory. After touring the house, all cleaned and restored, you can walk outside into the walled garden. Where there was once a large cement block, cracked and overgrown with weeds, there’s now a cobblestone patio with pathways leading to four different flowered gardens, each more magical than the last.

  As long as the town approves everything, the house will be open to the public next month. My part in the process is finished. Soon the grounds will be filled with families picnicking on the lawns and enjoying the serenity that such a beautiful piece of history allows.

  In my dreams, Cassidy is standing here with me today, celebrating the conclusion of all my hard work and ready to settle down for a picnic of our own. We’d pop a bottle of champagne and toast to better things to come. In reality, she doesn’t even know I’m finished. I used to tell her everything. Now it’s hard to
tell her anything at all.

  Every night I ask her about her day. It’s what you do when you love someone. You ask the question, even when you’re tired or cranky and don’t care to hear about another lame or sick horse. You ask anyway. In response, the old Cassidy asked about my day. Maybe she only pretended to care about retention walls and patio pavers, but it didn’t matter. Her curiosity and sincere belief in me urged me to work harder, bid on bigger projects. I’d never have considered putting the company up for this job if it hadn’t been for her insistent confidence in my abilities.

  One day she stopped asking, even before we lost the baby. Other questions stole its place. What did I want for dinner? Did I need anything from Target? Trivial questions that were both boring and necessary. Every once in a while, I offered up my day just to bask in the familiar intensity of her attention, but it wasn’t the same. The response was forced, like I was grasping at something just out of reach.

  For a little while we talked only about babies. How to make a baby—something I’d thought was pretty straightforward. I was wrong. When to make a baby—I’m not an idiot; I know there’s a special time each month. What I didn’t realize was that my life would soon revolve around a four-day window. What I should eat to make a baby—oysters, oranges, and lots of nuts. I laughed at the last suggestion, prompting an exaggerated eye roll. What I should wear to make a baby—loose pants! And although she never outright said this last one, she strongly suggested what I should be thinking about to make a baby. Babies. How, when, and why to make them.

  Baby talk drove us both insane. Cass worried herself into a state of exhaustion and disappointment so deep it got harder to recover each month. Sex with my wife had always been one of the greatest joys of my life, but it was very unsexy watching her record the session on her phone while lying with a pillow under her ass and her legs pointed toward the ceiling. If only she’d rolled over to cuddle or talk instead of dropping her legs and falling asleep. She didn’t even bother kissing me good-night. My job was done. Eventually I recoiled when she dimmed the lights and reached across the sheets, knowing she was doing it for one reason only and that reason wasn’t me.

  I’d always seen a baby in our future. I’d never guessed it would be so hard. I’m not blind to the struggle some couples have conceiving, and I respect the families with the tenacity required to undergo IVF and other fertility treatments. In my heart, I know Cassidy and I would go to the moon and back to start a family if necessary. Our doctor warned that it could take up to a year before we fell pregnant. When it didn’t happen the first month, she took it as a sign of failure, and failure wasn’t something she was familiar with. We needed a break before it broke us. Somewhere in all the baby talk, we lost us, the most critical factor in the process. Fast-forward to losing the baby she tried so hard for, and there’s barely anything left. Of her. Of us.

  Now we don’t talk at all. Our beautiful old house is dark when I pull up after work. Some nights she opts to stay out on call late into the evening. Summer is her busiest season, but I know Dr. Ford isn’t forcing her to stack her schedule. She’s pushing herself too hard, choosing to see one more horse after hours or catching up on billing, a job she could easily pass on to the office secretary. When she’s home, she’s shut in our son’s nursery or sitting on the couch staring blankly at a novel. Black smudges live under her eyes and her cheeks are hollow. She barely bothers brushing her hair.

  But I’m too scared to say anything. I’m locked out. Her grief is untouchable, although I wish I could take it from her shoulders and carry it myself. Sometimes I sit with her, but she flinches when I touch her and shrinks further into herself. Each time she pulls away, I feel my grasp on her loosening. I’m afraid I’m losing her. On the lonelier nights, I fear she’s already gone.

  * * *

  Dusk settles over the Atlantic, but the temperature doesn’t drop with the sun. Even the breeze rolling in off the water can’t cool the heavy and oppressive air. Sitting in my truck with the AC running and the windows down (a colossal waste of energy, my dad would lecture), I let my mind wander. Instead of heading home, I drive the quarter mile down the road to the best spot overlooking Revere Beach. I’ve never enjoyed the salt and sand on my skin, but I love watching the water and looking out over the endless horizon, listening to the waves break to shore. Before moving east, I’d never seen a coastline, and the novelty of the ocean hasn’t worn off yet. Learning to swim in lakes and pools, I’ve always been a strong swimmer, but something about the ocean unnerved me and I’m still hesitant to do more than dip my toes in the frothy waves along the shore. I can’t get used to the power and movement of the water, the feeling of being dragged into and under its mass. It’s not fear that keeps me from straying too far from the shoreline so much as respect. I prefer to admire the ocean’s strength and beauty from a distance.

  Kids play along the beach, some building sand castles, others chasing siblings and friends in and out of the shallow waves. Watching from chairs or reclined on beach towels, tired parents shield their eyes from the last remaining rays of light, no doubt counting down the minutes before they can pack the kiddos up and head into some air conditioning. The comforting sounds of summer—yelling children and squawking sea gulls—blend with the soothing rhythm of the waves and overshadow the light traffic whizzing down North Shore Drive, cars packed with families heading to the famous Kelly’s Roast Beef or the soft-serve ice cream shop on the corner.

  All the happy families make me think about my own mom and dad back home. It’s still early evening in Kansas, but Mom prefers to eat supper early. I imagine she’s at the kitchen sink washing the old blue plates with the farm scene on them, the same plates we had in the house when I was a kid. These were the everyday set, the ones she placed our turkey sandwiches on—sliced diagonally—with a side of chips or raisins for lunch. She used the fancy wedding china only for holidays and company. It used to be just the three of us, and now it’s only two. It must get lonely in the big old farmhouse.

  July in Kansas isn’t all that different from July here. Hot and humid in Revere, it’s probably the same at my parents’ house. It might even be hotter in the Midwest, where there’s no sweet relief from a cool ocean breeze. People here assume Kansas is either blue skies over rolling cornfields or gray and on the verge of a tornado. In reality, it’s the same as anywhere else. This disappointed me when I first moved to Boston, expecting some drastic climate change. But summers are hot and winters are cold both here and there. The leaves are much prettier on the East Coast, though.

  Dad’s probably in his studio building furniture. It seems like boring work, but I’ve seen how intricate each piece is. I learned to appreciate how something functional could also be a thing of extreme beauty. Tables were my inspiration for getting into design work. As I grew older, I asked Dad why he didn’t sell the pieces he made. Each was time-consuming, especially since he was a slow and methodical worker who created only after he was finished grading papers and handling the household chores. He never really answered, just shrugged and said he made them for my mother. This made little sense to me at the time, since someone was always bumping a shin against an extra table or chair in our already crowded house. I get it now. Making tables made him happy. Selling tables might not have.

  By now Mom’s finished drying the dishes. She’s put them in the cupboard, where they’ll be taken back down tomorrow for breakfast. On the stove, a kettle whistles. She’ll make herself a cup of tea and sip it out on the porch while she reads one of her mystery books as the sun goes down. Our front porch faces the western horizon, and the view at sunset can’t be beat. You can literally see for hundreds of miles. Classical music spills softly from the old radio perched in the open kitchen window. There’s no air conditioning in the house. Dad prefers to catch a cross breeze.

  Later tonight, both will settle down together to watch a show. Cassidy and I gifted them with a Netflix subscription, but I’m pretty sure they prefer network television. Mom claims she
likes the commercials, says it keeps her up to date on new products she might need. She’s a coupon-clipping, old-fashioned lady stuck in her ways. Dad’s a little more modern, but only by an inch. He can use a few apps and manages to text, even though he still signs his name to each message as if it were an email. By ten o’clock (Kansas time), Mom will head upstairs to wash her face and set her hair. Dad will lock up the house before reading a few pages from one of the hardcover biographies he keeps beside his recliner. He prefers Civil War–era generals but reads widely.

  What would they do if their world fell to pieces? Like most kids, I didn’t pay much attention to my parents growing up. As long as they picked me up from baseball and drove me to the movies, I was content. I knew their jobs and schedules, but I didn’t ask about their lives. They were “Mom and Dad.” My friends often complained about crummy parents who fought or were getting divorced. In comparison, mine seemed stable. With no gauge as to what made a good marriage, I thought theirs was perfect. They rarely fought. They provided well for me. They seemed to love each other, always kissing good-bye and good-night. Most importantly, they’re still together forty years later, an eternity by today’s standards.

  How would they handle losing a child? Growing up an only child, I often wished for a sibling. From ages six to nine, I asked Santa Claus for a baby brother. The last time I wrote to the North Pole, I amended my previous year’s wish and said I’d accept a little sister, even though nine-year-old me wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of a girl in the house. I was so desperate for a playmate I would’ve taken whatever I could get. I don’t remember what my parents told me to explain why Santa didn’t leave a sibling under the tree. I remember the disappointment but not the reason. Eventually, I stopped asking. Did they not want more children? Looking back, it seems odd that my mom, the type who baked cookies and hand stitched my Halloween costumes, had only one child.