What We Carry
Page 12
Tara sighs and shrugs. “Never mind,” she says, shaking her head as the waitress descends on us with two steaming plates of food. “Breakfast is served,” she adds lamely.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, refusing to let this go.
“You’re always hungry,” she insists, her brow softening.
She’s not getting off the hook this time. Our dynamic can be toxic. Tara always gets the last word, and I always end up groveling for some sort of acceptance. Even now, I’m tempted to apologize to make this uncomfortable conversation go away. But it won’t really go away, just be swept under the rug and left to fester.
“You can’t just say shit like that and then eat a waffle and pretend it’s all okay,” I say, hating the pleading sound of my own voice. “Just tell me what you mean.”
Putting her fork down, she considers me for a moment. She puckers her plump lips and studies me as though I’m one of her patients. It’s unnerving sitting on the receiving end of her professional stare.
“Fine.” All traces of Tara my best friend are replaced by Dr. Tara Clark, PhD in clinical child psychology. “Ironically enough, Cass, you could just eat a waffle right now and pretend everything was okay. In fact, that’s exactly your problem,” she starts, her voice low and heavy. “Things weren’t perfect at home for a while. You constantly complained about your relationship, how Owen ‘didn’t understand you’ and how hard it was to find a home and work balance,” she says, voicing some of the grievances I’m guilty of sharing over the years. But that’s what friends do. Complain about their significant others. Vent about coworkers. Share the stuff they can’t share with anyone else. She continues, “So, instead of actually addressing these issues with your husband, you pretend they don’t exist and decide the best way to fix all your marital problems is to have a baby,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Because we all know how often this works to save a marriage.”
I attempt to hide the deep shame and anger I feel, but my fair skin has never been one to keep a secret. Tara’s using my own words against me, and though I can argue they’ve been taken out of context, it’s partly the truth, even if feels like a cheap shot. I love Owen and I love our life together. Most of the time. What marriage doesn’t have its problems? Over a few drinks, I grumbled to my best friend, sometimes exaggerating things so Tara felt included, always aware I was lucky to be married while Tara remained forever single. Bragging about the good things in my marriage seemed cruel in the face of Tara’s online dating horror stories. Complaining about Owen’s lack of attention was both easier and kinder. Tara bitched about the jerk who ghosted her online and I unloaded some of my marital grievances. I didn’t know we were keeping score.
I lean back in my chair and raise my brows, giving her permission to finish. She’s just getting started.
“Unable to do anything half-assed, you put your heart and soul into making a baby, and when you didn’t see instant results, you spiraled out of control.” She perches on the edge of her seat and rests her chin on her clasped fingers. “Even Owen saw this, as aloof as he is. He saw the stress you were under, but it was too late. I know it’s hard to admit, but maybe he was right all along. Maybe a baby wasn’t the solution.”
I want a baby out of love … Owen’s voice, soft and with the best of intentions, echoes in my head, a phrase that will haunt me for the rest of my life. How I wish I never repeated those words to Tara.
“We both know you never wanted children,” Tara says, reaching her hand across the table toward mine. I retract my arm so fast my fork flies across the table and lands with a loud and final clatter on the hardwood floor. A few other patrons look at us with curiosity.
“Just stop,” I plead, my entire body on edge. “Just stop talking.”
Tara pulls her hand back and brushes her bangs from her forehead. Shrugging, her face softening, she resembles my friend once more. “I’m sorry,” she says, but she doesn’t sound sorry at all. Her voice is smug and her eyes glitter with an I told you so twinkle. “I know it’s hard to hear this stuff when you’re so close to it.”
A laugh erupts from somewhere deep in my chest, startling us both. “Please. You know nothing about marriage or babies or even being an actual grown-up,” I hiss, the words flowing hot and free from a place I’ve kept locked inside for too long. “You’ve had what? One relationship that’s lasted longer than a hot minute?” I’m satisfied to see the hurt flash across her face. “Don’t project your shit onto me,” I say, pushing my chair back and pulling a fifty from my purse. “Maybe stick to diagnosing kids with ADD and keep the fuck out of people’s marriages,” I add. “You can’t even commit to a brunch drink, Tara. What makes you think you have any idea what it’s like being me?” I throw the money on the table and turn on my heel without sparing my best friend another glance.
♦ 19 ♦
OWEN
After
July 21
NOT TO WAX POETIC, as my dad might say, but the sight of my wife’s truck parked in the drive used to set my heart aflutter, like I was some lovestruck teenager with butterflies in my stomach. I regret taking even a single moment of that feeling for granted. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine those butterflies would be replaced by the dark and stormy churning of doom that settles in the pit of my gut each time I come home now.
Today, like yesterday and all the days before, the house is cool and damp, like a dank cave. The kitchen holds the sweet smell of decay, and I wonder when the trash was last emptied. We used to alternate the chore. Whoever was up first emptied the canister and wheeled the big plastic can to the street. It falls to me alone now, although I can’t recall the last time it was done. I think Monday. Today is Friday.
Pulling off my work boots, I slip into my house shoes, the ones I always leave by the door. My mother had a strict rule that no shoes were allowed in the house. Cassidy poked fun at my habit, insisting our house was far from spotless with a dog running amuck and a messy animal doctor traipsing in who knew what from barns. Old habits die hard.
Rosie is rustling around somewhere in the depths of the house, probably chewing a bone or playing with one of her many toys. Loyal to Cassidy, Rosie won’t leave her side to greet me. I’m glad Cass has her company, but I miss the old days when both my girls met me in the foyer after a long day at work. I miss the kisses and the barely contained chaos as Rosie jumped around our waists, trying to get in on the action. I miss the sound of Cassidy’s laughter and Rosie’s excited barks. Any noise would be welcome now, anything to drown out the labored hum and buzz of the old AC cranked too high and still failing to keep the house cool enough in this brutal heat. Central air was an integral part of the big renovation but, like my marriage, is stuck on hold. Stalled until further notice.
Afraid Cassidy went back to work too soon, I called her boss to check in, ready to swoop in and save the day if he told me her work was suffering like everything else in her life. Looking back, I’m not sure what I really expected. What I hoped to hear would have hurt far less than the truth. I hoped Dr. Ford would confess she was quiet and distracted, incapable of performing at her normally high standard. Instead, he confirmed what I’d supposed all along. Cassidy was fine. Dr. Ford said she was her normal professional self, calm and unflappable, always charming with the customers and patient with the animals. Though I was relieved she could still find joy in the job she loved, John’s words also left me desperately and insanely jealous. Cassidy was still Cassidy out in the world, just not with me.
Flicking on the lights above the small butcher-block island, I cringe at the ever-growing stack of unopened mail Cassidy refuses to address. When the hospital invoice arrived with the term MEDICAL ABORTION listed in bold as the cause of our two-day stay with a price tag of over three thousand dollars, she called the insurance company in a blind rage, ready for war. I was thankful her anger was aimed at something so deserving—who doesn’t hate insurance companies?—but it was short-lived. Her fury was so hot, it burned out, and instead of
finishing the fight, she gave up. After that, the envelopes sat untouched on the counter. FINAL NOTICE is stamped on the front of the latest bill, and I wonder how many have gone ignored. Adding it to the ever-growing list of things I need to do, I vow to handle it myself. On Monday. I’ll take care of it Monday.
Cassidy coughs, startling me. Sitting in the tiny den off the foyer, she doesn’t lift her head from her novel as I enter the room. Her eyes are fixed on one page, and even though she turns to the next, she’s obviously only pretending to read.
“Babe?” I ask, hating myself for the despair in my voice. Hating Cassidy for putting it there. Even though it’s almost ninety degrees outside and the AC is struggling, she’s dressed against the cold in her favorite sweatshirt and the fleece pants I bought her in New Hampshire last winter. The blinds are closed against the still-bright day.
Cassidy glances up, looking like a petulant teenager. “Hey,” she says, laying the book facedown on her lap.
My throat goes dry and my back stiffens. I’m not sure how much longer I can play this drawn-out game. I don’t know any of the rules and she holds all the cards. Behind the sullen stare is my wife, the love of my life, and she’s in so much pain. It’s as though she’s daring me to come closer just so she can shut me out. I imagine a rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike. Like an idiot, I keep poking it.
Resisting the urge to answer her coolness with snark, I play it safe. “How was work?” I take the easy road, since the other paths are rocky and full of unknown terrors. “How’s the colic?” I ask, hoping she’ll take my olive branch and engage in something resembling a civil conversation.
“Foundering,” she corrects. “It foundered, not colicked. I’ve told you that like fifteen times,” she says, picking up her book. So much for the branch. She snapped it and stomped it into the ground.
Counting to five in my head, I will myself to let it go. It’s been a long day. I’m over budget on a project and need to get things back on track before the job collapses around me. A cold beer and a few pleasant words with my wife are all I wanted. A hug or a kiss would be icing on the cake, but I’d settle for a simple touch on the arm at this point. Any physical contact is more than we’ve shared lately.
“Sorry, I get them confused,” I say, shrugging. Tentatively, I perch on the edge of the ottoman. She pulls her legs away. Deciding to poke the snake, I rest my hand on her thigh, and she flinches but doesn’t move. “You know, not all of us went to vet school,” I add, aware I’m treading in dangerous territory.
She rolls her eyes and brings the book back up toward her chest. “Don’t need to go to vet school to learn how to listen to your wife,” she murmurs.
When I was growing up, my parents never argued. In hindsight, I realize this isn’t as admirable as I once thought. Though they never yelled, they never talked much either. On the flip side, Cassidy’s parents fought like cats and dogs. Cassidy told me how in the heat of the moment her mother once hurled a can of spaghetti sauce at her dad’s head, luckily missing and sending it crashing through the kitchen window instead. She claimed they fought passionately but always ended up laughing and making up like nothing happened. In our own marriage, we aimed for middle ground. We talked. Gave each other space. Compromised. We thought we were being rational and mature. Now I wonder if we were using our upbringings as an excuse to be lazy with our own problems.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” The weight of the last two months crashes down on my tired shoulders all at once. I despise swearing. My midwestern manners don’t coincide with yelling or curse words. But after weeks of snide comments and tiptoeing around like a prisoner in my own home, enough is enough. Pushed hard enough, even a Kansas boy like me will fight back.
Clearly Cassidy is taken by surprise. Her eyes widen, but only for a moment. Quickly the disbelief is replaced by anger. She’s been itching for a reaction, poised for this fight.
“I guess you didn’t hear me, again,” she says, sitting up and cocking her head. “Seems to be the common theme here.”
“You really want to do this, Cassidy?” I stand, afraid I might grab her by the shoulders and shake sense into her if I get too close. “Maybe I forget a few things here and there, but at least I make an effort to listen to you. Please, tell me one thing I’ve been doing these last few weeks, just one thing.” I fold my arms across my chest and raise my brows. She glares at me, and I see a glint of hatred in her eyes. “Oh, wait. You wouldn’t know a damn thing about what I’m doing because you haven’t asked me. Not once.”
She stares at me without moving.
“I move around like a ghost in this fucking house. I’m so afraid of making you upset, I sneak in and out like a thief in the night. We don’t talk, and when you think to speak to me, it’s never more than a few words I have to pull out of you one by one. You haven’t asked me once how my day’s been,” I continue, trying to read her blank face. “You haven’t touched me, not even a kiss good-bye in the morning,” I add, the truth of the statement hitting me hard. We always kissed good-bye before. My heart hurts with every word I say out loud. All these little grievances have been adding up. Bottled up, the pain was easier to keep at bay. Now it’s all out there and hurts all over again.
“Poor Owen. Do you feel neglected?” she sneers. “I’m so sorry I haven’t been giving you enough attention as I deal with the crippling loss of our baby,” she says, her voice cold and unyielding. “Do you even remember what happened? Remember how I was pregnant and instead of leaving the hospital with a baby, I delivered a dead one and went home empty-handed? I remember. I remember all day, every day. Clearly there’s a lot you wanted to talk about in the last two months, but you sure haven’t said one word about that. So yes, I’m very sorry I don’t give a flying fuck about the stupid bathroom you’re redoing or the backyard patio you designed, because my brain really can’t handle giving a fuck about anything right now.”
My anger deflates. Like she intended, her words cut straight to my broken heart, tearing what’s left into jagged pieces. I didn’t know it was possible to feel worse than before, but I was wrong. Every day I’ve meant to talk about what happened, but something always stops me. Initially, she said she needed space. So, I gave her space. I’m not sure when it happened, but the space turned into distance, and then I didn’t know how to get back to her. She was so sad all the time, I feared bringing up the worst day of our life would only make it worse. When she stopped crying all the time, I dared hope it was getting better. I was afraid talking about it would make her cry again. After the tears dried up, everything else did too. She turned to stone—hard, cold, and immovable. Nothing I said softened her. Again, fear kept me from talking about the one thing we needed to talk about most. But no one gives you a user manual for grief. I thought I was doing the best I could to manage my own pain without making hers worse. Turns out, it wasn’t good enough. Not by a long shot.
“That’s not fair,” I mutter. Her small body is stiff and upright on the couch, her muscles flexed like she’s on the verge of flight.
Sitting down again, my shoulders hunching, I long to hold her close, squeeze her tight until she’s mine again, whole again. I inch closer, but she pulls her legs beneath her, positioning herself as far as possible from me on the small love seat. “Hey,” I whisper. “I’m not the enemy.”
The unfamiliar glint in her eyes darkens. “I don’t want to talk, Owen,” she mumbles. Flipping her book right side up, she turns her gaze from me. I grab the novel and toss it across the room, knocking a framed photo of us hiking to the rug. Rosie lifts her head, alert and ready to come to Cassidy’s aid. I take my wife’s hands in my own. “Just leave me alone,” she says, trying to wring them away. “Please,” she pleads.
“No, we do this now.” I squeeze her hands, but she doesn’t squeeze back. The fight fades from her like a candle being snuffed, pissing me off even more. I can’t fight for something that isn’t there. “Talk to me. Fucking yell at me. Just stop pulling away,” I beg.
Letting go of her lifeless hands, I stare into her beautiful green eyes, the ones I’ve loved for so long. There’s none of her normal sparkle, and even the angry gleam is gone.
“I lost a baby too,” I say, watching her carefully. Her jaw clenches and she lifts her chin. “I might not have carried him inside of me, but I held him too.” Cassidy has the power to stop her tears at will, but I don’t. My own flow freely, hot and angry, down my cheeks. “I loved him too.”
I stand, leaving her alone in the dark.
♦ 20 ♦
CASSIDY
After
July 21
ALL THE AIR IN the room leaves with Owen. Suddenly the darkness is hot and oppressive, and I struggle to pull the Tufts sweatshirt over my head, tossing it in a ball to the floor, where it knocks over a half-empty glass of water. The weight of our fight settles over me, threatening to crush me. I’m overcome with an overwhelming desire to nap. Today is too much to bear, the promise of sweet oblivion so tempting. But I know sleep will be restless and shaky, not the dreamless sleep of the dead I crave when it all hurts too much.
Owen never leaves. Owen stays. He might give me space when I ask, but he always comes back to me. A firm believer in never going to bed angry, Owen has never let me off the hook. Over the years I’ve found this quality simultaneously annoying and endearing. He’s always insisted on compromise, even as I hemmed and hawed, trying to “win” the argument, or worse, turned my back in stony silence. We never screamed or threw things. It always felt very adult, a far cry from my own chaotic upbringing. I still cringe thinking about my mother’s irrational arguments and my dad’s stubborn rebuttals. Something’s different this time. This time he’s turning his back on me.