What We Carry

by Kalyn Fogarty

  To their credit, neither flinches at the news. This is just another reminder that despite our best attempts, we are still far from in control.

  “This is not uncommon with cases of twins in horses. At our last appointment we discussed the risks of premature birth, low birth weight, and the potential for not maturing properly. We also warned that one or both fetuses might not survive to term.”

  Cindy nods, frowning. “You said we lost one fetus. How about the other?” Her voice betrays nothing, not a hint of either sadness or hope. A smear of horse spit is dried on the shoulder of her polo shirt, the farm logo prominent on her chest. Her jeans are faded from baling hay and cleaning stalls. From her hat down to her scuffed cowboy boots, she’s a genuine farm girl. I’m sure she loves her horses, but make no mistake: this is also a business. When money is involved, there’s no time to mourn.

  Dr. Ford steps forward and clears his voice. “If I may?” he asks, and I gratefully let him take over. “The remaining fetus is still alive.” Both Joe and Cindy let out a shared sigh of relief and exchange a small look that breaks my heart. My mind wanders back to the moments before the doctor came into the ER to tell me my own baby was gone. Those few minutes of false hope made the truth hurt so much worse. “However, the heartbeat isn’t as strong as I’d hoped, and we are seeing decreased movement in the viable fetus. At this point in her pregnancy, I’d want the foal to be thriving. I don’t want to get your hopes up, so I’ll be honest with you. I’m not sure the second fetus will survive to term.”

  I watch Joe take his wife’s hand and squeeze. With his other he pulls off his Lombardo Stables ball cap and wipes his brow. Never have I seen Joe without a hat, and I’m taken aback by how young he is. For some reason, I always assumed the couple was much older than me, but now I wonder if he’s even over thirty. Dr. Ford told me they built their business together from the ground up, starting with only a handful of horses and expanding over time. Today they run one of the most successful racing and breeding farms in the state, each win resulting from their blood, sweat, and tears. I’ve noticed no children roaming the farm, very common in this industry, and realize the mare is probably like a child to them. My stomach cramps and my vision blurs at the thought.

  “Are you okay?” Cindy asks me, reaching out an arm to steady me. I swallow, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. “Let me get you some water,” she says, rushing toward the mini fridge tucked in the corner of the tack room.

  I take the water bottle, thanking her. “I’m sorry,” I mutter, my cheeks hot and red. “The heat …”

  Cindy smiles, and I can tell she knows. I’m never sure who Dr. Ford has told about the loss until I see a certain look in their eye. A cross between pity and curiosity. “No worries,” she says. “Happens to me all the time. No cross breeze in this barn,” she adds. I manage a smile, grateful for the grace she’s showing me.

  Promising to check back in a few weeks, we say our good-byes and leave them to their day, which will now be tinged with worry over Kitty. They head back toward their house, located down a stone path a few hundred feet from the main barn. Maybe they’ll share a few words over lunch before heading off to the track to train or work with the youngsters in the corral. I imagine they’ll throw themselves into their chores, life on the farm not stopping for anything.

  Before going back to the truck, I shoot one last glance at the little mare, who still munches her hay, oblivious that her two babies are now one and might turn to none. I pray she doesn’t feel the pain of the loss, but experience warns me otherwise.

  “It will be okay,” I whisper through the metal bars. She flicks her tail my way, barely lifting her gaze.

  “Why don’t I drive us back?” Dr. Ford offers as I make my way to the driver’s side door. Nodding, I swing around to the other side, my feet and heart heavy.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, ashamed at the unprofessional way I acted in the barn. I pride myself in never letting my emotions show, especially in front of such important customers.

  “Stop saying you’re sorry for something you never, ever have to be sorry about,” he snaps back. “I don’t want to hear another I’m sorry from you, you got that?” He backs out of the driveway and hits me with a fatherly stare, his faded blue eyes filled with compassion.

  I laugh, unable to keep a smile from my face. “Sorry.”

  “Wiseass,” he mutters. We drive back to the clinic in companionable silence, listening to Willie Nelson croon in the background.

  * * *

  Hardly more than a girl herself, the woman sits across from an older lady who shares her same sky-blue eyes and platinum-blond hair. Lines crease both sides of the pretty older woman’s mouth as she laughs at something her companion says. They must be mother and daughter. Even their voices are almost identical. Their joy is infectious, causing other guests to lift their eyes from their plates and smile toward the happy pair giggling over salads. The daughter eats with abandon, holding her fork in her right hand and cradling a baby bump with her left. A turquoise top stretches tight over the watermelon-sized bulge. She has to lean forward to eat, her giant bump making it necessary to sit too far from the table. Her belly button is visible against the thin fabric of the maternity shirt. Clearly the baby is due any minute now, and I can’t help but stare.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” Owen asks, jolting me from my reverie.

  “Just thinking,” I murmur, taking a bite of my sandwich. When you’re pregnant, there are so many things you can’t do. No alcohol, no deli meat, no sushi, limited caffeine. My turkey club would be off-limits because of a harmful bacterium called listeria. While pregnant I moaned of the injustices of denying a pregnant woman so many delicious things. Funny how I’d give it all up now without uttering one complaint if only it meant I could have my baby.

  “It’s nothing, really,” I start, afraid to disclose the irrational jealousy I’m experiencing. “I feel guilty for ever complaining about my nausea or swollen ankles,” I begin. The pregnant woman stands, looking even bigger on her feet, and passes our table as she heads toward the restroom. Owen catches my stare and frowns. “I know I never got a big bump like her.” I gesture at the woman as she waddles away from us. “I even dreaded having such an enormous belly. But I miss it, weirdly enough.” Saying the words out loud is enough to lift a little of the weight from my own shoulders.

  “I miss it too,” he admits. “I miss telling people we were expecting, and I miss putting my hand on your belly and knowing I was holding both you and the best parts of both of us,” he says, smiling.

  “You still mean what you said in bed the other morning?” I ask, afraid he’s changed his mind in the light of day. “We haven’t talked about it again, and I just wanted to get it out in the open.”

  He nods, a dollop of ketchup dribbling down his cheek. “Speaking of getting things out in the open,” he says, wiping his chin with his knuckle but missing a little, “I was wondering if you still had some time off this month?”

  Frowning, I wonder what he has up his sleeve and tap my phone to bring up my calendar. Months ago I asked for vacation time in mid-September for our baby-moon. In the chaos we never booked anything, but I still have the time off.

  “I suppose I do,” I answer, cocking my head to the side. “Why?”

  “Don’t be mad …”

  “Nothing good ever comes after those words,” I snort, unable to repress a smile.

  “I planned a trip,” he says, a devilish grin stretching across his face. “You always said you wanted to see the wild ponies from that book you loved as a kid, so I did a little research and rented us a house for a week. It’s a quick ferry ride to the island where you can see the ponies up close and personal and see the channel they swim across in the book.”

  “Misty of Chincoteague,” I whisper. “That’s the name of the book.”

  He nods. “That’s the one. It’s all set. We need a vacation,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

  I smile, ignoring all the e
xcuses that come to mind, intent on choosing us this time and relishing in the first happy tears I’ve cried in months. “You, Owen Morgan, are amazing.”

  He takes another bite of his burger. “And I haven’t forgotten about the other conversation,” he murmurs, mouth full. “I think I’d like to talk more about that too.”

  * * *

  A little one is on the way! Please join us in celebrating the arrival of Baby Donohue September 30.

  Stuffing the card—shaped like a baby elephant—back into the purple envelope, I let it flutter to the dining room table along with the other unopened mail. When it rains, it pours, and now it’s storming pregnant women down on me, shoving their blissfully full bellies in my face. My friend from vet school, Olivia Donohue, and I discovered we were expecting babies right around the same time. Olivia was six weeks further along, but our shared pregnancy rekindled our friendship, which had mostly existed through Facebook in the last few years. We spent the early weeks of our pregnancies tagging each other in funny memes and emailing parenting articles to each other.

  After the miscarriage I stopped, even though she kept reaching out. I never responded, scared to tell Olivia the ugly truth—my jealousy made me hate her.

  The instructions on the card request that the recipient RSVP to Olivia’s mother as soon as possible. Normally, I pin invites to the refrigerator door as a reminder. Currently there’s a save-the-date for Owen’s coworker’s wedding and a lone shopping list from two months ago stuck to the steel door. Our social calendar has seen better days.

  I hesitate, eyes darting around the kitchen as though someone is watching, but Owen’s upstairs and Rosie’s snoozing in the other room. With one last furtive glance around, I rip the card down the middle and then again and again, the satisfying sound of the paper tearing filling the silent kitchen. I let the pieces fall in the trash before scattering a few papers on top, hiding the evidence. A pang of guilt glues me in place for a second, and I almost pick the pieces out. Instead, I lift the bag from the can, deftly tying the heavy-duty orange strings in a double, then triple, knot. Guilt sinks deeper as I walk the trash down the hall and set it outside the front door for Owen to take to the curb. As I close the door, the guilt remains, but a greater sense of relief floods over me.

  ♦   28   ♦

  OWEN

  After

  September 23

  THE LAST DAY OF vacation is always bittersweet. With the threat of reality imminent, all that’s left is to hope you return to your life refreshed and with a renewed sense of purpose.

  Obviously everyone loves vacation, but Cassidy and I complement each other especially well. When I travel, I like to immerse myself in the culture. My goal is to exist as a “local” instead of a tourist, to explore the off-the-grid places you can’t find on Yelp. On the other hand, Cass is the typical type A planner. She thoroughly researches our locale, compiling lists in one of the notebooks she keeps in her purse—places to eat, places to hike, places to swim. Somehow we strike a balance between hitting all the “must see” attractions and doing it in a way that’s authentic to the culture. All the while Cassidy records our journeys in the notebooks for us to look back on one day. I used to worry she was so busy writing things down she was missing the moment. But she loves keeping track of our travels, and this makes her happy. She’s the yin to my traveling yang.

  Something is different this trip. I won’t say it’s for the better, since I love all our adventures, but it’s new. Cassidy hasn’t consulted Google once, and there isn’t a notebook in sight. I keep asking her where we should go next, but she’s as lost as me. When I assumed she’d know the perfect spot from which to view the wild horses, she only shrugged and suggested we try the next beach, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Without a map, we just drive and let the adventures find us.

  The photos didn’t do justice to the magnificent house we’ve rented. Sitting right on the edge of the water, it has the most breathtaking views of the sunrise from the wraparound deck. Each day we sit together on one of the Adirondack chairs, Cassidy on my lap, head leaning against my shoulder, watching the pink sun dance across the horizon and slowly make its way into the hazy late-summer sky. As we sip our coffee in silence, the only sound is the small waves washing up onto the shore and the wind whistling through the high dune grasses. Much to Cassidy’s delight, a few ponies graze nearby, tails poised against the slight breeze.

  Leaning into her slight frame, the hood of her favorite sweatshirt pulled over her hair, I let my mind wander. Sunshine used to follow Cassidy wherever she went. She was a force of nature all in herself, and I fell in love with her gravitational pull. Her passion and vitality were infectious, and I survived and thrived off this energy for so long. At some point, sadness devoured the light surrounding her. I wish I could blame the miscarriage for the changes inside her, but I fear it began long before the loss. Losing the baby was the eclipse, but the threat of darkness existed before it ever passed the sun. In the last four days, the earth has shifted beneath us. On this little oasis off the coast of Virginia, Cassidy has come back to me.

  The sun inches its way over the water, drenching the world in its golden halo. A gust of wind blows the hood off her head and she laughs, her wild hair spiraling around her face as if on fire.

  “What should we do today?” I ask, pulling her closer to my chest, relishing the weight of her against me.

  “Absolutely nothing,” she says, closing her eyes and letting me hold all of her.

  * * *

  “Hurry up, we’re going to be late if we don’t leave now,” I yell, glancing at my watch. “Well, we should have left five minutes ago,” I mutter, knowing she can’t hear me. Jingling the keys to our rented Jeep, I head toward the door. Cassidy’s stomping around upstairs, probably looking for her shoes or a sweater. For someone who’s almost compulsively on time for most things, she only ever misplaces things when we’re running behind schedule.

  “Two minutes!” she calls down the stairs before I hear the whine of the blow-dryer. I’ve been married long enough to know this won’t be a quick fix, so I pour myself a drink.

  The house rumbles as a deep roar of thunder passes over the beach. Drink in hand, I head toward the wall-to-wall windows overlooking the angry ocean. Less than an hour ago we walked the beach, not a hint of a storm touching the sand and blue skies as far as the eyes could see. Now the clouds roll in over the water, dark and heavy with the threat of rain. What’s left of the sun backlights the sky so the downpour in the distance resembles tears streaked across the horizon. A bolt of lightning strikes over a vast wave, a sharp crack of a whip that sucks the gray from the sky. The tide is in and the water crashes toward the porch, white and foaming and hungry. The rain hasn’t started, but it’s coming. Upstairs the blow-dryer stops, and the growl of thunder fills the silence.

  “Holy shit. Sounds like the apocalypse out there,” Cassidy says, startling me. She’s sneaked up behind me, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. In one hand she holds a pair of heels by the straps. “Look at that sky!” she exclaims as another bolt of lightning flashes hot and quick across the skyline, touching down at some distant point.

  “We should go,” I say, sipping the last of my Scotch. A wave crashes closer to our deck, the edge of the foam creeping up to the pillars supporting us.

  If we want to avoid getting soaked, we need to hurry. She hates the rain, hates getting her hair wet, and I can tell she put some extra effort into styling it tonight. We’ve made our only reservation of the trip—a fact that still amazes me—at one of the best places on the island. Since it’s fancier than the local spots we’ve been favoring, I’ve worn my dark wash jeans and a light blue button down. My navy blazer is folded over my arm in case the night cools down. It’s the first time we’ve dressed up in a while, and Cassidy seemed so excited at the prospect of wearing something other than shorts and flip-flops. She’s chosen a canary-yellow sundress, the color bringing out the copper strands in
her hair, which is loose and wavy around her shoulders.

  “Let’s stay in,” she says, looking up at me with wild eyes.

  “No, you’ve been looking forward to the mussels all day.” Unable to resist Googling the menu, Cassidy had already decided on our first course. I take a few strands of her hair between my fingers and gently twist, letting it fall against her cheek. “You look beautiful,” I whisper. “I need to take you out and show you off.”

  She smiles and kisses me gently on the mouth. “Let’s stay and watch the storm,” she says more assertively. “Whenever we go to these fancy dinners, we always end up spending too much money and coming home and raiding the fridge anyway.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. She’s not wrong. “But you’re all dressed up,” I say, but find myself warming to the idea of another night with just the two of us. Outside, the sky rages as the rain closes in on the shore. If we’re going to leave, we need to get in the car, now.

  “You get the wine and I’ll get the cheese,” she says, dropping her heels to the floor. Sliding in her bare feet toward the kitchen, she rummages through our limited choices. “Hurry,” she squeals, “We don’t want to miss it!”

  “Miss what?” I laugh, pulling two wineglasses from the drying rack and hurrying despite not knowing what for. I uncork the bottle of Malbec from the night before.

  “The storm.” Another flash of lightning hits, this one even closer to home.