What We Carry

by Kalyn Fogarty

  * * *

  The rain starts as we settle onto the deck chairs. It comes fast and furious, the clouds dumping buckets into the water and sand as the waves churn desperately to keep up. No longer hot with the last remnants of summer, the air is chilly, holding on to the promise of the changes to come. On the dunes, the grass bends precariously against the high winds, the long strands lying parallel to the ground but refusing to break. In the morning they’ll stand tall once again as they reach back up toward the sun.

  Just beyond the edge of the roof, the downpour splatters against the exposed stone, and water droplets ricochet in our direction but fall just short of our chairs. Reaching under the table, I set the electric fire pit burning and watch the flames dance across Cassidy’s face.

  “Thanks,” she says, rubbing her bare forearms and sipping her wine. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmurs as her eyes roam the horizon. A wave grows, its barrel getting bigger and taller before crashing against the walkway leading up to our porch. She stands and tiptoes toward the railing, just shy of the overhang so she’s barely protected from the whipping rain. A fine mist coats her face, and her eyelashes sparkle with dew. Up here we’re at the edge of danger, but I feel safe and protected from the elements.

  Lifting myself from the chair, I slide up behind her and guide her back toward the fire. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper. Spinning to face me, she raises her hand and caresses my cheek, fingers trailing through my beard. The wind howls in the eves, our very own storm soundtrack.

  “Are you hungry?” The cheese board sits untouched on the side table. A devilish smile plays across her lips, and her green eyes twinkle as she dances her fingertips down my shoulder, landing on my chest.

  “Starving,” I answer, covering her mouth with my own, eager to chase the lightning from her eyes.

  * * *

  As quickly as it arrived, it’s gone. Sitting together on the couch, wrapped in a cozy afghan, we watch the darkness trail north across the ocean and away down the beach. The ocean churns, but the waves are black and heavy with sleep, as though the ferocity of the storm wore them out. The sun’s already far gone, leaving behind a bright-purple canvas free of any moon. A few brilliant stars fight through the haze and shine like disco balls in the sky.

  In the twilight her hair is almost violet. Many years ago, I fell in love with her hair, even before I knew the girl it belonged to. For months I only ever saw her hurrying around campus, her red hair streaming behind her as she darted from class to dorm to library. Although we didn’t share any classes, we crossed paths quite often and I learned her schedule. Since I was too shy to make the first move, it took an injured woodland creature and a handkerchief for me to find an excuse to actually speak to her. It took me another year of friendship before I gathered the courage to ask for more. I chuckle at the memory.

  “What’s so funny?” she asks, sitting up a little straighter and nibbling a piece of cheddar from our long-forgotten dinner.

  “Nothing,” I whisper into her ear. “That was quite the storm, wasn’t it?” My body still buzzes with electricity.

  Her mouth turns up in a playful smile I can’t resist. “That, my dear, was a fucking hurricane.”

  ♦   29   ♦

  CASSIDY

  After

  October 10

  IT’S GOING TO BE one of those days. First, it’s a Tuesday. Most people bemoan Mondays as the start of the workweek, but I’m not most people. The universal day off for those involved with the care and training of horses is Monday. After a long weekend racing or competing, the horse community—my office included—rests on what’s typically the first workday for the rest of the world.

  Of course, there’s not really any such thing as a day off for horse people. Horses still need to eat every day. They also love getting sick on Mondays, as if they somehow know it’s a sacred day for their caretakers. On the off chance I’m free from colics or lacerations, Mondays are saved for all the errands and chores I neglect the other six days. As a result, Tuesdays are my Monday. Today is shaping up into a particularly rough one, and it’s not even eight AM yet.

  I grimace, dumping the rest of my coffee down the drain. Once a month, coffee tastes like copper pennies in my mouth and makes me jittery and prone to migraines instead of invigorated. Eight hours of farm calls while dealing with Aunt Flow stretches before me like a bad dream, and I wish I could crawl back under the covers for a few hours. I know all women suffer the inconvenience, but my job is especially brutal this time of the month. Half the barns I visit don’t have bathrooms, and the other half have only porta-potties or “restrooms” not much better than a horse’s stall. In fact, peeing in a stall would be better than in some of those spider-ridden caves. Combine that with standing on my feet all day, no matter how severe the cramps or heavy the flow is, and that’s why I dread my period. I throw a few tampons in my bag even though I’m not bleeding yet. I know she’s coming, and there’s nothing worse than being stranded and leaking in someone’s barn with no backup.

  “I’m leaving!” I yell up the stairs. The shower’s stopped, meaning Owen will probably be on his way downstairs any second now. He takes pride in needing only seven minutes to get ready for work.

  Like clockwork, the floorboards in the hallway creak under his familiar weight, announcing his arrival just before he enters the kitchen. For the hundredth time, I make a mental note to get a carpet runner for the hall. It goes to the bottom of an endless list of things I need to get for the new house—pillows, picture frames, curtains for the front room. Unfortunately, I can’t really refer to it as our “new” house anymore, since we’ve been here for years, but it makes me feel better. Someday I’ll get to it.

  “Any coffee left?” he asks, rounding the corner and pulling me in for a quick hug and kiss good-bye.

  “Plenty,” I say, turning my head away as I’m assaulted by a potent smell. “Whoa, cologne,” I laugh. “You have a hot date I don’t know about?” He laughs too and makes a show of sniffing his armpits. “No cologne, just me and the soap,” he says, striding across the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Guess I’m just extra clean this morning, not surrounded by my usual cloud of sawdust and grime.”

  I wrinkle my nose and shrug. “I prefer you dirty,” I say, swallowing the bile collecting in the back of my throat. Toast would help settle my stomach, but there’s no time. The old granola bar on my desk will have to do. “Love you,” I call, eager to get out the door and into the fresh air. He blows me a kiss as I leave, my stomach churning with every step.

  * * *

  “Why did you inject both coffin joints when the horse presented lame only on the right side?” Amy asks as we finally pull into the clinic at 7:14 PM. It’s late, but I’m actually surprised we finished this early with the schedule we had booked for the day. Somehow my intern is still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, despite lugging my machines around all day and jogging beside countless lame horses. When we set off this morning, I worried that her incessant cheerfulness and never-ending questions might worsen my migraine, but I’m thankful for her hustle. I’d still be on the road right now without her assistance.

  “I’ll go over everything tomorrow during morning rounds,” I answer, cutting the engine and taking a deep breath. A heavy cramp rolls in my stomach. A hot shower and a glass of wine are all I want right now. Maybe Owen will give me a massage if I ask nicely. “I’m beat,” I say, mustering a smile. “Thank you for your help. You did great,” I add.

  I’m ashamed to admit I complained to Dr. Ford about Amy tagging along. Usually I prefer working alone, but it’s part of my job to take the interns out into the field every once in a while. A stab of guilt softens me to the inexperienced girl gazing at me with adoration. I was once an eager graduate annoying my own boss, but he had the compassion to tolerate me, never letting on what a nuisance I was.

  “No, thank you! That was one of the best days ever.” She fumbles with the seat belt, her lap covered by a
stack of folders and my iPad. “I learned so much.”

  Smiling through a cramp, I grind my back teeth. “See you tomorrow,” I say, hoping she gets herself loose quickly. Finally she’s free, and she waves before slamming the door and skipping to her own car. My brain sings angrily at the sound. Shoving a tampon in my back pocket, I leave the car running while I head inside to lock up and use the bathroom. I hope I’m gushing. The pain always subsides once the blood flows. This period has been messing with me all day, making an already hard day even harder.

  * * *

  Owen’s standing in front of the stove stirring what looks like tomato sauce. As soon as the smell hits me, my stomach gurgles, reminding me I’ve survived on two granola bars and a lot of Diet Cokes today. Sacrificing healthy eating is a reality every ambulatory veterinarian knows. Amy didn’t seem to mind missing lunch, which bodes well for her future in the profession.

  “Smells delicious,” I say, kicking off my boots. The weight of the day falls on my shoulders, and the prospect of climbing the stairs is exhausting. “Ten minutes. I need to shower. If I don’t now, I’m definitely falling asleep smelling like horses.”

  “And that’s different how?” Owen calls over his shoulder, blue eyes dancing. “Go, I’ve got this.” Rosie sits at attention by his feet, hoping for an errant noodle or meatball. I’m sure Owen “accidentally” dropped a few bites her way already, always a sucker for her big brown eyes.

  I stick my tongue out at him before starting up the narrow staircase, every step a chore, my legs wooden and heavy. I haven’t had this kind of day in a while. Scheduling appointments is tricky, since it’s hard to estimate how long each procedure will take. Horses have so many variables that I usually tack on an extra fifteen minutes to each call. My office manager is amazing, but she thinks I’m superwoman, able to fly from call to call. She forgets to map the distance between barns, so I’m constantly hustling, racing my way down the Mass Pike and forgoing minor things like lunch and bathroom breaks.

  The scalding water pelts my back and eases the wave of light cramps radiating from my uterus. Still no blood. As I let my head fall back, the water dissolves away the dirt and stress of the day. Normally I love my showers so hot they burn. But tonight the steam from the shower is too much to bear, and I’m desperately fumbling with the faucet to cool off. Sticking my head outside the curtains, I gasp for air, the sticky fumes from the shower choking me. Drying off quickly, I open the door to let some cold air into the room. Too lazy to fight with my hair, I run some serum through the mess. I need food and an enormous glass of wine. I’ll brush my hair later.

  Under the sink is a box of tampons. The light-headedness is a sure sign of blood loss, the scientific part of my brain insists. The logical part recognizes I would’ve seen the proof spiraling down the drain, but I ignore this nagging voice. Beside the tampons is a bag of pregnancy test strips I’ve neglected to hide from myself. As I close the bathroom door, the familiar guilt washes over me. I feel like I’m doing something wrong just holding the test in my hands. I have every period symptom, so I know it will be negative, but what’s the harm in taking one? I pee on the strip and change the tampon—still dry. Two birds, one stone. Wrapping the test in a piece of tissue, I stuff it into the pocket of my pajama pants and head downstairs. In my experience, the most surefire way to bring about your period is to take a pregnancy test. Ask any woman trying to get pregnant—she’ll agree.

  * * *

  “That’s awesome,” I answer automatically, my mind a million miles away. What if we’re pregnant? The rational part of my brain rolls its eyes at the hopeful part that’s come out of hiding. How many times will my body fool me? I’m definitely getting my period. The hopeful half keeps trying to twist the symptoms into pregnancy signs, but the smarter half knows the truth. I’m getting my period, just like every other time I’ve been through this.

  “Yeah, I mean, the aliens are super excited,” Owen says, sipping his beer.

  I shake my head. “Wait, what?” The baby thoughts subside, and I’m confused and angry at myself for getting sucked back into the vortex so easily. It’s not like I haven’t thought about babies lately; I’ve just gotten better at tuning out the nonsense. Traveling back down the TTC path is terrifying. My obsession drove me near to insanity last time. The test burns a hole in my pocket, the temptation of madness. I wish I hadn’t taken the damn thing.

  “You’re lost in space right now,” he laughs. “Just like the alien colony I traveled to that you thought was so awesome.” I stare at him. What the hell is he talking about?

  “Never mind, I’m just playing with you,” he says, taking a bite of the rigatoni, one of four meals Owen can cook. The other three are tuna casserole, meat loaf, and shepherd’s pie. His midwestern love of comfort food followed him east.

  Digging into my own plate, I wash it down with a long gulp of Pinot Noir. I’ve been unable to enjoy the delicious meal for all my distraction. “I’m sorry, I’m tired and feeling like shit. I have my period,” I add. Like most males of the species, he thinks the female cycle is a mysterious beast best handled with care and compassion, if not outright fear. He winces and I excuse myself to the bathroom, letting my fork fall into the tomato sauce midbite.

  My hands shake as I unwrap the strip and lift it toward the vanity light. Beneath the blue test line is a second, fainter blue line. As I turn the test left and right, the line remains clear and solid. I blink, afraid I’m imagining it into existence. No matter how I tilt it, the test is positive.

  I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t steady my nerves or slow my racing heart. In my hand I hold a positive test, and in my belly, I hold a baby. A wave of panic nearly knocks me off my feet, and I sit on the closed toilet lid, hands shaking. The taste of wine goes sour in my mouth. I’ve been drinking all month, completely unaware of the life inside me. Earlier today I took two sets of X-rays, and even though I wore my lead, I wonder if that’s protection enough. My brain rewinds the last month like a crazy slide show, pausing and replaying all the cups of coffee I’ve downed, all the sushi I’ve eaten, and all the moments of devil-may-care attitude I’ve exhibited toward my own health and well-being, never mind a baby’s.

  “Cass?” Owen calls, tapping on the door. Pushing it open, he drops to his knees in front of me. “Are you okay?” he asks, eyeing me up and down, worry creased across his face.

  Silently, I hold up the test. He looks at it, then back at me, lifting his brow.

  “Is that a line?” he asks, squinting. “Cass, is that a line?”

  Unable to speak, I nod. Fear. Happiness. Confusion. I’m so full of every emotion I can’t find the words.

  “Are we having a baby?” he murmurs, his own voice barely a whisper. I let the tears fall and nod my head. I’m not sure if they’re happy tears or scared ones, most likely a mix of the two. Unable to turn off my inner calendar, I start ticking off the days, trying to calculate when this happened, how far along I might be. October 10. Today’s date hits me with the force of a hurricane wind.

  Today was my original due date.

  A wave of nausea rolls over me and I swallow it back, afraid to give voice to the fear. I refuse to let it ruin this moment. Instead, I close my eyes and say a little prayer to the angel looking over my shoulder. I can read this as a good omen or a bad one. Today, I’m choosing good.

  “We’re having a baby,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around Owen’s neck. I need to take another test, confirm it’s not a false positive, but in my heart, I know it’s real. I feel it in my core. Today is the day I am supposed to have a baby.

  ♦   30   ♦

  OWEN

  After

  October 11

  “DAD, WHAT’S THAT FOR?” the little boy asks, peering up from behind a strand of reddish-blond hair that’s a perfect blend of my own sandy-blond and his mom’s copper locks. The little boy desperately needs a haircut, even though the long curls are adorably unruly.

  “It’s called a protracto
r, it’s used to help make drawings of buildings,” I say. The little guy gazes up at me with curious eyes. Turquoise, unlike either parent’s, a color all his own. There’s a spattering of freckles across his sunburned cheeks. He should be wearing a baseball cap to protect his fair skin.

  “Can I see?” He stands on his tiptoes but is nowhere near tall enough to see onto the drafting table.

  “Sure, buddy.” I drag a stool over and lift him up by his armpits. He’s eye level with the table. He’s a slight boy, but his arms and legs are compact with little muscles. Maybe he’ll be a baseball player. Or play soccer. Too early to tell for sure, but if I had to guess, I’d say he won’t be big enough for the football field. Just as well. All those hard hits can’t be good for growing bodies.

  “Cool,” the boy murmurs, touching the drafting paper. I open my mouth to chastise him, afraid his little fingers might smudge the pencil, but stop myself. I can always redo it, so I let him look and touch. Something in the back of my mind tells me he’ll be interested in his daddy for only so long before video games and friends take over.

  “Here,” I say, handing the boy a pencil. The boy switches it from his right hand to his left—just like his mother. I pick up the protractor and gently place my hand over my son’s and show him how to trace along the edge of the ruler. The boy purses his lips, the tip of his tongue sticking out, deep in concentration.

  “Can I do it myself, Dad?” the little boy asks, looking up at me with his wide eyes. It’s like looking at an old photograph.

  “Dad?”

  * * *

  “Dad?”

  * * *

  “Owen?” Cassidy murmurs, shaking my shoulder gently. The dream drifts away slowly. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to catch one last glimpse before it floats away, but it’s already gone.