What We Carry

by Kalyn Fogarty

  Claire sighs down the line.

  “What?”

  “Cassidy can share her story with whoever she wants. It’s her story to tell. She was upset you told people when the pain was still raw and new. Maybe she needed these last few months to process what happened and now she’s ready?”

  Considering this, I think back to the conversations I’ve had with Cassidy since May. They’ve been few and far between. Shaking my head, I stop pretending to understand the motivations of my oldest. She’ll remain a mystery until the day I die, I fear. “Maybe,” I reluctantly agree. “I just wish she considered how this would affect those around her. I wasn’t prepared to feel all these emotions again out of the blue.”

  Silence again. It’s not often my Claire is at a loss for words, and I worry she’s taking her sister’s side on this. “Well, I don’t think she was thinking about that when she posted it, and I doubt she intended to hurt you.”

  “Maybe not,” I say, my blood pressure slowly falling. Despite her odd quietness today, Claire’s knack for decompressing the situation is intact.

  Now the boys’ voices can be heard clearly, each trying to outtalk the next. I smile, wishing I were there to help Claire wrangle the wild things. They’ve always acted nice for their grandma, certain a treat or two will be forthcoming. “Mom, I gotta run. Do me a favor and don’t do anything rash? Give it a day or two so you can cool down before you call her, okay?” she asks.

  “Sure thing,” I promise. “Love you. Please say hi to the boys for me.” I hit end, the quiet of the house settling over me like a heavy weight. I’m tempted to call Cassidy but fight the urge. Let her call me if she wants. Stranger things have happened.

  Unable to resist the lure of Instagram, I open the app and scroll back through the comments on the photo. Mine is hidden near the bottom, not visible when you open the post. I have to click MORE to get past the first forty to find it.

  Joaniegirl57: You have real family and friends who love and support you. No need to search for it here. Let’s move on and look to the future. Dad and I love you. Xo

  2h Reply

  I hold my finger over my comment, pretty sure I can delete it by swiping left or right. Claire will be disappointed if she sees it, but I wrote it before our conversation. Two hours ago, I was still shocked and upset. By now I’m sure Cassidy and a dozen other people have already read it. It’ll seem conspicuous if I erase it now. Perhaps I should’ve called Cassidy or messaged her privately, but the damage is done. Maybe next time she’ll think twice before plastering her private life across the internet without a second thought for how it impacts others and I’ll think twice about commenting out of anger. Most likely we will end up in a fight, but I can’t do anything right regarding Cassidy, so I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. Why hold back now?

  ♦   33   ♦

  OWEN

  After

  November 10

  NEW ENGLAND COLONIAL ARCHITECTURE is both unique and sturdy. Houses built in the 1800s still stand tall and proud, a testament to the craftmanship and care put into their construction. The most basic style is the classic colonial, once a one-room, two-storied box with pine clapboard sides and a central fireplace. As time went by, the early settlers expanded on it to create the updated versions we see replicated today. A simple variation is the Cape Cod style, quaint and often dormered, a classic on all New England streets.

  A larger staple in the northeast is the stately Georgian, bigger than its predecessors but still solid and upright with little decoration. The federal mansion was the king of the bunch, large and ornate with arches and an abundance of multipaned windows. Such houses line the famous Beacon Street in Boston and are favored in nearby Salem. But my favorite style is often unappreciated. Practical and distinctive in its sloping roof, the New England saltbox reigns supreme in my heart.

  A variation on the classic square build of the colonial, it has the inimitable slanted roof off the back of the house, an early expansion to add more space for larger families at the turn of the century. Our house was built in 1854, and aside from twentieth-century updates, the original floor plan is untouched. We intended to remodel while keeping the bones of the house intact, but eight years later the house remains the same as it was the day we first fell in love with it.

  My midwestern sensibility contradicts my Yankee desire to want more, more, more. Since moving east, I’ve adapted to fit in with the Red Sox cap–sporting, Bruins jersey–wearing locals I studied alongside in college and work with every day. But I’m still considered an “other,” no matter how often I reference my love of the Patriots and Dunkin’ Donuts. Cassidy claims my open and guileless face gives me away. Around here, locals are guarded and shrewd and proud of it. On the outside, I look like any other construction worker with my broad shoulders and callused hands, arms strong from manual labor not hours in the gym. But on the inside, I’m still “other.” When I pledged a fraternity, I was given the nickname Cheesehead, even though I was from Kansas and not Wisconsin. The brothers laughed as they poured me another beer and assured me it was all the same out there, just a lot of corn and cheese.

  Maybe my dad had a little Yankee in him too. He pushed me to do better, to want more. More of what, I’m not sure. Just more. More money, a better job, a bigger house, a nicer car. The American dream used to be a house with a white picket fence and a family with 2.5 children nestled inside. Now success is measured by the square footage of your home and whether your vacation “cottage” is in the mountains or on the Cape—even better if you have both. Dad was a simple man, a history teacher at our local high school who was beloved by everyone. Although he taught world history, he was especially passionate about American history. When I was little, he told me stories of brave homesteaders setting out on the Oregon trail with dreams of a bigger, better life for their families. I loved hearing about how men got rich in gold by hitching up their wagons and heading west. I decided long ago I wanted to be like those brave pioneers and never settle for less than the best for my own family. This meant more. It meant forgoing the familiar and, in my case, heading east.

  Once or twice a year Dad would start planning a family vacation. Mom would smile and indulge his whimsy before quietly reminding him of the leaky faucet he’d yet to call the plumber about or the new set of tires needed for the minivan. Something essential always impeded Dad’s trip, and he’d declare “next year” before retreating into his study to read about great men of times past. Over the years the excuses varied—money, timing, weather. We never got around to visiting Yellowstone like Dad wanted, although with the amount he talked about it, it’s almost like we did.

  “My parents should go on a trip this year,” I say, muting the morning news.

  Looking up from her tea, Cassidy lifts her brows. “They should,” she agrees. “We could invite them here to visit?” It has been a while since they traveled east, but it’s not what I mean.

  “No, like a proper trip.” I sigh, unsure how to explain what I’m feeling inside. “My dad’s talked about seeing the national parks my entire life, and they’ve never left Kansas except to visit us here.”

  Cassidy frowns, pursing her lips. She’d been trying to cut back on coffee but has never liked tea as an alternative. “Well, traveling is expensive, and they’re both so busy with their clubs and committees,” she says. “Your dad’s basically the town mayor now that he’s retired. He seems happy.”

  I chuckle. Dad ran for selectman of our tiny town and won by a landslide. Mom’s cochair of the auxiliary club and so active in the church community you’d think she ran the place. But even so, don’t they ever want to leave Cottonwood Falls?

  “Maybe,” I concede. “I’m sure Mom has more money squirreled away in the coffee tin above the sink than we have in our 401(k).” Each week, after her grocery shopping was done, she’d put a five-dollar bill in the jar on top of the fridge. It was her rainy-day fund, the reason she compulsively clipped coupons and shopped the circular. “T
hey can probably afford to travel the world twice around after a lifetime of being so thrifty.”

  Cassidy wrinkles her brow. “If you’re really concerned about them, let’s buy them tickets for somewhere. How about renting an RV? Then they can take the wheel wherever their hearts desire,” she says, warming to the idea. “It can be our Christmas gift to them, force them into making a move. Your mom would never turn down such a present,” she says, her smile devilish. “She’s way too polite for that.”

  I can’t help but crack a smile. “You’re right. Too polite for her own good. Somehow she’s politely excused herself from living most of her life,” I mutter, unable to hide the bitterness in my tone.

  Cassidy frowns. I’ve never strayed from the carefully curated image of my family. In Cassidy’s mind, my mom’s basically June Cleaver. How could a town called Cottonwood Falls be anything but idyllic? We even had a collie growing up. Cass can’t resist teasing me about falling into the wishing well whenever we visit my parent’s house.

  “What’s this really about?” she asks. “Do you want to go on vacation again?”

  Even though I’d love to take Cass somewhere exotic, like Paris or Rome, that’s not it. I’m not sure what’s come over me. Maybe it’s not about my parents or vacations. It’s about more. My desire for more and all the things keeping me from them. I’m tired of waiting and wanting and ready to start doing.

  “I want to build the addition,” I blurt out. “I don’t want to wait anymore.”

  “Like, right now?” Her hand settles across her belly, an instinctive reaction I’ve noticed more and more lately.

  A million reasons to wait run through my head, and I silence them. “Right now. I’m tired of waiting for more money or more time. I don’t want to wait until after the baby’s born,” I add, knowing it’ll be the next words out of her mouth. “There will always be a hundred reasons not to do it.” I reach out and take her hands, keeping them close to her stomach. “We’ve wanted this for so long. We’ve planned it out so much, it almost seems real,” I say, thinking about my dad’s plans to go west. “But it’s always been so much easier to talk about wanting things and never do them. It’s time to make it real.”

  “Okay,” she says, squeezing my fingers.

  I look up, surprised. “Wait, what?”

  “Okay,” she repeats, laughing. “Let’s do it.”

  “For real?” I ask, afraid I’m missing something, some part of the deal I didn’t negotiate yet.

  “Yes, for real,” she exclaims. “Stop asking me or I might change my mind!”

  Stunned, I run my hands through my hair and shake my head, overwhelmed by my own grand plans. I never expected her to say yes. Now I have no excuse to let myself off the hook.

  “It will be amazing,” I promise, kissing her cheek and standing from the couch, too excited to sit still.

  “There’s no doubt in my mind,” she says. I lay my hands on her belly a beat, absorbing the promise inside. There’s so much to do, so much more.

  ♦   34   ♦

  CASSIDY

  After

  November 25

  DON’T WALK UNDER A ladder. Never let a black cat cross your path. Find a penny, pick it up, then all day you’ll have good luck. Bad luck comes in threes. My mother always reminded Claire and me of all the silly superstitions we should be wary of, even giving us each a rabbit’s foot for our key chain when we first got our licenses. Naturally, I never paid much attention to her nonsense, assuming it was just another way my mother shirked responsibility by blaming the universe for all things—both good and bad—that happened to her. But lately I find myself fearing that the omens hold some truth. As hard as I try, I can’t dodge the feeling that Kitty’s loss and my own are interconnected. Bad luck comes in threes. When will the unlucky third strike, strike?

  It’s common to wait until after the first-trimester mark to announce a pregnancy to family and friends. After the first thirteen weeks, the risk of miscarriage reduces and you’re considered in the “safe zone.” Like a beacon of hope, doctors promise that the morning sickness, the headaches, the exhaustion, and all the other little miseries of the first few weeks will fade upon hitting this milestone, the magical second trimester. It’s at this stage when your energy and libido increase and women are enveloped in the elusive pregnancy glow. Like a good pregnant woman, I waited to share the news last time. I know better now. There is no safe zone.

  Owen wanted to wait again this time, but I had a different perspective. Part of me yearned to divulge my secret, to bask in people’s joy over the promise of a new life—even if only for a little while. We agreed to compromise, deciding to tell anyone we would feel comfortable sharing the loss with. But even after sharing only with our closest family and friends, it’s obvious that this time is different. My miscarriage has left people unsure how to react to my new pregnancy. There’s the group who solidly believe everything happens for a reason who assure me this new baby was my plan all along. It’s a nice sentiment, but it still stings, like my son had to die to make way for the life I was meant to have. These people take comfort in the promise of good things rising from the rubble of disaster. I wish I were more like them. Dr. Ford falls into this group, and for this reason I’ve waited to tell him. I’m not ready for the entire practice to know yet, and I want a little more distance between work and my private life this time around. If John would keep it to himself, it would be one thing. But my previous loss won’t prevent him from sharing the wonderful news. He’s a farmer at heart, and death won’t distract him from the prospect of new life.

  The most common reaction so far is to pretend my loss never happened, as though uttering the word miscarriage might jinx me. I never correct them about this not being my first pregnancy. Honestly, playing along is a relief. For a minute I can almost imagine a pregnancy not tarnished by fear and anxiety until I note the look of sympathy cross their face and realize it’s only make-believe.

  With my son, I hit thirteen weeks and thought I was safe. Now I’m only reminded how nothing is ever certain. It’s hard to imagine ever feeling safe again, not for twenty-seven more weeks or until my baby is crying in my arms. I can’t imagine how hard it is for women who have recurrent losses, forced to achieve each milestone while knowing it’s not measuring anything. How many times would those women dare to let their hearts soar only to have everything fall out from beneath them when they lost another baby? I hope I never know that answer firsthand.

  “Ready?” Dr. Ford asks, jolting me from my wandering thoughts.

  I nod and crack my neck from side to side, making a mental note to Google whether joint stiffness is associated with pregnancy or if I’m just getting old.

  We pull up in front of the familiar barn and start preparing the equipment. A deep twinge low on the left side of my belly stops me in my tracks. My right hand shoots toward my hip, and I lose my grip on the ultrasound case.

  “Whoa there,” Dr. Ford says, grabbing the machine in its stainless-steel box before it hits the gravel. “Careful there, kiddo,” he says, maneuvering it the rest of the way out of the truck. “I plan to sell this thing and buy myself a sports car one day,” he kids. He’s laughing, but I know he would’ve been devastated if I’d actually dropped it. The box is pretty solid, but the machine itself is so delicate that even the smallest dent might cause a defect that would need repair. The clinic has only the one machine and can’t afford for it to be out of commission with so many mares in foal.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, cheeks pink. “Hand cramped up.” I hold up my hand and limply wag it in his direction. He nods, but from the look he shoots me from beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, I can tell he’s got something to say.

  “Grab the meds and her chart while I lug this sucker in,” he says. After I prepare the drugs and pull up Kitty’s chart on the iPad, I close my eyes and pray, asking the horse gods to watch over the little mare and keep the twin in her womb healthy. A penny shines in the sunlight, heads up, at t
he edge of the walkway. Without thinking, I bend and snatch it up, slipping it into my back pocket.

  John’s already deep in conversation with the Lombardos by the time I reach the stall. Checking on pregnant mares is a routine part of the practice, but after a few months, most experienced horsemen—like these owners—watch the progress with little additional guidance. Three of the mares we inseminated recently gave birth without any intervention at all. The owners only called to share the news that the foals were born healthy. Horse people are amazingly self-sufficient compared to other pet owners. John jokes that many horsemen deserve honorary medical degrees after working day in and day out with the animals their entire lives. Half the students that graduated vet school had never touched a horse or cow before specializing in large-animal medicine. Books can teach you anatomy and physiology, but the animals themselves are the best teachers.

  “As you know, only a small percentage of twins survive in utero past fifty days,” he continues, Joe and Cindy nodding intently. “Thankfully, we’ve passed that point, and it appears like the pregnancy is progressing normally,” he finishes, smiling warmly. Always practical and calm, John’s barn-side demeanor is second to none. He can deliver grave news in the most gracious of ways, a skill some human doctors could learn from this wise old horse doctor. “However, after losing the first twin, the chances of the second being born premature or with slight defects increased.”

  Joe, a piece of hay dangling from his lower lip like a cowboy in an old western, nods and sighs. “So, what are we checking today?”

  I shift my gaze to the mother-to-be. About six months along, the mare’s gained a healthy amount of weight and her coat is shiny. She stares back at me with an interested and alert expression. To the untrained eye, she’s the picture of a normal pregnant horse. Shutting my eyes, I fight back the onslaught of my own memories—me at four months pregnant, happy, healthy, the perfect pregnant woman. Unfortunately, I’m all too aware that what’s happening inside the body might tell a vastly different tale.