Wiping my sweaty hands on my chambray work shirt, I focus on my breath. Even though the morning sickness has subsided, stress exacerbates the headaches looming just on the edge of my consciousness all the time. Leaning against the bale of hay in the aisle and dropping my chin to my chest, I count to five and hope the wave of light-headedness passes.
“Cassidy?” John looks at me, face creased with concern. “You okay?” I smile and nod, hoping it’s not mistaken for a grimace. I’ve already run from this barn in a state of despair once before. I refuse to make a fool of myself again.
“I’m good.” Forcing the bile to the back of my throat, I push away from my perch on the hay. “As Dr. Ford was saying, we’re simply taking some extra precautions with Kitty. It’s possible the mare will spontaneously abort the remaining foal between six and eight months,” I say, thankful my internal autopilot is kicking in. Spontaneous abortion. They plastered the same term all over my own medical charts and then the bills and insurance claims. The phrase circles in my mind over and over. “If this occurs, the mare will go into labor and pass the fetus naturally, but sometimes the body won’t recognize the loss and try to continue to nourish the baby. This can lead to dangerous issues for the mare, so we’d like to mitigate those risks by checking on the status of the foal now,” I finish, hoping no one can hear my voice crack. A memory of my milk-filled breasts leaking as though they cried for my dead baby almost breaks me, but I swallow it back.
“So, you’re checking to see if the foal is already dead?” Cindy asks. Leave it to a cowgirl to cut to the chase.
“Yes,” John answers. “On external exam, she looks just as she should for this point in her pregnancy. We can’t tell the size of the foal, but we can make sure it’s in the correct position and has a strong heartbeat,” he adds, placing his enormous hand on my back and letting it sit there a moment. The heavy weight grounds me, and I let my thoughts spiral away.
We’re greeted with some gentle nudging when we enter Kitty’s stall. Reaching my stereoscope under her elbow, I listen to her steady heart rhythm and hope the baby inside is as strong as its mom. Red-haired horses, called chestnuts, are known to be tough, just like their human counterparts.
“I think she’s okay with the tranquilizer,” I say, standing at her head and stroking her velvet nose. I let my forehead rest against the soft fur on her cheek. Maybe my good juju will transfer.
John nods and proceeds with the exam. Humming softly under his breath, he methodically runs his hand down from spine to center and then back again with the ultrasound wand. When he reaches the midpoint on Kitty’s right side, he lifts his brow, pausing for a few seconds before continuing his track. Placing the instrument back at the spot where he stopped before, he runs it back and forth in the shape of a square, putting firm pressure against the mare’s skin. Kitty leans away from the pressure and I hold my hand against her left shoulder, preventing her from moving. Finding a heartbeat on the Doppler isn’t easy. The wand needs to be precisely positioned to hear anything, especially as the mare’s stomach grows larger. John continues to hum, his nervous tell. He only hums when he’s anxious.
“And there we go,” he says, cocking his ear toward the machine. Suddenly the steady whoosh-whoosh of the machine fills the stall. He clicks the screen and takes a dozen pictures, moving his hand a few inches each way to take a dozen more. All the while the foal’s heartbeat sounds on, music to our ears.
“We have a fighter,” he says, removing the wand and grinning ear to ear. The Lombardos let out a sigh of relief, allowing themselves a shared moment of happiness.
I press my face into Kitty’s neck, my hand gripping her shoulder for support, and let the tears burning at the corners of my eyes trickle off and land on her soft coat, the color of a shiny lucky penny.
♦ 35 ♦
CLAIRE
After
December 24
CHRISTMAS IS MY FAVORITE holiday. The Thanksgiving dishes aren’t even dry before I’m getting a head start on the decorating, setting the electric candles in the windows and wreaths on all the doors. If I had my way, I’d string up the lights and trim the tree the very next day. Steve insists I wait until after December 1, lest the neighbors feel pressured to rush their own setups. But I can’t think of anything better than the whole street alight with festive cheer the moment those hideous cornucopias and pumpkins are gone.
Each year I spend the last week in November happily carting carefully labeled boxes up from the basement to start the painstaking process of preparing the house for the Scofield holiday extravaganza.
Every Friday before Christmas we host the neighborhood holiday cocktail party, a boozy, child-free evening for our entire street to come together to drink and be merry. Christmas Eve dinner is the highlight of the season, even though it’s only my parents and sister this year. I have a feeling it should be an eventful night, despite the small gathering.
After years of decorating the house in the same greens and reds, I’ve decided to upgrade my old and worn-out ornaments. For months I’ve picked up pieces here and there, hoping inspiration would hit me once the time came to put it all together. Above our inlaid-marble fireplace, I’ve layered the mantel in a faux-spruce garland frosted with sparkling silver accents. Every few inches a silver-coated pine cone hangs from a branch, catching the light from the crystal chandelier. The boys and I hand dipped the cones, and despite the awful mess we made, they turned out even better than the Pinterest board that inspired them.
The side tables are covered in green tablecloths, with charming mason jars filled with spruce twigs and berries sitting atop each one. To Steve’s dismay, I lightly glazed all the mirrors in the house with a thin dusting of silver glitter spray, so your reflection shines back from beneath a flurry of sparkly snow. I assured him it’s washable, but I haven’t tested that out yet.
“Are place cards really necessary?” Steve asks, wrapping his long arms around my waist as I stare intently at the table. I lean back against his shoulder, relishing the feeling of his warm body holding me up.
“Careful, or I’ll seat you between my mother and Cassidy,” I warn, only half kidding. My plan is to keep them well distanced across the table, but maybe they’d be less apt to get into trouble if I wedged my mild-mannered and jovial husband between them.
He squeezes me and kisses the crown of my head. “If you only give me one gift this Christmas, please let it be seating me far, far away from that train wreck,” he kids. I take a deep breath and slouch against him. He’s right. Even if it might serve my purposes, it’d be cruel and unusual punishment to force him to play the mediator. Hostile at the best of times, my sister and mother have been especially volatile these last few weeks. As far as I know, they haven’t spoken since my mother’s cringeworthy comment on Cassidy’s Instagram post. Honestly, this only proves that Mom shouldn’t be allowed on social media, but that’s a topic for another day.
I moan. “This would be easier if I had ten more people to buffer in between them. Is it too late to invite your parents?”
Steve smiles and pulls away, eager to get back to the living room, where the boys are watching The Grinch. “If you want to start a war with my sister, you can try to steal them away for the night,” he says, his voice light even though I know he’s serious.
I wave him away, and he leaves me to my seat juggling. As great as it would be to have those seven extra bodies here now, I understand that every family has its internal struggles. Since his sister’s divorce, she’s stopped coming for Christmas Eve dinner. With four kids in tow, it’s too hard to make the trip from Connecticut. Steve’s parents stayed the first year so she wouldn’t be alone, but we’re heading into the third year that they’ve been held hostage. I’m hoping that once the kids get a little older, she’ll start coming again, or at least lend us my in-laws every other year, but for now I leave it be.
Allowing myself one last scan of the table, I nod in satisfaction. The Christmas china gleams on the da
rk-green tablecloth. A vase full of fur branches and holly sparkles in the center against the warm glow of the candles. I top each plate with a silver napkin and a silver-dipped pine cone. The silver place cards are the final touch, each guest’s name carefully calligraphed in green marker. It looks perfect. Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I snap a few pictures, proud of my handiwork. Maybe I’ll add it to my own Instagram feed later tonight.
Somehow, it’s already three PM. Guests will arrive at four thirty for cocktails and appetizers. The boys are showered and as clean as little boys can get, but they still need to dress in their outfits and comb their hair. The clock is ticking.
When I peek into the living room, it fills my heart with joy to see all my boys snuggled on the couch watching Jim Carrey as the Grinch sled down the mountain. I notice Steve isn’t dressed yet and hope he’s at least showered and shaved, since it’s the only thing he had on his to-do list today.
“I’m going to go clean up. Please just keep an ear out for the timers?” I ask, knowing it’s unlikely they’ll go off before I’m finished—but just in case.
“Sure,” Steve murmurs, not looking away from the screen.
Taking one last look at the peaceful scene in my living room, I scurry up the stairs, giving myself exactly twenty-five minutes to get my own hair, makeup, and clothes arranged. It’s the calm before the storm, and my heart races a little as I think about all the little details I have left to do before the party starts.
* * *
“It’s very … shiny …” These are the first words out of Mom’s mouth, before she’s even slipped out of her purple peacoat. Steve winks at me as he takes the jacket, shaking off the light dusting of snow covering the shoulders.
Thankful for the pre-appetizer glass of Chardonnay I gulped in the kitchen, I bare my teeth in what I hope passes as a smile. “Thank you. I was going for something different this year,” I answer. If only this would end the conversation. I know all too well it’s only the beginning, thanks to Mom’s newfound revelation that she can sense people’s color aura. When she told me she was taking a mindful-art class at the senior center, I was thrilled she was getting out of the house and meeting like-minded people. Then she started claiming she could see peoples “true colors,” and I wished she’d stayed home with Dad.
As if on cue, she clears her throat. “Did you know that a silver aura indicates creativity and fresh ideas?” she asks, stepping out of the foyer toward the kitchen.
“Well, this was a creative, fresh idea of mine, you could say,” I tease, hoping to keep the tone light and cheerful. The few times I’ve heard Mom “read” auras, she started with a few positive traits before things took a left turn toward insulting.
“See, there is something to this,” she murmurs, beelining straight for the wine bar. She manages to enter the room without making eye contact with my sister, who’s perched on a stool at the island, nibbling from a plate of cheese. Owen’s next to her, his beer mug poised at his lips as if he froze while about to take a sip.
Cassidy opens her mouth, and I shake my head. Nothing she says right now can possibly be nice and I refuse to let dinner be ruined by my unruly female family members.
“I’ve never noticed a silver aura around your person,” Mom muses, squinting at the label of a cabernet before replacing it in favor of a merlot. “But silver in one’s space has a lot of benefits.” She pours herself a healthy glass and turns to face the room. Dad lumbers in and heads toward Cass, kissing her on the cheek. My mom raises a brow. “For one thing, silver is great for keeping good energy flowing and especially good at removing stagnant pools of energy from the space,” she says, her eyes shifting pointedly toward my sister before glancing around at the sparkling lights in the kitchen. I’ve strung some dainty garland around the cupboards, and in the dim light the silver tones flashed. “Silver is great for cutting unwanted and unhealthy connections, especially psychic ones,” she muses, taking a sip of the wine. My sister looks like she’s on the verge of exploding, but out of deference to me—or dad’s hand on her shoulder—she keeps her lips sealed.
“On a less spiritual note, an abundance of silver shows an abundance of money. Usually I would consider this much gauche and gaudy, but I like how you softened it with the dark green. Otherwise it really would have been a bit too much,” she says, smiling widely.
“I’m glad you like it,” I mumble, the glint in the room suddenly a little too bright and showy. Maybe the traditional red and green was the better choice after all. I’ve always been self-conscious about our wealth, careful not to shove Steve’s success in my family’s face. The red-and-green bows of Christmases past softened the crisp, modern lines in the kitchen, whereas the silver highlights them. Silver seemed classy yesterday, but tonight it only looks cheap.
“Was that your Christmas gift?” Cassidy says, her voice high and loud in the uncomfortable silence of the kitchen. “Are you going to read everyone’s aura tonight? Or was that little bit reserved as an honor to our hostess, who’s no doubt worked tirelessly to create such a beautiful evening for her family?”
Dad steadies his hand against Cassidy’s shoulder.
“It’s okay. I’m just happy we’re all here to celebrate together,” I say, finding Steve’s eyes over the counter. He nods, taking the pass.
“Yes, thank you all for coming. Claire and I look forward to Christmas Eve all year long, and I know the boys do too,” Steve says, lifting his glass of wine. “Let’s have a brief cheers to family before digging into these wonderful appetizers. To family,” he says.
“To family,” we all say in chorus, although I’m pretty sure Cassidy is rolling her eyes at our mother while draining the sparkling cider in her champagne flute. At least she’s not able to drink. I’m not sure I could handle them both drunk.
So far, Christmas Eve’s off to exactly the start I expected. If nothing else, I’m sure it will be one for the record books.
* * *
Seating Derek across from Mom seemed like a safe choice. But I forgot how unpredictable little boys can be. Combine that with Mom, who’s already three glasses of red wine deep, and it was bound to end in one way and one way only. Disaster.
“Oh, how fancy,” Mom declares upon entering the dining room. The chandelier glitters and the candles on the table glow against the dim backdrop. “Should we sit anywhere?” she asks, even though I’m certain she sees the name cards at each seat. I pretend not to notice and usher the boys in front of me, pointing to their chairs.
“Actually, your names are on cards at your seat,” I say, trying to sound casual but failing. Steve smiles at me as he helps Derek into his chair.
“The boys wanted to pick where everyone sat this year,” Steve adds, unfolding a napkin onto Derek’s lap. Our son opens his mouth to protest this little fib, but Steve catches him before he can throw me under the bus. I’ll have to give them both extra desserts later. I silently send a thank-you to Steve. Sometimes he acts aloof, but he’s always there for me, ready to catch me when I stumble.
“Well, then I’m extra honored that Derek wanted to sit across from his Grandma,” Mom says, her words starting to slur. She needs food, quick, or things will only spiral downward even faster than they currently are.
We find our seats and say grace. We manage to pass the vegetables without incident. My dad and Owen talk about the renovations at Cassidy’s house while we all chew our food, content to listen to their chatter about bathroom fixtures. Some of the tension leaves my body as I dare hope the evening might go on in this pleasant manner.
“Grandma, did you see the video I asked Mommy to send you about the Lego ninja set I really, really want for Christmas?” Derek interrupts, his mouth full of mashed potatoes.
“Derek, Uncle Owen and Grandpa are talking. It’s not nice to interrupt,” I chastise, hoping to steer the conversation away from this topic. “It’s also gross to talk with your mouth full. You know better.”
“Sorry,” he says, mouth still full.
>
“What video?” Mom asks, looking at me from her corner of the table.
Color rushes to my cheeks. Denial or truth?
Taking this as an opportunity to share his latest obsession with both Legos and everything the child YouTube star Evan last-name-unknown has suggested for his millions of subscribers, Derek puts his fork on his plate and explains things to the table. “Evan from EvanTube is the coolest kid in the universe. Each week he plays with new toys and decides what the best new toy to buy is,” he says, his words coming out so fast they stumble over one another. “The best thing he’s ever played with, in my opinion and also his, are the new Lego Ninjago sets. You need to get Old Spinjitzu Master Wu—he’s the leader—and then there are the young ninjas and their cities and cars. It’s so cool, Grandma. Didn’t you watch the video?”
Mom carefully places her own fork on the edge of her plate and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, honey, I must’ve missed the message from your mom. All that sounds really neat, though,” she adds, fixing me with a scathing glare from across the table. “I’m sure you meant to send it to me, right, darling?”
“I’m sorry, Derek, it slipped my mind. I’m sure Santa Claus saw it on your list though,” I mumble, my mother’s stare relentless.
“What is a YouTube channel?” she asks. “It that like Facebook?”
Eager to keep the conversation focused on his favorite topic, Derek jumps in. “Not really, it’s way better. It’s a place where you can watch videos with other people. Evan and his family make one each week, and he makes a ton of money doing it and he gets all these free toys. I want to be like Evan when I grow up.”
My mom lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Is that right? Well, I’ll be darned. It seems like just anyone can be famous nowadays, doesn’t it?” She asks the table. “I mean, look at all the celebrities on Instagram posting things and making all that money. It’s just crazy to me. Sounds like this boy’s family is really profiting off their son’s celebrity,” she says, her tone getting colder. “It amazes me what people will post on the internet for all the world to see, just to get attention.”
What We Carry Page 21