As if reading my mind, Joe clears his voice. “She’s only been at it since eleven. We noticed the early signs at night check, but she settled into her hay and seemed okay, so we thought it might be false labor. Around midnight she went down and seemed a bit uncomfortable but not distressed. She’s only been struggling for the last hour or so. You think the babe is breech?”
Stroking the mare’s forehead, I feel her intense gaze follow me as I make my way toward the back of her body. A horse can see almost 360 degrees with its huge, wide-set eyes. However, there is a blind spot directly behind them. As I make my way out of Kitty’s sight, I’m careful to keep one hand firmly against her bulging stomach to remind her I’m not a danger to her or the baby. I need her to trust me, which is a lot to ask of her in her compromised state. Her instinct is to rise to her feet or even kick at me. I need her to lie still.
Her breathing is irregular, not surprising under the current circumstances. Each labored intake keeps time with her contractions. Kitty was once a prized athlete, but all her training couldn’t prepare her for the struggle of birth. From the start, this pregnancy has been difficult. It was only to be expected that labor would turn out to be hard too.
Pulling a set of elbow-length gloves from my back pocket, I slide them on in one expert motion and set aside Kitty’s tail. Reaching inside, I search for the foal. Frowning, I feel a hoof and back leg where there should be a head.
“Foal is breech,” I confirm to Joe, who only nods. I think we both knew this was the case but hoped we were wrong. “It needs to come out now,” I murmur, biting my lip. Pushing my arm in a little farther, I struggle to find a hind leg. Contacting a hoof, I get a firm grip. “Would you mind holding her head and keeping her calm?” I ask. Sweat breaks out on my forehead despite the cool air, and I wipe it against my shoulder. Although it’s unlikely Kitty can stand, if she thinks I’m trying to hurt the baby she could panic, and that’s the last thing I want while positioned directly behind her powerful hind legs.
Joe nods and holds the mare’s halter in both hands, resting her head on his lap. Kitty sighs as he rubs one of her ears, and her panicked eyes calm. “All set up here,” he says, leaning his weight against the mare’s shoulder in case she should struggle to stand.
Sliding my hand down the foal’s legs, I grab a tiny ankle in either hand. I steady my own breath in time with the mare’s heavy contractions. As Kitty breathes out, I brace my right leg on the floor and lean all my weight backward while tugging the foal firmly for ten seconds. The mare tries to look back at me, but Joe murmurs in her ear, coaxing her to relax. He’ll make a brilliant Lamaze partner one day.
“One or two more of those and I think we’ll have him,” I say, my heart rate rising with exertion. Again I wait for the mare to contract and brace myself, pulling even harder this time as the foal’s small hooves become visible inch by inch. “Last one, mama,” I murmur. My hair is plastered to my forehead, and every muscle in my body is aching and stretching. I can’t imagine how Kitty feels. She’s getting tired, her breathing faster and shallower. Her last contraction was less forceful against my forearm than the ones before. “One more, girl,” I say, more to myself than anything.
I grunt as Kitty contracts against my arm, and I almost lose my grip. Clutching for purchase, I find the foal’s hock—the elbow of his hind leg. The mare must feel the pressure easing, because she contracts strongly again, and it’s enough to push the foal all the way out, almost on top of me. Laughing with relief, I shuffle out of the way as the baby slips onto the straw, its tiny muzzle already pushing aside the remnants of the birthing sac.
“There we go!” Joe exclaims, his voice booming with pride and relief. Kitty instantly brightens as she lifts herself off her side to look back at her new baby, all long legs and big ears, lying by her back legs. Quickly taking inventory, I note the foal is a male—a colt—and has all the essential body parts and appears vibrant and healthy. Her exhaustion forgotten, Kitty rises to her feet and begins licking and cleaning her colt. Soon she will nudge him into a standing position, allowing him a few failed attempts as he gets used to his wobbly legs. Within the hour he will nurse. Wild horses didn’t have the luxury of resting after birth, and even though Kitty birthed in the comfort of a well-lit and bedded barn, this afterbirth will be no different.
“Congratulations! A healthy colt,” I say, peeling off the gloves. I’m sweaty and covered in blood and dirt. Horse labor is a messy affair.
“Thank you, Doc,” Cindy says, appearing in the doorway of the stall. “I’m sorry I wasn’t out here,” she says, dropping her chin. “I was worried sick and certain we’d lose one or both of them when I called you. I was a chicken and watching on the camera,” she admits. I can tell she’s ashamed, but I need no explanation. I understand the desire to hide from the painful reality of death. “Looks like this little guy just couldn’t wait to get out,” she says, smiling as the mare cleans the colt’s face and eyes. He’s dark brown, nearly black, with four white markings on his legs and a long white blaze on his face. He’ll grow into quite the stunning stallion.
“He’s a little small, but alert and well proportioned,” I say, heading toward the stall door with Joe. “If he doesn’t start nursing in the next ninety minutes, call me and I can come back and help them along,” I say, although I doubt it’ll be necessary. The little guy is strong and has already proven himself to be a fighter these last ten months.
“Early Bird,” Cindy says. Both Joe and I cock our heads at her in question. “That’s what we’ll call him. Birdie for short.” The colt is already trying to stand, and we all laugh as he lifts his long, sticklike hind legs up but can’t figure out how to make the front ones follow. He crumples forward in a pile of limbs, and his mother continues to clean him, ignoring his fall.
“I love it,” I say, patting her on the arm.
“You go on home now and get some rest,” Joe says, not taking his eyes off the mare and foal. “You have your own little birdie to take care of,” he says, sparing me a wink out of the corner of his eye.
I cradle my belly gently. So caught up in the moment, I’ve almost forgotten I’m pregnant. I close my eyes and thank whatever or whoever is looking over Kitty today and pray that same luck will shine down on me when my time comes. Birdie defied all the odds and was born healthy and beautiful. As much as I try to separate my pregnancy journey from this mare’s, I can’t deny the relief I feel at seeing the foal born tonight. Kitty has suffered loss and hardship in this pregnancy and triumphed. I can only hope for my own happy ending.
“Good night. Call me if you need anything at all,” I say, zipping up my beat-up leather bag and leaving the Lombardos by the stall door, arms around each other.
“We will,” Cindy murmurs, but she doesn’t take her eyes from the miracle before her. I can’t blame her. Those first few minutes after a foal is born never feel real, as though if you look away—even for a second—it might all disappear or turn out to be just a magical dream.
♦ 40 ♦
CASSIDY
After
April 16
“OH MY GOSH, LOOK at these!” I exclaim, holding up a pair of booties for all to see. The small crowd of women ooh and aah as I pull a matching fur hat and mitten set from the box. Everything seems impossibly tiny but perfectly proportioned. “Thank you, Sandy,” I say, my eyes skimming the room until I find the gift giver. Sandy is the receptionist at the clinic and has known me since I was an intern, fresh out of school. She’s watched me grow from a timid doctor to the woman and soon-to-be mother I am today. She blows me a kiss and I beam back at her, the spotlight not so bad.
I was afraid my baby shower would be as torturous as my bridal shower but am pleasantly pleased to admit this is almost fun. I’d begged my mother to let me open my bridal shower gifts in private after the party but was told it was tradition and people expected to see their gifts opened at such an event. I’m pretty sure no one paid any attention to the toaster ovens and cutl
ery, more interested in the bottomless mimosa bar. I didn’t bother fighting about opening gifts today, knowing it was a losing battle. However, everyone seems mesmerized by the adorable toys and frilly outfits in each carefully wrapped present. Who can resist tiny socks and stuffed animals and the gift of life on display at a baby shower?
My sister hands me another bag and I rest it on my lap, afraid my ever-growing belly might knock it to the floor. Although I’m carrying small, I feel huge and off-balance. For the party I decided on a pretty empire-waist dress and heels, but wish I were in my oversized sweats and slippers. Everything is hot and uncomfortable when you’re pregnant, and heels are never a good idea.
The package clinks as I shift my legs, whatever’s inside sounding breakable. Plucking the card out first, I skim it and force a smile. It’s from Tara. Tara whom I haven’t seen or talked with since our hot yoga date gone wrong. I wrestled with whether to invite her at all and assumed she wouldn’t show up. Guess the promise of free booze was too tempting to turn down.
“This one’s from Tara,” I announce, my voice brittle through my cracked smile. Somehow Tara avoided me earlier while everyone mingled over appetizers and champagne. Maybe she sneaked in late on purpose. She’s rarely on time for anything, so why would she show up on time for this?
Inside the gigantic gift bag are a few different-sized boxes hidden among multicolored tissue paper. Ripping the shiny wrapping paper off the first box, I pull what’s inside out onto my lap. Mama’s Juice reads the hand-painted inscription across the front of a giant wineglass. Resting this part of the present on my thigh, I rummage through the tissue paper and pull out the rest of the gifts, one by one. Next is a bottle of my favorite rosé. It’s from a vineyard we visited years ago on Long Island. It’s a delicious peachy-pink wine that tastes like sunshine in a bottle. She must’ve special-ordered it, since stores never carry it in stock. Easing the wrapping off a second box, I find a pair of luxurious sheepskin slippers with a gift card to the expensive and indulgent Lavender Farms Spa tucked inside the toe. In a sea of presents for my baby girl, Tara has gone rogue and given gifts meant only for me. It’s a rebel move, and my battle-worn heart melts a little at the gesture.
Looking up, I catch Tara’s eye. She’s biting her lip, waiting to see if I love or hate the gift. It was a risk straying from the registry, especially considering how things were between us. “Thank you,” I say, hoping she can sense the sincerity in my voice. “I’m sure going to need this in a few months.”
Tara lifts her glass and clears her throat. “I didn’t know what to get a baby,” she says, her voice clear and high, the confident tone in her voice hiding the insecurity I saw a few moments before. “But I knew exactly what to get you.”
I nod and tuck the presents back into the gift bag one by one. Claire hands me another basket overflowing with books and stuffed animals, and the moment is broken by more delight over the joys of baby toys.
* * *
By three o’clock I’m counting down the minutes until I can get the hell out of these high heels. All in all, the party was an overwhelming success. Baby Morgan was showered with so much love and affection that I’m not quite sure where it’ll all go. Owen has already made his appearance, waltzing into the roomful of women with beautiful bouquets for me and both our mothers. As a surprise, his parents flew in for the shower despite telling us they couldn’t make it. At the moment, Owen, his dad, and my father are outside attending to the giant array of gifts that need to get back to the house, hopefully in one trip. Thankfully, between my SUV and Owen’s truck, we should get it done with some creative packing.
“One last toast before you go?” a familiar voice chirps in my ear. I turn to Tara, who’s as luminous as ever, holding a champagne flute toward me. I open my mouth to protest, but she rolls her eyes. “It’s mostly orange juice,” she adds, before I can lecture. “A splash of champagne is good for you,” she says. “Trust me, I’m a doctor.”
Blame it on the hormones, but the last of my defenses crumble as I take the mimosa—a fitting olive branch—from my best friend’s outstretched hand and lean in for a hug. She’s taken by surprise and stiffens against my embrace before hugging me back even tighter. “I’m sorry,” I whisper against her ear.
Tara bites her lip and shakes her head. “No, Cass, I’m sorry. I was a complete and utter bitch to you,” she says, her beautiful face falling, making her look older than her years. “I’m truly so happy for you and Owen.”
“Thank you. It means a lot to me.” At one time, what Tara thought was of the utmost importance to me. But if the last few months have taught me anything, it’s that although I love my friend, her approval isn’t something I seek as fiercely as before. “I’ve missed you,” I admit. “I know things won’t be the same as before, but I really do love you.”
Tara takes a long sip of her mimosa. She teeters in her four-inch stilettos. I fear she’s bypassed silly brunch tipsy and is well on her way to sloppy drunk. Drunk Tara means sappy, overemotional Tara. She’s never had an in-between. “Everything is so different now.” Finding an empty chair, she falls not so gracefully into it. “It just feels like everyone around me is all grown up and settled … and then there’s me,” she says, gesturing to nowhere and no one in particular. “I’m still Tara, single and ready to mingle.” She finishes her mimosa and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smudging her pretty pink lipstick. “Sometimes it’s nice,” she murmurs. “But mostly it’s lonely.” A few tears fall, and she absently brushes them away. “I’m so happy for you, but I hate you a bit too,” she confesses, laughing a little. “Not really, of course. Just hate that you left me behind.”
All this time I’ve thought Tara pitied my quaint suburban life. The little barbs, the snarky reminders of who I once was—I took them as Tara viewing me as weak and lacking ambition. Never once did I attribute her actions to jealousy. Strange, since I’m all too accustomed to the familiar grip of envy. It was my mistake. I assumed Tara thought I wanted what she had, not the other way around.
“Friends again?” I ask, reaching out my hand to hold hers.
She shakes her head and smiles. “Stop.” She closes her eyes against the tears falling unabashedly from her heavily mascaraed eyes. “Please, don’t even say anything else. I’m the asshole here, not you. I just wanted to tell you again how happy I am for you. I don’t want this to be about me.” We both laugh for a second, recognizing how often in our years together things have revolved around Tara. It isn’t something I can be mad about; it just happens. “I know I have a tendency towards the dramatic, but this really isn’t about that now. I promise.” She squeezes my hand. “I love you, Cass, and I’m going to love your baby girl.”
All the emotions hit me at once. Love. Nostalgia. Sadness. But one shines brightest, and that’s hope. “I love you too,” I say, grinning. “I expect Auntie Tara to spoil the crap out of my kid,” I tease.
She sniffles and the brightness returns to her eyes, even as her makeup runs down her cheeks. “Oh, don’t worry,” she says, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I will definitely be the cool aunt who sneaks her the first beer and cigarette,” she jokes.
I roll my eyes. “You know how I feel about cigarettes.”
“Fine, no cigs,” she amends. “No promises on the beer, though,” she says, and we both laugh like old times, for a few minutes.
♦ 41 ♦
OWEN
After
April 19
FOR ONCE, THE GROUNDHOG is right. In all my years living in the Northeast, I’ve noticed that the promise of winter ending is dangled in front of you first by the groundhog, then by Mother Nature herself. By the end of February, the weather turns just enough for you to become cautiously optimistic, wondering if this year the fat little rodent will get it right. Mother Nature blesses us with a few warm days as we head into March, so the tulips and daffodils spread their buds and birds start chirping each morning, tempting us with spring. Then bam! Snowstor
m. The world’s blanketed in ten inches of snow and the ground freezes over again, killing all the hopeful blossoms and sending the birds back to their nests. Spring’s a mere glimmer on the horizon again, and you end up feeling silly for even hoping this year might be different. But maybe this year’s the year …
I knock on some wood. Even though April Fool’s Day has come and gone, winter’s a bitch that might have a few tricks left up her sleeve. I’m thankful she held back her wrath until the giant hole in our roof was fixed back up. Someone is watching over us.
Cassidy giggles as she holds her arms outstretched in front of her, allowing me to guide her by the shoulder. Lacking enough ribbon to tie the whole house up with a giant bow, I settled for a blindfold.
“You know I’ve been in and out of these rooms for the past two months, right?” She tries to peek, but I swat her hand away playfully.
In reality, she’s hardly set foot back here since my crew started construction. Once the plumbing in the kitchen was turned off, she had no reason to enter the work zone and relied on takeout food and the makeshift kitchen (a mini fridge and coffeemaker) I’d set up in the front room. She thinks she knows what she’s walking into, but I think I’ve finally succeeded in surprising her.
“So quiet back here without all those hammers,” she muses as we make our way to the darkened kitchen.
“You ready?” I ask, eager to see her face as I unveil years’ worth of dreaming, finally made into a reality.
“Yes!” she squeals. Gingerly I untie the blindfold and let it slip to the floor. I flick on the switch to my right, and like magic, our new kitchen illuminates before us.
The centerpiece of the kitchen is the huge quartz island, gleaming white and expansive below an antique cast-iron chandelier, its soft-glow bulbs highlighting the slight sparkle in the surface. Pot racks are suspended on either side of the light fixture, and a new set of copper pans gleam like new pennies. The old galley kitchen is replaced by dark-wood cabinets lining the perimeter of the room. To the left, built-in stainless-steel appliances shine beside more counter space. In the center of the wall is a twelve-paned window above a white farm sink. On either side of an arched doorway are more cabinets and the entrance to the walk-in pantry.
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