What We Carry

by Kalyn Fogarty

  Untying the bow and lifting the lid, I gaze at the items inside the baby box. I’ve been afraid that my heart will shrink each time I accept a congratulations on my new pregnancy, the new baby taking up too much space in my chest, pushing my unborn son further from memory, where he’s at risk of being forgotten entirely. But it’s been over twenty years, and I still smile each time I think about Ryder and his friend Red. The heart makes room and never forgets.

  “Ryder,” I whisper into the empty room. I gently lay a faded Polaroid of my favorite pony into the box next to a stuffed bear before pulling out a candle I placed inside for a special occasion.

  Horses have always been a central part of my life. Ryder and Red were the beginning of my lifelong love affair with the majestic animals that taught me about responsibility, duty, death, and love. Ultimately, those two animals were the reason I became an equine veterinarian. It only makes sense that they’d once again steer the course of my life.

  “Apple or banana?” I chuckle, lighting the candle and watching the flames dance across the walls. Closing my eyes, I mourn for the baby I never met and welcome the love I feel for the baby I’ll soon be holding. In my heart I know I’ll always love my first son, but I’ll love my daughter too.

  ♦   43   ♦

  CLAIRE

  After

  May 1

  “YOU’RE SURE THE BOYS are okay downstairs?” Cassidy asks as she slides the loop of a set of purple curtains over a stainless-steel rod.

  Nodding, I lift a pale-pink sweater from the bin and feel my uterus swell. I fasten it to a tiny velvet hanger and add it the pile next to me. “Derek and Shane have snacks, a movie, and an emergency iPad, so they’re good for the rest of the day. The baby’s napping in the Pack ’n Play for at least another hour, so we have some time,” I say, picking up a navy striped dress. Smoothing the little sailor collar with my finger, I find another hanger. “Girl clothes are just so much cuter,” I muse. I pull out a pink ballerina skirt, all tulle and ridiculousness, as proof.

  “I don’t know. All those little bow ties and button-downs the boys always wore were pretty darn adorable,” she says, holding out one end of the rod for me to help hang across the long window. “It seems like everything for girls is covered in unicorns nowadays,” she adds, shrugging. “I mean, I love unicorns as much as the next girl, but she’s going to have more clothes with unicorns on them than without.”

  Laughing, I pick up a sweatshirt with none other than a wide-eyed and colorfully eyelashed unicorn on the front. “Well, unicorns are better than dinosaurs and arrows.” We step back and look approvingly at our curtain-hanging handiwork. “I don’t get the arrows. Seems very hipster to me,” I joke.

  “Speaking of unicorns …” Cassidy says, picking up a wooden plaque with a whimsical unicorn painted on the front. “Keeping it on theme, anyway,” she says, eyeing the walls for the perfect spot.

  “There,” I suggest, pointing to an empty space above the diaper table.

  She nods and lifts her hammer, tapping a nail into place. “Perfecto.”

  I busy myself hanging clothes while Cassidy sorts the bedding. She hums quietly as she works, her shoulders relaxed and whole demeanor carefree, a departure from her normally tightly wound self. Nesting suits my sister. Usually there’s more differences than similarities between us, but we share this quality. I loved setting up the nursery for each of my sons. Even though I could’ve left the room alone after each babe, I always changed the theme while keeping it gender neutral, since Steve and I kept the sex a surprise with all three pregnancies.

  As if reading my mind, Cassidy drops heavily to the floor, cradling her ever-growing belly as she tries to twist her legs into a comfortable position. “So, are you and Steve going to try one more time for a baby girl?” She starts folding the giant pile of onesies but gives up as she realizes they’re too small. “I know you said three was the magic number, but I can tell you’re coveting all these little dresses.”

  I shrug, not sure where I stand. I love my boy family. We’re happy and healthy and this is enough for me. Mostly enough. Sometimes, like now, when I’m surrounded by all this baby gear, my heart tugs me in another direction and I wonder if I won’t be complete unless I have one more. Fear is the only thing stopping me. Fear of disappointment if it’s another boy. I know I’ll love any child, girl or boy, but the pressure for the fourth to be our magical baby girl is so great I’m afraid I’ll feel more let down than I’m willing to admit.

  “There’s an awful lot of testosterone in my house,” I agree. She looks at me expectantly. Not long ago I might’ve held back the truth from her, but our dynamic has shifted these last few months. “I think we might try,” I say. “We both want a girl so badly, but I know there’s no guarantee. Then I wonder if we’re crazy for wanting four children. It seems excessive nowadays. But something’s missing,” I admit.

  Cassidy tilts her head, one of her signature tics, as familiar to me as my own tendency to crack my knuckles or bite my nails. “It would be amazing to have baby cousins so close in age,” she says, eyes twinkling at the thought.

  “We’re working on it,” I say, watching as she winces and places a hand against her belly. “You okay?”

  She nods, closing her eyes. “Fine,” she says finally. “Just Braxton Hicks.” Her voice wavers, and I can tell she’s more nervous than she’s letting on. “Promise, I’m fine. I already called my doctor in a panic earlier this week. I’m getting used to them.”

  “Must run in the family,” I say, relieved she spoke with her OB. I remember the pains well, the tugging and pulling of false contractions, nerve-racking for a woman already on the lookout for signs of labor. “I had them for weeks with all three. Don’t worry. You’ll know when it’s the actual thing,” I add. A dark cloud passes over Cassidy’s face, and my stomach twists. Shit. “Cass, I’m sorry. I’m an asshole,” I mumble, mortified that I’ve forgotten the details she shared with me after her loss.

  “Stop, it’s not your fault,” she says. Her eyes are heavy, but she manages a small smile. “What happened to me was far from normal. I have an idea of what to expect, but this is all unfamiliar territory,” she says. “It’s good to know you had them too. Definitely makes me feel better.”

  “It’s normal to worry. I can’t imagine being pregnant after what you went through. I’d be terrified. I’m terrified for you,” I add, hoping this won’t make her more scared. I only want her to know I’m here for her. “I’ve been so worried for you, I wanted to wait until your little bean was stuck for good before even thinking about having another one of my own,” I say, dropping my eyes to a pair of denim stretch pants with a ruffled bottom. “I thought it might break your heart if I got pregnant again,” I whisper. “I couldn’t do that to you.”

  Cassidy is silent, and I lift my gaze back to her. “I’d never begrudge you another baby,” she says, biting her lip. I know for certain she’d have been happy for me if I’d gotten pregnant. Still, she’s only human.

  “I know,” I say. “But I needed to make sure. I love you and didn’t want to add any more hurt to your heart, even if it was unintentional.”

  Cassidy nudges my foot with her own. It’s not a hug, but we’ve never been huggy sisters. “God, who’s acting like a silly overprotective big sister now?” she teases. “Kind of nice being the baby,” she says, smiling.

  “I owed you one,” I say, squeezing her foot.

  Downstairs, Rosie barks, and we both look toward the doorway, me straining to hear if the baby is awake and Cassidy listening for the sound of Owen’s car in the driveway.

  “Remember how you just said you loved me?” I say, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. She lifts a brow. “I need you to remember how much you love me.”

  “Why?” Before I can answer, the boys yell up the stairs, Grandma’s here!

  Cassidy whips her head toward me, mouth agape.

  “That’s why,” I say innocently, pushing myself up off the floor
quickly before she can kick me.

  She scowls and reaches out her hands. “Help me up, at least!” she says, through gritted teeth. Back on her feet, she levels me with a chilly stare. “Evil little genius,” she mutters.

  I blow a kiss over my shoulder and hustle down the stairs before she resorts to her favorite childhood punishment, the dreaded charley horse.

  * * *

  “Cassidy, you look so much bigger than the last time I saw you!” my mom exclaims as soon as Cassidy enters the kitchen.

  “Well, it’s been a while since Christmas …” Cassidy starts, before I catch her eye and mouth be nice.

  Pulling two Snickers bars from her purse, she hands one to each of the boys. “Now you run along and let Grandma talk to her own kiddies,” she says, ruffling Derek’s hair. He grimaces but allows the intrusion, since Snickers are his favorite and rarely allowed in our house. They obediently take their treats and scamper toward the den.

  Turning back toward us, Mom looks around the room. “Something’s different in here.”

  Rolling her eyes, Cassidy rests her elbows on the kitchen island. I bite my tongue, trying not to laugh.

  “Did you paint? I love this color,” Mom says, eyeing the counter.

  Cassidy looks to me, letting me answer. “Yes, Mom, she painted,” I say, chuckling. “They also added this giant island and redid the whole room, but I’m sure it’s the fresh paint color you’re noticing,” I add, unable to help myself. Cassidy’s sass is wearing off on me.

  “No need for the sarcasm,” Mom chastises, clucking her tongue. “Really, Claire, I’m not sure what’s gotten into you.” Cassidy comes to my side and elbows me.

  “Wine, anyone?” Cassidy chirps, embracing the role of golden child, even if it’s only for a moment.

  “Well, only if you girls will join me,” Mom says, pretending to eye her watch. “It’s five o’clock somewhere,” she titters, as if she didn’t utter the same phrase a million times in our youth.

  Cassidy makes herself busy pouring two large glasses of Chianti and a glass of iced tea for herself. “So,” she says, turning and sliding the drinks in front of us. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” She heads back toward the fridge and pulls out a block of cheese.

  Mom glares over her wineglass. My surprise attack is quickly disintegrating before my eyes.

  “I thought we should get together and talk,” I say, before Mom can sputter an indignant response. “Clear the air a bit.”

  Cassidy drops a hunk of cheddar onto a cutting board and shoots me the same look Mom is giving me from the other side of the island. If only they’d realize how similar they are, we wouldn’t be in this mess.

  Half standing from the stool, Mom grabs her purse. “Clearly I wasn’t invited here to receive an apology,” she says, rolling her shoulders back and lifting her chin. Cassidy stares back at her. Mom turns to me, waiting for an explanation. I’m at a loss for words.

  “No, Mom, I’m not apologizing,” Cassidy says, sighing. “But you’re welcome to stay and talk. I’d like to talk.” The bravado leaves her voice, and I let out a little breath. Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea. Cassidy heads to the pantry for some crackers, leaving Mom perched on her seat, unsure whether to stay or go. I shoot her a pleading look, hoping it’ll be enough to make her stay.

  She purses her lips but doesn’t get up. “One drink,” she concedes, taking a long sip of wine. “But I’m not sure I’ll stay for dinner.”

  Cassidy’s nostrils flare, but she bites her tongue.

  Thank you, I mouth.

  I hate you, she mouths back.

  * * *

  One drink turns into two. I try to keep up with Mom drink for drink, but before I know it, we’ve finished the bottle and most of a second.

  “I don’t understand why you’re so nervous about delivery,” Mom says, leaning her ample chest against the counter top while swirling the last of her wine in one hand and popping a slice of cheddar into her mouth with the other. “Women have been delivering babies since the dawn of time,” she says, as though this is a novel observation. “There’s nothing more natural than delivering a baby,” she finishes, sliding her glass toward me for a refill. Reluctantly, I pour her a small sip, finishing off the bottle.

  Cassidy and I exchange a look. After a few glasses of wine, Mom can be callous and sometimes cruel. It’s not a malicious meanness but one born of ignorance and naïveté. She never knows when to shut up.

  “I know, Mom,” Cassidy says, shaking her head. “I’m just anxious to get her here safe and sound. It’s not the actual delivery I’m worried about.”

  “I guess that makes sense. Considering all you’ve been through,” she says. I wince at the offhand way my mother acknowledges Cassidy’s miscarriage.

  “Yeah, losing the baby did shake me up a bit,” Cassidy says through gritted teeth.

  Clapping my hands together a little too loudly, I hope to break the growing tension in the room. Mom hardly notices Cassidy’s anger, which serves to infuriate my sister more. I’m precariously close to losing control of the already tenuous situation.

  “What about names?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation into safer territory. “Planning on keeping it a secret until the end?”

  Cassidy looks relieved. Fighting with Mom is tiring her out. Even the most stubborn have their breaking point.

  “We narrowed it down to two,” she says, instantly brightening. “Owen thinks we’ll know which suits her best once we see her, so I guess we won’t know until she’s born.”

  To the surprise of both of us, Mom laughs. “It’s true.” She turns away, drifting back in time for a moment. Cassidy and I exchange a glance. Mom rarely reminisces. Looking back to Cassidy, she smiles. “Your father wanted to name you Katherine, after his mother. But as soon as I saw you, I knew you weren’t a Katherine. Your eyes were so green and had this sparkle. Katherine seemed too … ordinary. You weren’t a girl that would be named after someone else.”

  Cassidy’s cheeks are flushed pink as she stares at Mom, entranced by this story we’ve never been told.

  “I poured through this big book of baby names that listed what each one meant. As soon as I came across Cassidy, I fell in love. ‘Clever,’ that’s what it means. I knew if I named my baby Cassidy, she’d grow up to be smart and curious.” Mom blinks, mouth lifting into a half smile. “And I was right.”

  At times like this I want to both hug and strangle Mom. All our lives, Cassidy and I have begged for little anecdotes like this one. I know for certain we’ve both asked about the origin of our names, but we were always met with the same response. I don’t remember. We just liked the name. We must’ve heard it somewhere. Boring, unsatisfactory answers that inspired nothing but disappointment. Why hasn’t she shared this story before? Looking at Mom now, her auburn hair spun with more gray than not and the lines around her eyes deepening every day, I wonder how things might have been different if she’d shared these memories with us. Maybe it would have been easier to look past her shortcomings and focus on all the good times. Or maybe glimmers of this othermom only highlight that she was capable of being better and chose not to be.

  “I guess Owen’s onto something then,” I murmur, looking between my sister and Mom. I glimpse the vibrant young woman Mom once was, overwhelmed by motherhood. For a moment it’s there, the past so vividly recalled, but just as quickly it disappears, leaving the three Marshall women, all grown up.

  ♦   44   ♦

  May 13 CASSIDY 9:17 AM

  SHE HASN’T MOVED ENOUGH today. Lately it feels like she’s trying to break free of her ever more constricting confines, unable to turn around and settling for karate chopping me in the bladder every few minutes. Bracing myself against the cool subway tiles, I let the scalding water beat against my aching back while firmly pressing my hand against my bulging belly. I tap two fingers above my belly button—wake up!

  Closing my eyes, I grimace as a wave of pain radiates from
my shoulders to my toes. The pain tightens its grip on my stomach and squeezes my already sore lower back so hard I see stars blur on the periphery of my vision. The contraction ebbs away and I drop my head, letting my wet hair hang limply against my back.

  My baby is the size of a spaghetti squash or a pineapple, depending on the app. She’s nearing her full height but only weighs around four or five pounds at this point. Hopefully she’s begun her downward decent into the uterus so she’ll be in position for birth in a few weeks. According to my OB, she’s running out of room to turn. I hope this is why I don’t feel the constant swooshing of her swimming in my belly. Maybe she’s found her spot.

  The Braxton Hicks started a few weeks ago. The only thing consistent about them is their inconsistency. Today they’re especially bad, stronger and closer together than ever before. I rest my hand on my hip, pushing against the pressure of the ache but finding no relief. Thankfully I’m off from work. My only appointment is with the couch and television.

  I open my eyes against the hot water. A sharp, knifelike pain stabs into my side, and before I can turn off the faucet, I’m doubling over, clutching the wall for support. Grabbing for the curtain, I catch myself before my disproportionate body loses its balance and slips in the tub. Swallowing back the sudden urge to vomit, I cling to the curtain, hot water pelting me in the chest as I struggle to catch my breath. The pain comes back and hits me in the same spot, but this time I’m ready and breathe out heavily through my mouth, dizziness threatening to overcome me. Gazing up at the overhead light, a pretty fixture Owen installed right after we moved in, I watch the steam rise and curl toward the exhaust fan before dancing out through the ceiling. I focus on the steam, imagining there’s fresh air somewhere up there, if I can only sniff it out.