What We Carry Read online

  “Owen,” Cassidy gushes, running her fingertips along the island. “I can’t believe this is the same kitchen,” she says, eyes darting from one thing to the next. Her gaze falls to the floor, where new stone tile has replaced the old scuffed wood.

  “Ready to see the rest?” I ask, eager to show off every square inch of what I’ve created for her, for us.

  She laughs, fixing her dazzling smile on me. “There’s more?”

  Suddenly bashful, I take her hand to lead her down the hallway. On our left, the old powder room has been replaced with a modern guest bath. The walls are painted a light gray and the ceilings are open and airy, unlike the old bathroom, which always made me feel like I was peeing under a staircase.

  “Is it me, or is everything taller?” she asks, looking up at the ceiling.

  It’s like she can read my mind. “We raised the ceiling. I was sick of feeling like a giant in a Hobbit house,” I kid, although it’s exactly how I felt when standing in the back half of our old saltbox. “I was afraid raising the ceiling might stray too far from the original architecture, but we were able to maintain the overall shape of the house while adding a few vertical feet to the back rooms.”

  She nods appreciatively, looking up and noticing the ceiling. “Oh my god!” she exclaims, eyes wide. “Is that a copper tin ceiling?” The brushed surface reflects against the soft lighting.

  I just smile and nod, basking in her happiness. “Close your eyes,” I say, turning to face her. “Don’t make me blindfold you again,” I threaten. She rolls her eyes at me but lets her lids flutter down, her eyelashes almost grazing her cheeks. I steer her farther down the hall to the final reveal.

  “Ta-da!” I exclaim, and she opens her eyes.

  She raises her hand to her mouth before letting it fall to her heart. Although not a huge space, the last room is lined on two sides by floor-to-ceiling windows, making it appear much larger than the twelve-by-twelve listed on the blueprints. Centered in the back wall are a set of original French doors that open up to the new stone patio. On either side, picture windows are set above built-in desks and custom cabinets. Along one side is a suede sectional with an assortment of blankets and pillows. I envisioned her reading one of her novels curled in one corner when I designed the room.

  “Owen,” she whispers, her eyes filling with tears. “It’s perfect,” she says, stepping toward me and hugging me tightly. “Did you pick out all this furniture?” she asks, unable to hide the surprise from her voice.

  “I know how to decorate, you know,” I tease. “I just always let you handle the decor, since you enjoy it so much,” I joke. “Look at the ceiling in here,” I say, pointing above us. Although I’m capable of picking a paint color, I’ll always be more interested in the grain of the wood or the shape of a unique doorframe. “Isn’t it amazing?”

  She glances up as I point to the slight slope of the ceiling and the thick wooden beams evenly spaced against the stark white ceiling.

  “We tried to keep the authenticity of the original house, since we raised the ceiling so much higher in the other rooms. We pitched is back down here so from the exterior view it has the same dimensions as its original shape.”

  “You’re a genius,” she says, smiling up at me. I look for any indication she’s being facetious, but there’s nothing but admiration in her eyes.

  “I should have done this years ago,” I muse, shaking my head. “Always waiting for a better time,” I say, squinting down at her. “Turned out there was never a perfect time.” I shrug, trying to chase away the nagging regret threatening to ruin the moment. I reach out and rest my hand on her belly. “Obviously, doing this at the end of the winter while you’re seven months pregnant was the best time to start,” I joke. Beneath my fingers, I feel our baby girl kick. Someone agrees with me.

  “Nothing like a little pressure to get things rolling,” she teases, laying her hand over mine. The baby kicks a little harder.

  We stand in silence a few moments, both lost in our own worlds before turning to face each other, coming back together.

  “Thank you,” she says, leaning into me. “Thank you for doing this for us.”

  I’ll do anything for you, I think, and hug her tighter. “I should have done it sooner.” I kiss the crown of her hair and pull away, taking her left hand in my own. “Let me show you the patio,” I say, leading her out the French doors and into the bright April sunlight. “Not trying to boast, but the fire pit is fucking amazing.”

  ♦   42   ♦

  CASSIDY

  After

  April 29

  WHOEVER DESIGNED THE STORE layout at Beyond Babies is either a psycho or a complete genius. The diapers are nowhere near the diaper bags. The car seats are on the opposite end of the store from the strollers. The bottles aren’t next to the pumps, and I’ve no idea where to start looking for binkies or bibs. Incredibly frustrating but guaranteed to ensure that you walk the entire store perimeter to find the one thing you came for. Along the way I’ve managed to pick up way more stuff than I needed, which is exactly the intent of this macabre layout. My arms are full, and I regret forgoing the cart at the front of the store.

  Weaving through maternity, I find my way to customer service, the whole purpose of my journey into this maze. Sliding into line behind a young woman with an infant strapped to her chest, I shift the breast pump I need to return to my other arm and almost drop the whole lot of crap I’m holding. Thankfully, my giant belly catches the onesies before they fall to the floor. The baby in the carrier yawns before settling back to sleep just as my own little one does somersaults inside, kicking me squarely in the bladder.

  Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I try to distract myself from my sudden need to pee. “Shit!” I mutter, swiping too hard and sending my phone flying from my palm. If I hadn’t been holding a three-hundred-dollar pump in one hand, I might have been able to save the iPhone, but now I only hope its rubber case will protect it from shattering on the tile.

  “I got it,” the girl, who can’t be older than twenty-three, says brightly as she bends, hand cradling the back of her infant’s sleeping head, to scoop my phone from the floor. I envy her flexibility.

  “Thanks,” I say, flashing her a quick smile while avoiding eye contact. Awkward small talk is the last thing I’m in the mood for, and I pray the girl will turn around and follow the unwritten code of customer service line etiquette.

  “How far along are you?” she asks, her hand stroking the peach fuzz on the back of her baby’s head. “I miss being pregnant,” she says, sighing and looking down at her own living and breathing baby wistfully. “I can’t wait until he’s a bit older so I can have the next one.”

  Straightening the bottom of my oversized sweater, I pull it a little tighter over my bump. For a second I contemplate frowning at the girl and denying I’m pregnant at all. Undoubtedly, she’d double back in horror at her blunder and apologize, maybe even turn back toward the front of the line. I decide I can’t be so mean to this naïve girl.

  “Seven months,” I say. The girl cocks her head and looks adoringly at my belly. She keeps grinning at me, waiting for my next response. Social decorum sinks in and I resign to the conversation, now that any chance of escape seems slim. “How old is your little guy?” I note the boy’s tiny lips puckered around a blue binky. His head is covered in a layer of blond hair so light it’s almost white, and his eyebrows match. “He’s beautiful.” This pretty young lady has created a very attractive baby.

  “Ten weeks tomorrow,” she answers quickly. “Time’s just flying by. I can’t believe he’s almost three months already!” she exclaims, her voice rising. The boy’s eyes flutter at the sound of his mom’s voice, but stay closed. “I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she says, gesturing toward her perfectly matching yoga pants and top. “I feel like such a slob. He hasn’t been eating or sleeping well, and I’ve hardly had any time to get back in shape.” I can’t tell if she’s serious. Eyeing her slim body and perf
ectly curled hair, I wonder what she looked like before the baby if this constitutes a mess.

  “You look great,” I reassure her. I’m sure I’m not the first and won’t be the last to tell her the same thing. I doubt she realizes most normal women don’t bounce back as quickly, especially when they’re over thirty.

  “I’m Victoria,” she says, holding out a slender hand that I take gingerly in my own, painfully aware of my rough cuticles and callused fingers compared to her neat manicure. “This is Cody,” she adds, beaming at her son. “He only sleeps in this carrier.” She laughs, her voice high and brittle. Her eyes, though startingly blue, are tinged with red and ringed with purple hollows beneath the lashes.

  “Cassidy,” I say, as the line shifts forward a few inches. I glance down at my phone. No text or calls, no clients reaching out with questions about their horses. My phone’s only silent when I’m bored and eager for a distraction.

  “Is this your first?” Victoria asks, her pale, unlined face turning back in my direction.

  “Sorry?” I ask, pretending to be engrossed in my locked cell screen.

  “Your first child?”

  The air crackles between us, my senses charged and on high alert. A sharp stab of anger hits just above my temple and radiates down by body, working its way into my chest and gripping my heart, clenching it in its hot grasp and squeezing. It’s been a while since someone has triggered this familiar sensation, but it settles into my bones like the cancer it is. There are only two acceptable answers to this question—yes, I have others, and no, I don’t. My answer is not so black-and-white. I see red and answer with the unacceptable truth.

  “I don’t have any other living children, but I miscarried my son at twenty weeks last year,” I say through gritted teeth. “So, no, this isn’t my first pregnancy, and yes, I’ve had another child, although this will be my first live one.” The beast inside me rages as Victoria’s cheeks warm from pink to a violent red. Her lip begins to quiver, and her shoulders shake. As tears start to well in her eyes, the current in the air fizzles as the beast, victorious, retreats and my anger deflates.

  Swearing under my breath, I take a step forward. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean to attack you.” I feel my own composure slipping now that Victoria is openly crying.

  She shakes her head, mascara streaming down both cheeks. “No, I’m sorry,” she sobs. “I’m sorry about your baby. My mom lost two babies when I was growing up,” she says, sniffling. “It destroyed my parents.” She shakes her head but doesn’t wipe away the tears. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

  The other women in line watch us. A few children gawk while their mothers shush them and instruct them not to stare. She lets me take her hand as I struggle to find my voice. “Please, don’t apologize. I don’t know why I said those things,” I whisper, the back of my throat threatening to close. I need water and fresh air. “I’m sorry,” I mutter again, feeling light-headed. “I need to go.” Handing Victoria the breast pump with the receipt taped to the top, I turn on my heels and drop the rest of my stuff on the counter.

  “But—your return!” she calls out, causing baby Cody’s eyes to blink open. He lets out a blood-curdling scream, letting everyone in line know exactly how he feels about being so rudely woken up.

  “Keep it,” I stutter, pushing past the few people in front of us in my hurry to the exit. My belly bumps up against another heavily pregnant woman, who sneers and clutches her stomach protectively.

  The automatic doors slide open and I suck in the cool, spring air like a drowning woman coming up from the depths. As I stumble off the curb, a Prius squeals to a stop and I wave in their direction as I hurry to my SUV across the lot. As I open the door, my phone beeps. Pulling it out, I see all the missed calls and texts. Cleary the store was a dead zone. I resist the urge to throw the phone out the window and lean my forehead against the steering wheel, allowing the tears to finally fall.

  * * *

  My parents refused to buy me a pony of my own but agreed to pay for riding lessons at a local farm when I was nine years old. For two summers I rode an old pony named Ryder, a midsized gelding with long, shaggy brown hair. Ryder wasn’t the most beautiful horse on the farm, but he was dependable and steady and loved to be brushed and “fixed”—something I enjoyed even more than the actual riding. Ryder obediently stood on the ties every Tuesday while I wrapped his legs in bandages, pretending to fix a broken ankle or an imaginary cut on his forearm. I’d spend hours washing the white socks on his legs until they shone and were scrubbed to surgical standards, a detail my trainer found quite odd. Ryder loved bananas and root beer popsicles and would lick my face with his fat, semidry tongue every time I gave him his favorite treats.

  One Tuesday Ryder wasn’t in his stall when I arrived. My trainer tried to intercept my parents before they dropped me off, but she was too late.

  “Where’s Ryder?” I asked, ready to fetch him from the paddock. Most of the other girls hated schlepping out to the fields to catch a pony from his muddy turnout, but I loved it. I’d rather spend my time at the barn currying a dirty pony than practicing trot drills and canter transitions.

  My trainer, a leathery older woman who rarely smiled and preferred barking her orders, leaned down and put a hand on either of my shoulders. Her muscular fingers dug into my skin harder than I liked, and I remember being slightly frightened but also curious.

  “Ryder got a terrible stomachache last night,” she said to me, looking me square in the eye. Her wrinkled face softened, and this strange change in her face scared me worse than the words coming out of her mouth. “He passed away this morning. He was too old for surgery, and his poor stomach was twisted up really bad.” So used to her furrowed brow and pursed lips, I couldn’t make sense of the firm but gentle words she spoke. “Cassidy, Ryder died last night. He lived a long life here with me on the farm, and he taught a lot of little girls about horses,” she said, nodding her head as she spoke. “I know you loved him a little extra special,” she said, patting my shoulders before releasing me from her grasp. “And he loved you back.”

  I still remember her eyes watering as she told me that old lesson pony loved me back. Ryder didn’t belong to me. He was owned by the stable and loved by many others, but she acknowledged my special feelings for him. She saw the impact he had on my life, and she honored Ryder’s memory by reminding me how much the pony loved me, even though I only saw him every Tuesday.

  For the rest of the summer, I stayed away from the barn. Tuesday afternoons I locked myself in my room and stared at the few pictures my parents had captured of me and Ryder together. I didn’t have many, but I had enough to spread out on my bed, and every Tuesday I lay down across all those pictures and cried into the comforter.

  One Tuesday, while I was on my way upstairs for my weekly Ryder sob-fest, the phone rang. My trainer’s raspy voice echoed down the line.

  “Cassidy, hon, we miss you at the barn. I know you miss Ryder, but his best friend at the stable is looking for a new girl to help take care of him,” she said in her clipped Boston accent. “Big Red misses Ryder too,” she said, referring to the tall red horse that lived in the stall beside Ryder and had shared a pasture with my old pony friend before he passed. “He needs someone to bandage up his legs, and you know none of the other girls do half as good a job as you,” she teased. Even though she was poking fun at me, we both knew it was the truth, and I swelled with pride. I groomed and cleaned stalls better too.

  I hesitated, the familiar buzz of a landline humming in my ears. “Do you know if Big Red likes bananas, or does he prefer apples?” I asked, hoping the big horse might share Ryder’s affinity for weird treats.

  Trainer cackled. “You know what? I haven’t asked him. How about you bring one of each and ask him yourself?”

  I considered the offer. I missed Ryder with all my heart and feared no other horse could replace him. But Big Red missed Ryder too. He had probably been lonely and confused since Ry
der left. Maybe, just maybe, I could learn to love Big Red too.

  “Okay,” I agreed, the promise of a new horse to love filling me with excitement. “Oh, but first I need to stop at the store for some fruit.”

  Smiling at the memory, I stroke the box resting on my lap. My fingers toy with the blue ribbon holding the cover closed, keeping all my memories locked inside. Just when I think I’m finally moving on, days like today remind me how far I’ve still left to go. I wince at the way I treated poor Victoria, a virtual stranger only trying to make polite conversation. Like an asshole, I made a snap judgment based on nothing but the way she looked. In a haze of anger and jealousy, I assumed she’d never felt pain or heartache because she held a beautiful baby in her arms and had asked me a question she could never have known would trigger such an outrageous reaction. For some reason I took it upon myself to use my painful story as a weapon to teach her a lesson.

  Turns out I’m the one who needed to be taught something. I was wrong about Victoria, so very wrong. Maybe she was blessed with an easy pregnancy, but her own mother had known loss and Victoria had grown up with that shadow in her life, the ghosts of two siblings who never were. Instead of blaming me for my harsh assumptions, she accepted my apology and empathized with me despite my horrible behavior.

  Victoria wasn’t the first to ask that question; she was just the first I blasted with the truth. It’s been my responsibility to protect others from the discomfort the truth elicits, even though it’s hurt my heart every time. Today I snapped. Poor Victoria was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back.