What We Carry Read online

  Old habits died hard. As if I were one of Pavlov’s dogs, my hand still reached for my bedside drawer to grab the thermometer as soon as the alarm sounded, even after we’d decided to take a break. By day three, I knew something had to be done. It took a few swipes of my angry thumb to delete the apps and throwing the thermometer in the trash to kill the habit.

  Over two months had passed, and I was still unsure about waiting. After the initial flare of anger, I’d fluctuated between relief and resentment, with daily doses of sadness. Confusion had reigned supreme. A baby out of love, he’d said. What did this mean? Was Owen so oblivious he thought babies floated from the heavens on the beak of a stork? Maybe he thought that because two people loved each other and wanted a baby, one just magically appeared nine months later. Perhaps only women knew how much more went into having a baby.

  Consumed by my obsession to make a baby, I’d neglected to think beyond conception and pregnancy. Relieved of my former routine, I now had plenty of time to focus on broader concerns. Suddenly, creating a baby was only the first of many obstacles that I’d never considered but now kept me up at night. Who’d watch the baby while we worked? Breast or bottle? Did we have enough money saved? Were we even cut out to be parents? The less time I focused on ovulation and conception, the more preoccupied I became with the magnitude of raising a human for eighteen years and beyond. At two in the morning, my eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling fan, conception seemed the easiest part in the equation. Unfortunately, I couldn’t even get that right.

  It was then, during the witching hours of the night, that other thoughts crept into my head. My life had rolled along on a very specific track, one I’d set upon at full speed with no room for doubt. First stop was a top college and veterinary school. Check. My education had landed me my dream career, and my hard work ensured that I was successful. Check. I’d met and married the man of my dreams; a healthy mixture of luck and timing had led me to Owen. Our mutual love and respect made our relationship survive and thrive. Check. A family was next. We had both assumed we’d know when the time was right to have children. Now we’d been married for over five years, with stable jobs and a nice home. The only thing missing from our perfect life was those children. At two in the morning, sleep a distant joke, I wondered why we wanted them. Lying awake, I was unable to answer that question. Conception seemed so much more straightforward than motherhood. As night brightened into day, I let the question slip away, tucking it back where it belonged. Off my track.

  Some days it was refreshing to live without planning around the days of my cycle, but my pesky internal clock refused to let me off the hook. The ebb and flow of Aunt Flow reminded us women of our empty wombs, a red river that signaled different things to different women. To some, it was a harsh mockery: Try again next month. To others it was a symbol of freedom—another month safe. Even though I no longer compulsively checked my apps, the promise of blood made it impossible to ignore my biological clock ticking down. So, while the burden had been lessened, a weight still sank to the pit of my stomach every twenty-odd days, and my heart was heavy with all that I carried.

  In an effort to focus on us, Owen surprised me with a weekend getaway to our favorite ski resort in New Hampshire. Initially I was irritated at his presumptuous gesture, aided by the help of my boss. Turned out a spontaneous weekend away was exactly what we needed to clear our heads and find our way back to each other at a time when we felt further apart than ever. While I packed my duffel bag, I resisted the urge to slip the ovulation strips (still tucked safely behind the tampons in the medicine cabinet) into the front pocket and slid in a pair of black lace undies instead.

  * * *

  Three inches of snow had fallen overnight, and the bright winter sun reflected sharply off the untouched surface, making the parking lot sparkle. The sun was only for display today, its rays shining down nothing but bitter white cold.

  Fumbling in my purse for my keys and sunglasses, I shivered against the chill. My body still loosened up from yoga, I jogged the rest of the way to my 4Runner, eager to hop inside. As I reached the door, a wave of light-headedness forced me to lean my forehead against the window to steady myself against the weakness in my knees. Once I’d heaved myself into the driver’s seat, my hands shook as I placed them on the steering wheel, leaving a trail of sweaty fingerprints on the leather. Skipping breakfast had been a mistake. My heart rate steadied and I breathed in, relishing the cool air in the car after the stuffy humidity of my Bikram class. This was my punishment for forcing myself out of bed for a seven AM yoga class. Only crazy people did such things.

  As I pulled out of the slippery lot, my phone rang. The familiar notes of “Free Fallin’” caused me to involuntarily smile.

  “Hey, babe,” I said, connecting to the Bluetooth. I hated Bluetooth—the echo annoyed me—but Owen had insisted I use it after my second run-in with a cop for talking while driving. My voice reverberated over the speakers, and I cringed. I’ve never liked the sound of my own voice. “What’s going on?”

  This was a rare weekend where we were both off from work. Despite not having any active jobs, Owen had been busy on his computer when I left for class. Usually his business slowed in the dead of winter, but it had been steady since he won the Bourne bid and he’d even been able to turn down customers, a luxury he’d never imagined. Assuming he’d be preoccupied until lunchtime, I’d planned on treating myself to a mani-pedi and maybe even a massage. Checking the clock, I hoped whatever he was calling about would leave time for the self-care I so desperately needed.

  “You home soon?” Owen asked, his deep voice playful over the stereo. “I have a surprise for you.”

  I hated surprises and Owen hated keeping secrets, so it was no wonder he was calling to warn me. Chuckling, I flicked the blinker with my left hand. “I’m almost home,” I said, turning onto our block. The snow was wet and heavy, sticking to the massive oaks lining both sides of Foxlea Road. Big wooded lots and wide, quiet streets were a few of the reasons we’d chosen this area of Lynn. The school district was another huge factor, but I pushed the flood of anxiety revolving around this issue to the back of my mind as I pulled in beside Owen’s truck.

  I took a moment to appreciate the splendor of the big farmhouse I called home. The bright black shutters on our old saltbox, painted a traditional barn red, framed the long windows like a set of eyelashes. It always looked as though the house were smiling.

  “Home,” I said, turning off the ignition. “Thanks for shoveling the driveway, by the way.” Ending the phone call, I pressed my other hand to my mouth as a surge of nausea rose to the back of my throat. I swallowed it back and grabbed my purse, eager to get inside. I hoped Owen’s surprise involved breakfast. Some pancakes and bacon sounded perfect right about now.

  * * *

  “What’s all this?” I pointed to all the papers covering our small butcher-block island. Owen sidled up to the edge and perched on one of the antique stools I’d found at a yard sale last spring. Anticipation was killing him, and he patted the seat next to him, eager to show me whatever it was he had in store for me.

  “Oh, just a little something I’ve been busy working on,” he said, smoothing out a large scroll of parchment paper. Leaning over, I planted a kiss on his cheek, causing him to scrunch his nose. “You’re all wet and gross,” he moaned, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.

  I shrugged and peeled off my coat. It stuck to my sweaty arms and fell in a wet heap to the floor. “Well, I did just spend ninety minutes in a hundred-degree room.” I sniffed my armpits and cringed. “I need a shower and food, ASAP.” My stomach growled to reiterate the point.

  “I promise I’ll make you breakfast, but first I want you to look at this,” he said, gesturing shyly at the papers in front of him, the dimple in his right cheek prominent as he bit the corner of his lip and lifted one eyebrow at me. He always looked so handsome when inspired. Following his gaze, I studied the complicated drawings and diagrams. It was a floor
plan—I could decipher as much—but that was the extent of my understanding.

  “We’ve always talked about making the kitchen bigger,” he started, looking around our cramped space. It retained its original layout, a U-shaped room with a formal wall separating the dining room on one side and a small butler’s pantry and tiny powder room off the other. While shopping for houses, we’d imagined buying a modern home with a trendy open-concept floor plan. After touring what felt like a million houses, we’d stumbled across this gorgeous old saltbox colonial built in 1854. Between the wide plank floors, high-beamed ceilings, and one-of-a-kind built-ins, we were smitten. We made an offer that same day. Soon we were envisioning ways to update the rambling layout while maintaining its authentic farmhouse roots. We decided to renovate slowly, one room at a time, but life kept getting in the way. Five years later and the house was exactly the same as when we’d bought it, creaky stairways and all.

  Owen’s blue eyes bored holes in my side, so I studied the plans a little closer. The blueprints were a puzzle to my untrained eye, but I’d picked up a few basics over the years. It was hard to live with Owen without getting an earful about architecture every once in a while.

  Turing my head side to side, I oriented myself on the paper and realized it was a blueprint of our kitchen. The shapes and scribbles came into focus. “Is that another room?” I asked, pointing to what might be an extension off one side.

  He nodded excitedly. “I’ll knock down the wall between the dining room and kitchen and extend the exterior wall in both directions. It would open up the space so we’d have room for an actual island,” he said, tapping our makeshift butcher block on wheels for emphasis. “The rest of the space could be a sun-room or an office, whatever we want it to be.” He pulled another sheet of paper out from beneath the plans. “Then I’d redo the back patio, adding a pergola over on this side …” He stopped, brow furrowed, as he let out a hurried breath. “You hate it?” Looking at me, his face fell.

  Shaking my head, I tried to smile, but bile rose in my throat again. The drawings swam before my eyes, and I pushed back from the island, scattering the blueprints every which way.

  I made it to the toilet just in time to see last night’s dinner come back up. Owen rapped on the door, and I let out a weak moan. “I’m okay,” I said, wiping my mouth with a tissue before flushing. “Just overdid it this morning on an empty stomach.” I could hear Owen just outside the door, unsure if he should come in and help or leave me be. “I’m okay, promise.” His footsteps backed away from the door.

  As I turned on the faucet, it hit me. Doing the math in my head, I counted back the days since my last period. I might not have the app on my phone, but I was unable to delete my innate knowledge of my body. My hands shook as I rummaged in the closet to find one of the tests I’d buried behind the decorative soaps and towels. Guilt washed over me as I peed on the stick and tucked it back into the closet, too scared to wait for the result.

  “Much better,” I said, closing the bathroom door and walking back to stand behind Owen. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I forced a smile. “Tell me more about this beautiful kitchen you’re making for me,” I whispered in his ear. His body relaxed at my touch, and another stab of guilt lodged itself in my chest. “Better yet, why don’t you tell me all about it as you make me some eggs.” My jaw ached from holding a smile for so long. An imaginary clock ticked down in my head.

  Rosie padded into the room, looking up at me expectantly. Thirty more seconds, a voice somewhere deep inside reminded me. Ignoring it, I grabbed the eggs from the fridge and busied myself helping Owen make breakfast. Rosie watched me, sensing my anxiety. She knew me too well.

  ♦   7   ♦

  CASSIDY

  May 22

  THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST ASKED IF I wanted something to ease the pain. Without hesitation, I said yes. What I didn’t tell him was that the contractions were nothing compared to the constriction in my chest and the relentless pounding in my head. I only hoped the drugs might help those too.

  You’re having a miscarriage. In case the lack of a heartbeat wasn’t evidence enough, the doctor was required to make it clear that our baby was dead. Miscarriage. Mis-carry. Such a peculiar word. To miscarry implied I’d carried my baby badly, or mistakenly. As far as I remembered, I’d done everything right. I’d taken my prenatal vitamins, even though the extra folic acid and iron made me sick. I’d avoided alcohol, sushi, and soft cheeses, even though I loved all three. At work, I’d relied on a technician to take the X-rays, even though I knew I took better images. I ate healthy and exercised, gaining the perfect amount of weight in my first few months. Like every good pregnant woman, I was a regular pincushion for blood tests, and each one had come back negative for abnormalities.

  I’d carried my baby well.

  Dr. Weinstein, the anesthesiologist, chatted away as he bent over the side of my bed. Not sure if he was talking to me or the nurses, I absently nodded but looked away as he pushed a plunger full of something promising to take away my pain into my IV. The nurses laughed as he joked about the Red Sox, but I couldn’t muster a smile. I’d always been a football fan anyway.

  Almost instantly the drugs warmed my body, sweet relief coiling into my veins and spreading toward my limbs. The doctor asked me something, but his voice was muted, like he was talking underwater. He seemed pleased with the result and floated backward out of the room. From the corner the television flashed its blue glare into the darkness, casting the room under a strobe light effect. Party in room 4B.

  On my left, Owen sat in the uncomfortable pink chair and tried to grab my hand, but my strength was slipping from me. Mumbling, I explained my body was like liquid lava, bubbly and hot and oozing, but my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth and my lips were glued to my teeth. The pounding in my head subsided, replaced by the steady whoosh of my heartbeat, growing louder with every beat. Lub-dub. Lub-DUB. LUB-DUB.

  “My heart,” I whispered, closing my eyes to better hear the sound. Owen leaned toward me, his jaw clenched against the tears he held back.

  He stroked my cheek, wiping away tears I hadn’t realized I’d cried. “I know,” he murmured, reaching over the bed and pulling me into a rib-crushing embrace. He squeezed harder, his cheek against my chest, as though he might hug me tight enough to keep my heart from breaking into a thousand pieces, but he was too late. I was already broken.

  “I hear it,” I said, taking his hand from under my heart and placing it on top of my stomach. “Is it the heartbeat?” I asked, pushing his hand harder against my belly, desperate for him to feel it. The sound I heard was much too fast to be my own heart. I tried to lift my head from the pillow to check the monitors, but it was too heavy; I was stuck. Panic crept to the surface. I needed a doctor. Someone needed to check on my baby. His heart was beating. They’d missed it before, but I heard it now. Lub-dub. Lub-DUB. LUB-DUB.

  Owen stood and tried to hold me down on the bed, his hands pushing on either shoulder, but I bucked against his palms. The drugs made me weak, but not too weak to fight for my baby. He grabbed for the buzzer to call the nurse, but I ripped it from his hands. “Cass, you need to lay back,” he pleaded with me, his face crumbling in despair. We both looked toward the doorway, but no one heard our struggle. It was just us. “The baby doesn’t have a heartbeat anymore,” he whispered, his lip quivering as he sniffed back the sadness in his own voice.

  My head was filled with marbles, each banging against one another as I shook it viciously at him, furious that he didn’t hear it, didn’t believe me. “I hear it.” I clutched my belly. “I feel it,” I insisted. LUB-DUB. Why couldn’t he hear it? The machines blipped louder and faster and I closed my eyes, each beep drilling a hole into my brain.

  Finally, a nurse rushed in, beckoned by the sound of the machines. Owen let out a relieved sigh. “How’s it going in here?” Her voice was low and raspy, like she’d just smoked a pack of cigarettes. Worry creased her already lined forehead as she looked back a
nd forth between us.

  Owen didn’t look at me. “I think she needs more of whatever the doctor gave her,” he said, his voice breaking. “She thinks the baby’s still alive.” As soon as the words were uttered, he began sobbing. “Please, give her something.” The nurse nodded and hurried from the room.

  When I opened my eyes—had it been seconds? minutes?—the doctor was back. Dr. Weinstein leaned over my bedside once again and plunged more of the liquid lava into my system. His brown eyes softened behind his dark-rimmed glasses. “Get some rest; you’ll be all right.” Slowly his voice faded away, and the whooshing became quieter and quieter until it was gone.

  Before I could say thank-you, darkness overcame me.

  * * *

  The entire process took less than an hour. Along with a little more sedation, Dr. Weinstein administered Pitocin, a drug that induced uterine contractions. The machine showed them coming fast and furious, but I felt nothing. Owen sat by my side the entire time, his face pale and drawn as he watched me push our baby into the world. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I stayed as silent as our baby.

  Dr. Mandini, the doctor on call tonight, explained to us what was happening each step of the way. I turned my head into the pillow, intent on blocking out her voice and thankful for the drugs that let me slip in and out of the room at will. Poor Owen didn’t have the luxury of sedation. By the time our baby was delivered, he’d run out of tears. All that remained were two salty streaks running down either cheek.

  “Is it over?” Owen asked. My ears perked to the answer I’d been waiting for.

  “She just has to deliver the placenta,” the doctor answered. Turning my head back to the wall, I let my body do the rest. Later I might marvel at the efficiency of the human body, but in this moment I hated it. Closing my eyes, I willed myself to go somewhere else. Owen squeezed my hand when the doctor finally called it.