“Speaking of reading,” Mark sighs, leaning back, the bucket creaking under the weight. “Did you ever read my novel The Milk Maid?” He chuckles before I can respond. “Never mind. You did. I think you referred to it as ‘hick porn’.”
I glare at him. “I hope you’re not suggesting we spend this time—”
“I’m not.” He cuts in, almost sternly, with a look that warns me away from finishing the thought. In the novel, a farmhand and a lost socialite get stuck in a barn during a snowstorm. They spend the next five hours in a variety of sexual positions, most of which had me setting down the book—the scenes uncomfortably graphic. “I was just going to say…” He gives me a look of mild contempt, like I’m the one with the dirty mind, and he’s the picture of innocence. “I wrote that book right here in this barn. On a night like tonight. Waiting on a cow to birth.”
“Shocker.” I drawl, though the information does interest me. My ideas always come from the strangest places, the most random of situations. Bethany once cut her hand on the edge of her dollhouse, and I—while cleaning the cut—had the idea for a colony of blood-dwellers: minuscule people who live in our bloodstreams, their lives in continual upheaval, depending on tiny things that occur to our bodies—the flu for example, or a cut such as hers. The idea had been so strong, so visually there, that I stopped in the midst of the first aid, hurrying down the hall and to my office, a scene sketched out on paper—right then, before it slipped my mind. Simon had come home to find Bethany still standing on the stool by the sink, her sleeve soaked in blood, the water running, and had flipped out. He’d interrupted my scene, my entire thought process, with his yelling, face red and furious, as if she’d been dying or something. He always did that. Over-exaggerated the unimportant and under-focused on the things that had mattered. He’d told my mother about the instance, and a simple writing sprint had become another building block that was later used against me. So much drama, all over a book I had never ended up writing.
It’s funny, how book ideas often seem so brilliant when they first appear. It takes weeks of work to really discover the potential of a story, if there is any at all. Looking around this big barn, the privacy of it, the dusty smells in the air… it’s not a giant stretch to see what he had imagined. The door creaking open, a blonde head peeking in, worry across her face, her designer heels wobbly on the loose dirt. And then, around the corner comes a six foot tall, muscular man, his jeans dirty, t-shirt stretched tight across broad shoulders, a shy smile breaching that gorgeous face. Because, you know—all farmhands are undiscovered male models. And all super-hot blondes drive alone, cross-country, through snowstorms.
“So you wrote all of it?” I ask, glancing over at him. “The entire thing? While waiting on a cow to be born?”
“Not all of it. But the first six or seven chapters.” He stretches his neck to one side and yawns, his Adam’s apple bobbing amongst the stubble on his neck. “I keep some notebooks in the storage room. Just in case inspiration strikes. I can grab one now if you want to work a little.”
I consider it. “No, I’m good.” Right now, the thought of diving into the past and discussing it with him is exhausting. Maybe later tonight, if I don’t get sleepy—we can work. Already today, I’ve thought too much about the past.
Mater’s head suddenly lifts, and I watch her tail swing upward, a motion that has happened a dozen times in the last hour. My shoes jerk back when her hind legs flex, a volley of liquid spewing from her rear, and I scramble to my feet at the same time that Mark straightens. He smiles at me and raises his eyebrows. “Looks like the excitement is starting.”
I pull down on the edge of my shirt and examine the fresh pool of liquid, one quickly absorbed by the dirt. I move along the stall wall, my butt bumping against the wood as I edge around to stand beside him, my eye nervously fixed on Mater, who was sniffing her discharged water as if surprised by it. “Is it coming?” I ask.
“Soon. She’ll most likely lie back down to have it.”
Another change in position. My heart goes out to the big girl, one who seems so laborious in her movements, her joints creaking whenever she struggles into place. I steal the bucket from him and sit. “Does it always take so long?”
“I suppose you were faster?” he asks, and I don’t like the question. I wasn’t faster. I was a terrible birther. I prepared for every possibility and still came up short, all of my perfectly timed huffs and puffs and pushes—all inadequate. It was as if my body agreed with my heart and put up a roadblock against the oncoming child. After all, I’d never wanted a child. It had been Simon who had pushed. Pleaded. Begged. Threatened. I had merely, after two years of arguing, given up. One baby, I had made him promise. Just one. And, after that day in the hospital, after that emergency surgery… that promise hadn’t really mattered. One baby was the only possibility that remained.
“Helena?”
“I wasn’t faster.” The words nip off my lips, and anyone with any sense would leave it alone.
“Tell me the story.”
“No.”
“You’re going to have to tell me at some point. Might as well be now.”
He’s right. A few days ago, he wrote the wedding scene—the small church packed with strangers, all Simon’s guests, Simon’s friends, Simon’s family. My mother had been the lone face in the crowd that I had recognized, her face beaming, a handkerchief gripped in her hand as if there was a chance of tears. Two days ago, we wrapped up our first year of marriage, and covered much of the pregnancy. We are only a chapter or two away from Bethany’s birth. I tug on the end of my ponytail and a few strands come free.
“Helena?”
Mater has stopped her sniffing of the water, and I watch her back stiffen, muscles flexing in effort. I sigh. “We were at home when my contractions started. I was writing—working on Deeply Loved. We started to time the contractions, with a plan to go to the hospital when they were four minutes apart.”
He nods.
“It was on the way to the hospital that I realized something was wrong. I told Simon to stop, to pull over. I was cramping, and wanted to move to the backseat, where I could lie down. But he wouldn’t listen.” I swallow. “He was so intent on getting to the hospital. He screamed at me to shut up and breathe. That’s what he said. ‘Shut up Helena. For once, just shut up.’” And I had, one of the rare moments when I listened to him. “The pain—I remember closing my eyes and wondering if I would pass out from it.” I hadn’t. I’d been conscious when he’d slammed to a halt in front of the emergency room doors. My head had hit the window and I’d cursed at Simon. The baby, he had said. Don’t curse in front of the baby. His voice, when he said those words—I can still hear it now. The excitement, the happiness that had been in those syllables. They had sparked something in me, a flood of anger. I was there, in such agony, and he was happy. Happy over this thing that he had done, that he had wanted, that he had caused. Yet, he wasn’t the one whose back ached. He wasn’t the one who had leaked pee all over his panties. He wasn’t the one that wanted to die, the fat woman that had crammed her swollen feet into sneakers, the one being pulled out of the car by strangers. Even now, the memory of that voice infuriates me. It shouldn’t, but it does.
Mater moans, and I wish I could do something to help her.
Two hooves come out first, pinned together so tightly I thought they were fused. They travel slowly, like thick honey from a bottle, and then stop, right at the knees, the hooves sticking straight out as the cow appears to give up, her head dropping, her contractions ceasing.
“What’s happening?” I look to Mark, thinking about the baby calf, his tiny lungs struggling to breathe, squashed inside her body.
“Relax. Give her a moment.”
Her moment stretches painfully long. I am lightheaded by the time her muscles clench, and there is another slow push that uncovers the nose, then the face, and I lean forward as it comes out.
Oh my god. It’s amazing to see, the rest of the calf suddenly out, slick and sudden, and my heart grips as his body slumps onto the dirt. He is soaked in internal fluids, his eyes closed, pieces of the embryotic sac still around him. He doesn’t move, hasn’t done so much as twitch, and a sudden pain flares in my chest. I can’t be here. I can’t be watching this. What if he’s dead? I suddenly regret it all—getting on that plane, the wind on my face as we’d ridden across that field—this isn’t exciting and different, it’s dangerous on my psyche, on my body. I could get a respiratory infection from breathing in this filthy air, I could get pneumonia if the chill drops further. I don’t have an extra jacket, have exhausted the hand sanitizer in my bag, and have nothing to shield my heart from the possibility that this calf, this beautiful creature as big as Bethany, is dead.
Mater lumbers to her feet, her tail swiping across the calf in the process, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react, doesn’t MOVE. I stare at his side, and will it to expand. He should be breathing, I should be able to see the lift and drop of his ribcage, I should see something. I step back. Mater’s body pivots as her head comes over to the still body, her nostrils flaring as she huffs along the length of him. Her tongue, dark and purple, comes out, and I blink back tears as she licks him, her movements firm and purposeful. She doesn’t realize he’s dead, and it’s heartbreaking to watch her clean it. Her body swings closer, and my view of the calf is blocked as she rocks his body with her muzzle, dirt caking to his wet and bloody skin.
“Helena,” Mark’s voice is soft and he waves his hand. “Come here. Look.” He points to the calf, and I move quickly to his side.
The baby’s eyes are open, and as I watch, his head shakes in a quick, sudden shudder of movement. A gasp slips from me, and I lift my hand to my mouth, turning to Mark for a quick moment. “He’s alive!” I whisper. I can’t help the goofy smile that yanks apart my lips, and I curl my fingers against my mouth, grinning like an idiot as the baby lifts his head. It took so long for me to just have eye contact with Bethany, for her to be able to focus on my face and understand what she was seeing. In contrast, this calf seems to immediately grasp the situation, and he surveys his position on the ground, most of his wet fur caked in dirt, his mother already moving away, her head lifting as she settles into a more comfortable stance, her eyes dropping closed as if to say There. My job is done. Mark steps to the side, flipping over the bucket and turning on a spigot, filling it with water, her eyes flicking open, one ear tilting toward him. “Mark,” I cry out, watching the calf get one of his back feet planted, then a second. He’s doing it all wrong, his front knees still on the ground, and he’s going to topple over at any moment.
“Give him time,” Mark says, his hand on Mater’s forehead, his voice dropping as he says something to her, the bucket bumping against his thigh as he holds it for her.
“Something’s wrong.” The calf is now hobbling around on his front knees, his journey taking him close to Mater, who could easily step left and crush him. “Something’s wrong with his front legs.” A cow can’t live, not like this, his knees not sturdy enough for everyday life. He will be ostracized by the other cows. Maybe Mater will refuse to let him drink her milk. Maybe this is why, less than ten minutes after birth, she is ignoring him, her head dropping, eyes closing.
“He’ll figure it out.” Mark hangs the bucket on the wall and comes to stand beside me, his arms crossing over his chest, his elbow bumping gently into my shoulder. “Just watch.”
There is nothing to watch but a crippled little baby cow, one who is crawling on his front knees, underneath his mother’s belly, pitifully short without the full contribution of his front legs. Then…
I hold my breath as he gets one hoof up, his head lifting as he heaves his weight onto it, the movement almost triumphant as the second hoof joins the first, his initial stand one of the sprawled legs, uncoordinated variety.
I lean my head on Mark’s shoulder without thinking about it, filled with a sudden burst of happiness, one that blooms brighter as the calf turns his head and looks back at us, as if to say See what I did? All by myself? “He’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“She.” Mark reaches forward and points. “See? A girl.”
He is right. With Bethany, I missed all of this. I was put under for surgery and woke with a screaming baby in ICU, one I was told was mine. I didn’t get to see her like this, covered in blood and mucus, straight from my womb. I didn’t get to see the moment she opened her eyes, or the miracle of her birth.
Maybe if I had, I would have felt differently about her.
Maybe if I had, I would have loved her more from the start.
I look into that baby cow’s eyes and I swear—as stupid as it sounds—I see the twinkle of Bethany’s spirit in those giant dark depths. I feel her spirit in the first triumphant step. And I feel her in the immediate love I have for this giant spindly bundle of bovine.
It makes no sense, yet still, the happiness is there.
“It’s not a vacation. We’re working. Mark had to come home, I came with him.” I shift my weight, leaning against the kitchen’s doorframe, my voice lowered as I speak into the cell phone. My explanation sounds wrong, like it is something different, like Mark and I are friends and not just business associates. “So we could work,” I repeat.
“Are you having… fun?” Kate delivers the question doubtfully, and this conversation is already stretching too long.
Mark taps a spoon on the edge of the pot and I glance at him, then turn away. I ignore Kate’s question. “Did you call for something?”
“I was just checking in. I do want to talk to you about your book… the one you are writing with Mark… whenever you have a chance.”
“So talk.” Whenever I have a chance? What a dumb thing to say.
“Oh. Well. I mean, we don’t have to talk about it right now.”
Irritation flares. “You just brought it up. So talk about it.”
A long pause. “Oh-kay.” She sighs, as if she is about to step into war. “I need more information so I can prepare a pitch.”
“No.” The word falls instinctively off my lips. At some point, someone will read these words. Millions will. But not now. Not with Kate.
“No?” The word squeaks out, and she clears her throat. “Then when?”
It’s not a ridiculous question. By now, I should have sent over an outline. Kate would review it, send back some questions—and it would be packaged and sent off to Jackie—the editor of my last eight books, the editor who always loves everything, and always pays whatever we demand. But this book is different. Jackie will hate it. That’s why I picked Tricia Pridgen, an editor who likes twisted books drenched in truth and void of a happy ending. But Pridgen won’t buy a book she knows nothing about. I know this, yet I can’t bring myself to do an outline, or even a summary. I can’t deal with that emotion, and I can’t yet share this story with Kate.
“Soon,” I lie. “We need to get further on it first.” I watch as Mark turns off the burner. “I’ve got to go.”
“Okay. Be safe.”
Be safe. The last words I said to Bethany. Be safe. Did I tell her I loved her? I’ve tried, for four years, to remember. I don’t know that I did. I’m afraid I was too distracted to do more than kiss her goodbye.
“Helena?”
I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. “I’ll talk to you later.” I end the call and push the phone into my back pocket, struggling with the simple task, my hands thick and clumsy.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine.” I step into the kitchen. His home is so different from my own. Rich brown leather, burlap curtains, wood-stained walls and clusters of family photos. In my house, I’ve removed every reminder of Bethany and Simon. Here, even in the kitchen, Mark is surrounded by images of his wife, her wide body pressed to his side, her arms slung around his neck, her astride a horse, by
a waterfall, and next to a puppy. Maybe he fears forgetting her. Maybe he thinks that, if he has enough reminders of her, it’s like she’s still alive.
But it isn’t. I’ve spent over a thousand nights surrounded by Bethany. I’ve wrapped myself in her sheets, smelled the clothes in her drawer, and flipped through photo albums until my fingers bled from paper cuts.
Nothing replaces having her in my life, her feet pounding down my hall, her shriek of laughter in the air. And nothing makes the loss easier. Distractions are the best we can hope for. Short windows of time when the sadness breaks.
I lean against the edge of the counter, watching as he turns on the faucet and washes his hands. “I don’t have pictures of Bethany in the house.” I have to speak loudly to be heard over the water. I should step closer, he’ll hear me more clearly if I do, but I don’t think I can support my own weight right now.
He stops the water, turning to me, his movements slow as he dries his hands.
“It’s not because I don’t love her.” I say desperately. He needs to know this. He needs to show that in his writing, in the pages of this book.
“I know.” He says softly, kindness in his face. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything yet. He knows I fell for a boy. He knows I had a baby. All he knows are the first lines of a song. He hasn’t even heard the melody yet.
“You don’t know.” I say. “But you will.”
My mother once told me that I was too selfish to love. I was thirteen at the time, our argument held across a sticky tablecloth in a Red Lobster. She had planned a trip to my grandmother’s house, one that would correspond with her seventy-first birthday. The trip would have caused a complete disruption of my writing calendar, one I had reviewed with her and posted on the refrigerator door, five weeks earlier. This trip hadn’t been mentioned at that time, and I was convinced it was a spur-of-the-moment idea concocted purely because of a railways promotional flyer received in the mail. I had, up to that point, perfectly followed my writing calendar. I was on schedule to finish what would become my first novel, and a week of disruption would mean the inability to finish it before school started. So I did what any enterprising young Steinbeck would do. I snuck into my mother’s room, fished my train ticket out of her purse, and destroyed it.