What We Carry by Kalyn Fogarty

Author:Kalyn Fogarty
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

♦   25   ♦

CLAIRE

After

August 19

SMUG BEST DESCRIBES THE look on my sister’s face as she waltzes into my kitchen, settling herself on a barstool like she owns the place. The air around her sizzles with expectation, and from years of experience, I know she’s itching for me to ask her what’s going on. Rather than telling me why she needed to see me at seven thirty on a Saturday morning, she sent me an ominous text declaring she had news to share.

Always dramatic, she waits for me to beg her to spill the beans. Just for fun I pretend disinterest, choosing to make pancakes instead. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed watching her frustration mount since she arrived. Mixing the batter, I smile to myself, allowing myself a few more moments of sisterly indulgence. Sometimes it’s just too easy.

Looking up from the bowl, I sense her eyeing me. “Chocolate chip or blueberry?” I ask, savoring the little bit of steam I imagine blowing from her ears.

“Blueberry.” Her shoulders sink, and she grabs a banana from the bowl in the center of the island. “So,” she says, letting the word hang in the air, hoping I’ll pick it up and run with it.

I’ve played with her long enough. Exhaustion brings out my evil side, and she’s caught me before my first cup of coffee.

“So, what’s the big news you couldn’t tell me over the phone?” I ask, chuckling at the way she instantly brightens.

“Remember how I told you my doctor was running some tests?”

I nod my head, a vague recollection of this conversation coming to mind. Since the miscarriage, Cassidy has obsessed over every potential reason for it. I recall the results being inconclusive, which of course devastated Cassidy but didn’t surprise me much.

“Turns out I have a rare autoimmune disorder.” She beams. By the way she says this, you’d think she’d just told me she’d won the lottery. “Three, actually.”

“Three what?”

“Disorders,” she clarifies, shaking her head at me, annoyed. Still trying to wrap my head around what seems like a disproportionate amount of excitement at such a diagnosis, I wait for the punch line. But she just stares at me, waiting for a response. Exactly what response, I’m unsure.

I ladle a few globs of pancake mix onto the griddle, and they bubble as they hit the hot iron. “Congratulations, I guess?” I venture, feigning a smile.

Her eyes sparkle across the bar, and she cocks her head to the side. If I were a different type of sister, this look would have resulted in a lot of hair pulling and scratching in our younger years. Always the peacekeeper and utterly devoted to my big sister, I never let that look get to me. If anything, I envied her ability to say I told you so without ever opening her mouth.

“I know you hate medical mumbo jumbo,” she says, causing a nerve to tic in the corner of my right eye. Again with the assumptions. “I’ll keep it simple. The tests show I have markers for a few disorders which have been positively linked to second-term miscarriage.

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