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.