Sacrifices and Staircases
By Honor Ford
We bought the house in Maine in the summertime. It had no running water, no electricity, no central heating, and no air conditioning. But Reese had always wanted to live in Maine, and I was in love with her. She promised to fix the plumbing, and have the house wired. And she did. Sure, sometimes the spigot in the bathtub ran brown for a few seconds, but she told me to run it till it was clear. Sometimes the lights flickered for a moment in the kitchen, but she told me to bang on the wall above the light switch.
She put a Frigidaire in our window but it didn’t make the room cold unless you were standing right in front of it, but the house had an antique laundry chute from the 1800s, plus a giant barn (“What if we got horses?” Reese said on our first time visiting the property), so I slept with one leg sticking out of the blanket and woke up at 4 o’clock in the morning drenched in sweat most of the time.
The house had two staircases, one just outside the door of our room to the left, and the other one through a room with a door on either side of it that I didn’t think made sense but the real estate agent said made it ‘eclectic.’ (“It could be the kids’ room,” Reese said, squeezing my hand and the real estate agent’s face brightened. “Twin beds? Or bunk beds?” I nodded, really seeing our future). The staircase just outside of our room would be the fastest way downstairs, but the wood had warped and dipped on each step because the door to the deck was just at the bottom, and sometimes it let in a draft and the wet of Maine winters.
Reese said I could just go slowly, and most times I could agree with her, except when I was the first one to head down, and she and the real estate agent followed me, and I could feel their eyes boring into me as I side-stepped with both hands on one railing, my back bracing against the opposite one. But I didn’t want to go last because I didn’t want to have to smile and nod politely while I sweat through my t-shirt and tried not to fall down the stairs and die (“You’re not gonna die,” Reese said through laughter. “You sure?” I responded, not laughing), while the real estate agent smiled through tight lips and talked about the potential of the walk-in pantry that had flooring that sloped because of a terrible foundation problem (I added that last bit to Reese but she didn’t think it was funny).
Some nights I stood at the top of that staircase cursing myself for not leaving a cup of water on the bedside table like Reese had told me to do a million times. I contemplated turning the hall light on, but Reese was a light sleeper, so no matter how many times she insisted it was okay, standing in the quiet darkness felt somehow better. After that, I would consider not going down for the water and simply going back to sleep till morning when the natural sunlight would light my path. Plus, the creaks that the stairs would make as my feet tangled their way down would be enough to rouse Reese and she’d offer to help me and I didn’t want to ask for help, not for this. We’d lived in an apartment on the eighth floor before this, and most weeks the elevator was out at least once. If I could do sixteen flights after walking home from work, I could do this. And anyway, even if I did make it back to bed, all I’d do was stare at the ceiling till the need for water became the only thing I could think about.
The steps on the other staircase were flatter, but steeper, and sometimes when I was going down them, I’d picture myself falling to my death, and my legs would tense and I’d trip and end up kind of falling anyway, not to my death, but enough after I’d caught myself to leave bruises that Reese would notice on my legs when we were getting ready for bed later that night.
“You need to be careful, baby,” she said, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, because she didn’t mean it in the way that usually made me roll my eyes—the “poor you, did you hurt yourself?” way people would look at my limp—but in the way that meant she worried about me.
She wasn’t people. She was Reese.
“Careful isn’t the problem here,” I said, with a gesture towards my legs to say, “Remember the woman you married?”
I didn’t say it with bitterness, but it was a difficult thing to respond to, so instead, she said nothing, and I felt bad, so I crawled onto the bed till I was on my hands in front of her, lifting one to stop her from buttoning her shirt the whole way and kissing a well-worn path up her belly.
So my battle with the staircases continued, and I continued to forget the water on the bedside table, though at this point, it was less forgetfulness and more stubbornness (“I don’t need one,” I’d respond as we finished washing the dishes and wrapping up the leftovers each night. To which Reese would side-eye me, which would make me giggle, and I’d go to her and she’d pepper kisses on my face).
And then, one fall day, as the leaves were just starting to turn, Reese came home with an old basset hound. They were going to put him down at the vet where she worked, and she couldn’t bear to see him go. We called him Rocky.
I’m not sure Rocky was ever a spry young thing, but he had cataracts in his eyes and more pill bottles than I’d ever seen in my life, and I couldn’t get enough of him. I felt a sort of kinship with him, the two of us on our slow legs together on our morning and evening walks. Reese seemed to understand that this was our thing, just the two of us, and she was more than happy to yield the early mornings to me. At 5 o’clock, he would begin to circle his bed, clacking his paws against the wood floor, and that would be my alarm clock telling me it was time to go. I’d put on my athletic clothes and sneakers that had only been in a gym for the vending machines, and the two of us would face off with the staircase.
Reese carried him up every night. At first, I tried to carry him down, but I wasn’t steady on my feet even without a dog in my arms, so we very quickly decided that would not be the way. After shuffling my own slow way down the stairs, I grabbed the dog treats from the pantry and climbed my way back to the top. “You’re really making me work for this, huh?” I said through huffs. He stared at me for a moment until I began executing my grand plan. I placed a treat on each step, all the way down, crawling on my hands and knees. When I made it to the bottom, I made a pile of treats at my feet, replaced the canister in the pantry, then made my way back up to Rocky.
His leash hung limply to his side. “Don’t look at me like that. This is going to work.” I grabbed the leash, sliding down a few steps until it was taut in my fingers.
He didn’t budge.
I wriggled the leash in my hands, letting hopefulness fill me when his front paw lifted, but then I sank again when it fell to the floor. “Rocky, come.”
We stared at each other.
“You gotta work with me here.”
I picked up a treat, flattened my palm, and held it up to his nose. He sniffed it, then licked my palm, popping the treat in his mouth. “Okay, see, that’s not how it was supposed to go. You have to actually come down a step first.” I tugged on the leash again.
After about five minutes and a handful of treats because I have no self-control and I got desperate, he finally walked down the first two steps, munching the treats as he went. Walking wasn’t exactly the right word—it was more like a hop-slump, pushing against the wall with his nose—but that didn’t matter to me. Whatever worked for him.
The town had been insisting for years that they were going to lay a sidewalk outside of the residences through to town, but had yet to follow through, so we shuffled our way through the edge of yards and in the gravel on the side of the road. Rocky didn’t seem to mind the walk—when he got past the actual walking part, he was quite a social dog, sniffing and barking at other people and their pets going about their morning—but by the time we reached the town ten minutes later, I had to stop at the bookstore-café to get all the rocks out of my shoe.
The bookstore wasn’t actually open yet—it was too early for that—but the café was just opening, their tables and chairs set out on the sidewalk out front. I filled up the dog bowl they’d left outside at a spigot on the corner of the building and brought it to Rocky. “Stay,” I said, for my sake rather than his own because he definitely wasn’t planning to go anywhere. After I was certain he was occupied, I looped his leash through the leg of one of the chairs and made my way inside the café, the bell over the door announcing my arrival.
I ordered a Poe (a chocolate and marshmallow latte) and a Damariscotta (bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel) from the wispy-haired woman behind the counter and made my way back to Rocky. He slurped the bacon I offered him. “Don’t tell your mom.” He settled on his paws while I finished my breakfast and raced through Song of Achilles, pausing every so often to wipe away tears.
We continued this way for a few months, with his treats and my coffee and our bacon. No matter what the weather, without fail, we would make it down the stairs together and into town and home again every night. The café learned my order, even eventually had it made for me on the counter when I walked in each morning. They made dog-friendly peanut butter nuggets for Rocky. We made friends with the old man who sat at another café table each morning, who used to have a dog like Rocky and was determined now to be my Rocky’s best friend.
On special occasions, Reese joined us for the evening walks (there was no way she was going to get up any earlier than she absolutely had to in the mornings), but it took a while for her to learn our ways and requirements. (“Wow, that’s gorgeous,” she said as we watched the sunset over the ocean from a green bridge near the edge of town. Rocky looked at her and I held a finger to my lips. Sunsets on the bridge were a time for contemplation, not conversation).
The winter was harder, for pretty much everything, including walks. Our pipes were frozen more often than not and the power flickered dangerously every time there was even a whisper of a storm on the horizon. We traded the Frigidaire in our window for a space heater, but that didn’t stop my bones and joints from aching more than usual as I prepared to go out with Rocky. We invested in thick, waterproof coats and snow pants, clunky boots and gloves and hats, because Reese wouldn’t let us go out without them (“If you freeze to death and make me a widow, I’ll never forgive you,” she told me as she tucked my scarf into my coat and zipped me up), and even boots and a vest for Rocky, which he fought me on every time. Depending on the length and timing of the snow fall, some days we could barely get beyond the front walkway before I was urging Rocky to do his business (which he usually refused), and promptly turning right back inside (“I hate the snow,” I told Reese as I kicked off my boots and hung up my coat before helping Rocky out of his. “Really?” Reese asked, still bleary with sleep and scooping grounds for coffee. “I think it’s nice.” She pressed a coffee mug into my hands and a kiss to my frozen lips).
Reese hung a doggy doorbell from the doorknob and with some training, Rocky got up on his wobbly little legs to nuzzle it with his nose when it was time to go out. Because I was a good wife, if the snow was still falling when I woke up, I’d get bundled up and shovel out the walkway and Reese’s car as well as mine before our walks so that she wouldn’t have to do it before work (plus, and I didn’t learn this well enough until after both of our cars froze underneath piles of snow-turned-ice and we had to call roadside assistance from our driveway, shoveling while the snow was still fluffy and falling was a much easier task).
The stairs were a different sort of beast in the winter, too. No matter how many medicated patches I smoothed against my muscles, the tension in my legs as my feet pressed against the cold wood was enough to make me regret the habit I’d made of taking Rocky for walks. Some days, I thought about shaking Reese awake and asking her to do the walk instead because even the promise of coffee in the warmth of the café wasn’t enough. Still other days, Reese would wake enough to offer to go on the walk herself, but I could tell she didn’t really want to, so I never had the heart to concede.
Our little family couldn’t have been more joyful when the sun started to melt the snow and stay out a little longer into the evenings. Reese built a covering for our porch, added screens and windows so that we could enjoy our dinners in the sunset and play board games in the fresh air (“Can’t you see our kids doing their homework out here someday?”). At first, I was wary of her suggestion to do so (not because I didn’t think she was capable, but I worried she’d never finish and we’d be left with piles of wood and a half-finished deck come winter time), but she proved me wrong and worked tirelessly to get it done (“I’ve never been more attracted to you,” I told her as she came into the living room one evening covered in paint and sweat, her hair falling loose from her ponytail and framing her face. “Is that so?” she asked, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand and sauntering over to me, her legs swishing in her Dickies overalls). Once it was finished, even Rocky seemed to get a pep in his step, brightening whenever we let him out to fall asleep on the porch next to us.
The stairs didn’t get any easier with the changing weather, but I got used to my nightly ritual of trekking down for a glass of water. Reese snored lightly as I got up, usually mumbling something unintelligible and rolling over, or saying nothing at all. It may have been my own stubbornness making my life this way, but I would never admit that to anyone, even going so far as to tell Rocky one night, who joined me in the kitchen having fallen asleep in the living room, that this was actually something I enjoyed doing. He didn’t seem convinced.
Reese started working longer hours at the vet, both because they usually got busier in the spring and summer and because we were trying to conceive through IVF, and we needed all the help we could get, especially after a failed fourth attempt. I tried not to let it weigh on me, tried not to feel like it was me and my body failing me and Reese and the lives of our future children, tried to remember that the doctor said it was normal, sometimes it took a few tries. I didn’t really share the extent to which it bothered me with Reese, not yet. I wasn’t ready to put the words out there. So instead, after each negative pregnancy test, I smiled and shrugged and said “Someday,” when she pulled me into a hug.
But when she started joining us on walks and watching me attentively and glancing at me over her books and our dinners when she thought I wasn’t looking, I found myself scrubbing last night’s dishes at 3 o’clock in the morning, letting my hands get soapy and pruny and focusing on the way I stacked the dishes on the drying rack rather than how my hands shook as I did it.
We didn’t usually leave the dishes overnight. We’d actually made a promise to each other before we moved in together that even if we couldn’t cook together or eat together, we’d always do the dishes together, one of us washing, and the other drying and tucking away. But Reese had worked late and I had fallen asleep at 8, tucked under a blanket on the sofa with a mind-numbing show on the TV.
“Hey.”
I turned from where I’d been aggressively scrubbing a pot to face Reese, who was standing in the door with her arms crossed, still in her work clothes.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I said, returning to the pot and finally rinsing the soap out. I stacked it on the drying rack and reached in the sink for another soaking plate.
“Just got here. I had so much paperwork. Too many parents give their kids animals as gifts. Someone adopted a cat a week ago, and they’re already giving it away.”
I continued to scrub, but behind me, I heard her walk further into the kitchen, cross to the fridge, then unscrew a bottle of wine, pulling a glass from the cabinet and filling it before replacing the bottle. “There are leftovers in the fridge. I didn’t know if I should keep them warm or not.”
“Thanks.” Reese came up behind me, putting a hand on my back. “You doing okay?” She kissed my temple, my cheek, my neck.
“I’m fine. I just...didn’t sleep well. Haven’t really slept. I was on the sofa.” I couldn’t bring myself to look at her, but I knew she was giving me a disapproving look.
“You’d sleep more soundly in bed, don’t you think?”
It was a gentle nag, a kind one even, but I shrugged her off anyway, putting the dishes away as an excuse to make some distance between us. She followed me, reaching for the plate in my hand as I strained to reach the shelf. “Let me help with that.”
As she took it from me, I dropped it, and it wobbled in her hands, in the air, before falling to the floor and shattering. Immediately, I moved to start picking up the pieces, even while Reese was kneeling down in front of me and saying, “Hey, hey, hey, no, let me get that.”
I didn’t realize the tears were falling until they’d already started and then I couldn’t stop them. I stopped, dropping the pieces of broken plate back to the floor and falling back against my heels, covering my face with my hands.
“Baby,” Reese said, putting her arms around me and pulling me in close. After a few heaving sobs, I tried to explain, but I didn’t have to. She carded her fingers through my hair, repeating, “I know, baby. I know.”
As winter raged into gear three IVF attempts later, the doctor called to tell us the last attempt had finally worked, and that if everything went well, we would be welcoming an October baby. Reese had been reading a million baby books ever since we’d started this whole process and carefully monitored everything I ate, how much exercising I was getting, and how much the baby was growing. She insisted on coming for every walk now, holding onto Rocky’s leash and gripping my forearm like if she let go, I’d disappear. When I was put on bed rest, she stopped letting me go for walks altogether (“I can do it myself,” she insisted, even as I continued to list the rules for Rocky’s walks), and would barely let me go to the bathroom unattended.
My only reprieve was the middle-of-the-night glass of water. Reese had practically begged to put a filter on the sink upstairs (“What about a mini-fridge?” “I am completely certain a mini-fridge would destroy any remaining semblance of electricity this house has left.”), but I kissed her lightly on the nose and told her this was one thing I refused to give up. Even with my bulging belly and wobbling legs, no matter how tired I was, I would not let it go. It was mine.
Reese had a hand over my belly, breathing gently in my neck when I woke up. I lifted her arm and made my way out of bed, which was a feat in and of itself. Rocky stirred and followed me out the door. “Alright, here we go, baby,” I said to my belly as I began making my way down the stairs. Baby kicked, and I took one hand off the railing to feel the spot. “Did I wake you, sweet thing? You’ve been waking me every night, so this feels pretty fair.” I had to stop on every step to take a break, but I didn’t give up. Rocky stood at the top of the stairs, watching me. “I’m okay, Rocky. We’re okay.” He continued to watch anyway. Finally, I made it down to the bottom, heaving in a deep breath. “We did it, sweet thing!”
When I walked into the kitchen, there was a glass of water already poured next to the sink. A sticky note was stuck to the counter underneath the glass.
you made it to the kitchen! congratulations! please drink the water, my stubborn girl. xx
I smiled to myself, holding my belly as I stuck the note to our fridge. It was the most refreshing glass of water I had ever tasted.
Honor Ford (she/her) is recent graduate of Susquehanna University's creative writing and theatre studies programs. By day, she works as a bookseller and school liaison for a local bookstore and by night, she is an author! Previous work of hers can be found in honey & lime and SFWP Quarterly.