3. Tammy
TAMMY
Don’t mind me. I’m just bleeding billion-dollar bills.
Many miserable hours later, I kicked off my dirt-caked boots on the front porch so as not to drag in filth and pushed into the house. The door slammed behind me as I stumbled toward the kitchen, exhaustion and defeat weighing me down like my belly was filled with rocks.
The kitchen had seen better days: discolored linoleum curling at the edges, cabinets with more chips than paint, and a refrigerator that hummed like it was on its last legs. Much like me, this room was running on fumes and sheer stubbornness.
I pulled Dr. Harmon's business card from beneath a horse-shaped magnet on the fridge, not that I needed it to remember the number, and beelined for the wall-mounted, rotary phone. The edges of the matte card were worn soft from previous contemplations of this very call. Oh, I’d made dozens of routine calls, but this one I'd avoided making until now, partly because of the cost, but mostly because it felt like truly admitting defeat.
If Mystery and Sassafras couldn't produce a foal naturally, my careful calculations about recouping my investment went straight out the window. There’d be thousands more on the line.
Open another vein.
Bleed a billion-dollar bill or two.
The phone felt heavy in my hand, as if its spiraled cord weighed a ton and was trying to yank the receiver from my grip.
I turned the dial, shoving my index finger into number holes one after another, letting the disc spin back into place.
Rotary phones were wildly inefficient. I hadn’t even known how to use one when I first moved in. I’d had to google a tutorial.
Three rings, then a cheerful receptionist answered.
"Flint Hills Large Animal Practice, how can I help you?"
"Hey, Darlene, it's Tammy Tucker from Sunflower Hills. Is Dr. Harmon available?"
"Oh, Tammy! He's just finishing up some paperwork. Let me put you through."
I drummed my fingers on the countertop, eyes roving over the calendar hanging on the wall opposite me. June days were X-ed out leading to the thirtieth of the month, which was circled in aggressive red marker with "MORTGAGE" written in all caps. Beside it, in smaller writing: "miracle needed."
"Tammy! How are those horses of yours doing?" Dr. Harmon's voice boomed through the receiver, jolting me back to the present.
"That's actually why I'm calling, Doc." I sighed, leaning against the counter. "Mystery and Sassafras still won't... cooperate. I'm running out of time and options here. I need to know more about artificial insemination."
"Ah," he said, his tone shifting from jovial to professional. "I was wondering when we'd have this conversation. Those two didn't seem particularly fond of each other when I was out for their check-ups."
"That's putting it mildly," I muttered. "It's like trying to set up my vegetarian cousin with a butcher. They're fundamentally incompatible, but I need them to make a baby anyway."
Dr. Harmon chuckled. "Well, AI can certainly bypass the personality conflicts. Let me walk you through the process and costs."
I grabbed a pen and the back of an overdue electric bill to take notes. "Shoot."
"First, we need to collect from Mystery. The collection procedure alone is three-fifty."
I winced, scribbling down the number. That was already more than I'd budgeted for the month's feed.
"That includes sedation?" I asked, hoping to find a corner to cut.
"Some stallions need it, some don't. Won't know with Mystery until we try, but I'd recommend budgeting for it just in case. From my limited experience with him, I’d say he's... particular."
"That's one way to put it," I said dryly. "What else?"
"Then we've got handling fees—about a hundred. That covers the processing of the sample, extending it with the proper nutrients, and storing it until Sassafras is ready."
The number on my makeshift notepad grew. Four hundred and fifty dollars already, and we hadn't even gotten to the main event.
"The insemination itself is another two hundred," he continued. "That includes my time, the equipment, and the procedure. We'd need to time it perfectly with Sassafras's cycle, which means ultrasounds to track follicular growth."
"And how much would that be?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"Ultrasound is also two hundred per session, and we'd likely need at least two, possibly three depending on how her cycle progresses."
I closed my eyes, mental calculator spinning. We were up to one thousand and fifty dollars minimum, and even more if three imaging sessions were needed. The electric bill beneath my notes suddenly seemed less threatening by comparison.
"There's also the option of hormone treatments, which I mentioned when you were first having issues," Dr. Harmon added. "They increase the success probability significantly. Not strictly necessary, but given the investment you're already making..."
I interrupted him before he could add another three-digit figure to my growing debt. "So, we're looking at what, Doc? Ballpark?"
There was a brief pause, and I could practically see him tallying figures in his head, perhaps weighing how much to sugarcoat the news.
"Honestly, Tammy, I’d budget two thousand, bare minimum. That will cover everything and give you a cushion. But, of course, that’s assuming…” his words trailed off. I didn’t need him to finish; I knew what he was going to say.
“That it takes on the first try," I completed his thought.
Quiet fell across the line between us. It brewed and festered until my heart felt heavy and my brain hurt.
“Yes, well, if we do need a second round, then double that number,” he finally said, “And if there are any real complications or special care once Sassy’s pregnant, the financial padding factored in might not be enough.”
The room tilted slightly, or maybe that was just my hope slipping away.
Two grand could become four grand could become…
a slippery slope. Two thousand bucks would cover the overdue mortgage, this month’s expenses, maybe a new pack of panties which I really needed.
To save my ranch, I’d have to risk it further. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
"Tammy? You still there?" Dr. Harmon's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts.
"Yeah, Doc. Just... processing." I cleared my throat. "And what are the success rates?"
"First-time insemination with proper timing has about a sixty percent success rate. With hormone treatments, we can bump that to around seventy-five."
So, I could spend my last hope on a procedure that still had a one-in-four chance of failure. Those weren't the kind of odds that justified betting the farm, literally. But what choice did I really have?
"I appreciate the information, Doc. Let me think it over and get back to you."
"Don't wait too long," he advised gently. "If you want to catch Sassafras's next cycle, we should start planning now."
"Right. Thanks again." I hung up before he could hear the wobble in my voice.
For an endless moment, I stood there, staring at the numbers I'd scrawled across the back of the electric bill. Two thousand dollars, he’d said, bare minimum.
Might as well have been a million. I slammed my fist down on the counter, the sharp pain momentarily distracting from the deeper ache of impending failure.
The impact sent a stack of papers cascading to the floor—a colorful waterfall of final notices, past-due bills, and bank warnings. Red and yellow paper slips fanned out across the peeling linoleum like autumn leaves, each one a deadline I couldn't meet, a promise I couldn't keep.
I sank to my knees, gathering the scattered papers with trembling hands. Mortgage statement: months behind. Electric bill: final notice before disconnection. Feed supplier: full payment required on tab before next purchase. Property tax assessment: due in a matter of weeks.
And beneath them all, a postcard from Derek. "Hope you're enjoying playing rancher," he'd written. "My offer still stands when you're ready to come home. Got a few new dresses waiting. This season’s purses. Even those limited-edition shoes you wanted last year that were sold out.”
Sold out. What an asshole. They weren’t sold out; he’d just hated them. Said they looked frumpy.
I crumpled the postcard in my fist, rage temporarily overriding despair.
It wasn’t just rage at Derek.
No, it was rage at myself—for that millisecond my mind envisioned those stupid red soled shoes with the adorable bows across the pointed toes.
I had really wanted those at the time. Now, I wanted to be totally free of that life, and the way it had strapped me into place as firmly as a good pair of peep toe, crisscross stilettos did.
When I was ready to come home…
Home. As if his sprawling ranch with its imported furniture and his suffocating expectations had ever been home. This place—this crumbling, financially unsustainable dream—was home. My home. And I was about to lose it.
I spread the bills across the kitchen table, a depressing mosaic of my failure. The red numbers blurred as tears threatened, but I blinked them back. Crying wouldn't solve anything. Neither would artificial insemination I couldn't afford.
My eyes drifted to the calendar again, to the bold red circle around looming foreclosure. I had so little time to come up with a miracle or surrender everything I'd worked for.
Outside, through the smudged kitchen window, I could see Mystery and Sassafras in their separate corners of the field, grazing contentedly, blissfully unaware that their mutual dislike might cost us all our home.
The afternoon sun caught Mystery's coat, turning it to burnished copper, while Sassafras's chestnut hide gleamed with an almost golden sheen.
Beautiful, valuable, and completely useless to me unless they produced a foal.