Carousel Beach_A Novel

by Orly Konig

  I turn back to my husband. “Like wanting a dog?”

  “What? Where did that come from?” He looks at me, confused.

  “You ignored my earlier question about getting a dog.” I hold up my phone with the text exchange glaring from the screen.

  “I wasn’t ignoring. God, Maya, you’re giving me whiplash. And no, cliché as in decorating a beach house with a beach theme.” His words carry a measured, don’t rock-the-overemotional-lady cadence.

  And that only fuels my unprovoked anger. The burning in the back of my throat reaches my eyes.

  “Oh, honey.” Vale pulls me into a hug. I’m acutely aware of strangers staring as they walk by, a salesman clearing his throat and skirting around us. Vale steers me out of the store and down the sidewalk, away from the parking lot and our car. I want to protest that I need to get home. I need my studio, my work, my horse.

  Vale tightens his hold on my hand and leads me to the park. We find a bench by the koi pond and sit, quiet, neither of us ready to poke the volcano of my emotional state.

  Two young women sit on a bench across the pond. The brunette is absently pushing a stroller back and forth while she regales her friend with a story.

  The movement of the stroller hypnotizes me. Babies everywhere. Everywhere but in my arms, in my life.

  Vale clears his throat and squeezes my hand. “You need to let this go, sweetie.”

  I yank my arm back, elbowing myself in the ribs in the process. “Stop. Stop telling me to get past this. Don’t you get it? I can’t. I can’t move on. Not without them.” My throat closes around the word them, making it thick and ugly.

  Vale exhales, slow, deliberate, and with the released air, it’s as though his whole body shrinks. “I lost them, too. I loved them, too.”

  “But they weren’t your responsibility.” I choke on a sob.

  “You and our baby were my responsibility.”

  Except I was carrying him. I failed him. I was selfish and caused this.

  The baby in the stroller lets out a wail and the ladies stand and walk away.

  I’m suddenly aware of the commotion surrounding the early afternoon playdate crowd. I watch the various minidramas unfolding around us. In the sandbox are two boys at odds about the height of their luxury sand hotel. What happened to the days of sand castles? A game of soccer turns into a meltdown when another boy insists that the goal his “no longer best friend” clearly made doesn’t count because he kicked with his left foot and everyone knows the rules say you have to kick with your right foot. And on the sidewalk, a little girl stomps in protest over the unfair allocation of drawing space, her fists digging into her hips, pigtails bobbing menacingly, face turning a shade of red deeper than her Life Is Good T-shirt while her friend continues drawing chalk flowers, unperturbed.

  Would our son have been the kid in the sandbox? Would he have been chasing sticks with a dog? Drawing on the sidewalk with giant chalk?

  Vale puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me closer. “You may just have a point about getting a dog,” he says, kissing the top of my head.

  Anger and guilt puddle into sadness. Sadness for what we lost and sadness for what I’m losing.

  Eleven

  The afternoon sun melts into the concrete of the parking lot. Hard to believe that just this morning I’d been running in a sweatshirt. If this is any indication of what Mother Nature has in store, summer will be brutal.

  I shut off the engine and savor the last bit of comfortable air-conditioning before stepping into the bone-chilling air of Tower Oaks. No wonder everyone inside is always huddling in sweaters.

  I walk the handful of steps between my car and the front doors. A bead of sweat trickles down my cleavage, whether from the heat or anxiety I can’t tell. I wonder if Hank will remember my previous visit. Another step and the doors slide open with a whoosh, the blast of cold sucking me in like a riptide.

  Two faces watch my progress. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Barista Barbie. A young brunette, hair pulled into a loose knot on the top of her head, smiles from behind the reception desk.

  “Good morning.” She stretches painted lips even further, exposing brilliantly polished teeth.

  “Hi. I’m here to see Hank Hauser.” I look past her to the painted Memory Support Center sign.

  “Your name?”

  “Maya Brice.” My scalp tingles as the receptionist consults a piece of paper. Could Simon have put me on a no-admittance list? I shift my weight back, ready to bolt for the door if she calls security. Which is ridiculous, because he wouldn’t do that. I hope.

  “If you could just sign in please. West-347.” Her head dips forward, indicating the sign-in sheet on the counter, then bobs right toward the West Wing. I have the strongest urge to tweak her bun the way you would a pom-pom on a wool beanie.

  “Thanks.” I mumble, flexing my fingers at my sides.

  Muffled sounds of television programs seep out of partially open doorways, interrupted only by the squelching sound of rubber shoes on tile floor as nurses and doctors walk past. A doctor in a white lab coat dips his head in a hello. A woman in business attire clicks past on impossibly high heels without acknowledging me.

  At the nurse’s station I see Nurse Julie, but she’s busy talking to another nurse.

  The door to Hank’s room is open. My tentative knock is swallowed by the saxophone solo coming from the old record player.

  “Hello? Mr. Hauser? Hank?” I rap my knuckles on the door again, hoping not to startle him.

  He turns from the desk, squinting at me. “I’m sorry dear, I didn’t hear you knock.” He lowers the volume of the music, his eyes never leaving my face. “Can I help you?” His voice has the warble of age.

  I feel my face slacken with disappointment. I’m a stranger to him today. Well of course I’m a stranger. He’s never met me.

  “Umm, yes, I’m Maya Brice.”

  “Well, Miss Brice, come, come. It’s not often I get such lovely company. What can I do for you?” He indicates the two armchairs, inviting me in with a shaky wave of a hand.

  I allow a quick look over my shoulder, half expecting Nurse Julie to jump me before I get another step inside Hank’s room. But she’s still busy, her back now turned to me. I suck in a quick breath and step forward with the exhale.

  “I, um…” I hesitate. “I, um…”

  “Come, come, Miss … what did you say your name was?” He stands and walks to the armchairs. “Come sit.”

  I move deeper into the room and stop, face to frame with a photograph of the carousel. My carousel. Our carousel. In it, Hank is standing next to a horse—my horse, our horse—and beaming at the photographer. In the crowd behind him is my grandmother. It’s a different angle from the image in my binder. That one didn’t show much of the crowd, just a smiling Hank and a glistening carousel.

  Unlike the tiny faded photocopy in my binder, this photograph shows the magnificence of the original carousel and a radiant Hank. The man, captured on glossy paper, fills the space with the assurance of youth. Happiness radiates from him to the crowd surrounding the carousel. My grandmother’s face betrays a tenderness that inspired a secret message carved into the belly of a wooden horse.

  “The carousel.” My voice carries a hushed awe and my heart flutters.

  “Yes, the carousel. You know it?” Hank asks.

  An icy wave threatens to choke my lungs and I wrap my arms around myself in protection. It’s a valid question, there’s no reason he would know about my affiliation with the carousel. I’m a stranger to him. Just some person who’s come to visit. Except I wasn’t a stranger two days ago.

  “Yes, I know it.”

  “Come sit, Miss…” He narrows his gaze. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Maya Brice,” I answer over my shoulder, my eyes glued to the picture. “The photograph, has it been there all along?”

  “Of course. It’s always been there.” Hank dismisses it with the flick of a brittle wrist.
/>   I look from the man in the room to the man in the picture. The facial features are the same, edgier in the photo. The hair is still full, white and thinner in real life. I touch the frame. “How did I not notice it?”

  He looks as surprised as I feel. “You were here before?” A flutter of agitation crosses his face. “Probably while it was being reframed. My daughter’s idea. You’re interested in the carousel?”

  “Yes.” I cross the distance to the chairs and sink into the one I’d occupied last time I was here.

  A big, childishly satisfied grin pulls at the wrinkles on his face. “I designed her.”

  A shudder barrels through my insides. “I know.”

  “You do?” The wrinkles on his forehead unite.

  I force a clementine-sized lump down my throat. “I’ve been working on restoring that carousel for a couple of years now. I’m down to one horse, the big bay stander in front of the ostrich.”

  Hank settles deeper into the chair next to me, both of them grunting with the effort. “You’re restoring the carousel? How is the old girl?”

  “Still beautiful.”

  The flicker of a memory passes over him, like a cloud that muffles the light for just a blink. “Do I know you?”

  My heart hammers, blocking every sound except the painful swallow of anxiety. I lean forward in the chair, the creak of the old leather startling me still.

  “I’m, um…” I force another lump down my throat. Do I tell him I’m Meera’s granddaughter? He thought I was her last time. How will he react if he finds out who I really am? “We were talking about the carousel. I’m restoring her.” My voice cracks with anxiety.

  “How is the old girl?”

  “Still beautiful.” I suppress a shudder at the echo of our conversation.

  “You know, I designed her. I can tell you all about her.” He flashes a grin.

  I scoot forward in the chair, ignoring any further protest by the upholstery, ready to hear the story straight from the horse-carver’s mouth.

  Hank leans back in his chair, eyes closed. Laughter from the nurse’s station pings off the walls and my nerves.

  I suck in a cold dose of strength and prompt Hank, “There wasn’t much detail about previous restorations in the background material the Historic Trust Foundation gave me.”

  I look expectantly to Hank, hoping he’ll jump in with the offer to hand over his notes.

  I’m rewarded with a nod. And my hopes are promptly dashed with a shake. “I didn’t take notes. Every inch of that carousel lives here.” He taps his temple with the index finger of his right hand. “And here.” The finger moves down, pushing gently on his heart.

  “You don’t have notes? Colors? Do you know about any of the restoration work done in more recent years?” My voice hops with anticipation.

  Hank’s bushy white brows scrunch together in thought, the lines at the top of his lips multiply as his mouth pulls in. “Nothing big. Normal wear, and that’s what you want to see in a carousel. It means she’s loved. Although the sea air isn’t terribly kind.”

  I’ve come too far to let this fizzle like bath salts. “I found an inscription carved into the belly of one of the horses. I’m hoping you can shed some light on it?”

  Hank stares at me for a minute, long enough that I think I’ve lost him and begin to rephrase my question. “The inscription in the horse’s belly…” I let the rest of the sentence fade, then grab for my phone. “I can show you pictures.”

  Hank waves me away. “I don’t need photos. She’s perfectly documented in my memory.”

  I bite the inside of my lip.

  “That horse is perfect.” He sighs.

  “It’s not a gash,” I jump to explain.

  His face transforms into a long-ago memory. “No, it’s not a gash. That horse was the last one I made, and I made him for the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.”

  “Tell me about her.” A prickle travels up my spine. I should tell him who I really am. He’s studying me, looking through me, actually, and I wonder if he sees the connection.

  “She looked like you a bit. Same hair, same color eyes. You’re a beautiful girl. Your husband is lucky.” He pats my hand.

  Tell him, Maya.

  I don’t. I mumble thanks and fight the heat of a blush.

  Silence swirls between us. I inch forward in the chair, anxious for him to continue.

  His eyes refocus on me and he smiles. “What brings you to see me, young lady? Are you a friend of Diane’s?”

  I force the corners of my mouth to relax and silently curse myself for not asking Simon more details about Hank’s family. “No, I’m not. I’m here because of the carousel.”

  “The carousel? Why?”

  For the briefest moment, I wish Nurse Julie would get in here and force me out. I’m not equipped to handle this.

  Hank pushes himself up and shuffles to the bookshelf by the desk. His fingers walk along the spines of a handful of books before settling on a burgundy-leather album. He flips through a few pages, the memories playing in his features like a silent movie. I wait for him to come sit, to share the photos. He stops midway through the album and reshelves it.

  He shuffles back to the chair and settles next to me. “You were asking about the carousel.” It’s half question, half recap.

  I want to ask about the photo album. I feel oddly cheated.

  “I designed her, you know. I had help, of course, with the big pieces around the engine and the mechanical parts. I’m not mechanical. I couldn’t even change the oil in my car. And Annabelle, well, she has plenty of stories about my failed attempts at fixing things around the house.” He chuckles at a memory. “She’d lie to me about things breaking just so I wouldn’t try to fix them.”

  “But you handcrafted the animals by yourself?”

  “Every last one.”

  “Which was your favorite?” I hold my breath, hoping the question pries open the memory gates.

  “Favorite? Oh my. I loved them all. Each one came from a special place in here.” He taps his heart again. “Lots of research, of course. I visited many carousels around these parts back then, and read everything I could about the carousels being built in Europe. They have some beauties over there. Have you been to Europe, Miss…?”

  “Brice. Maya. Yes, I lived in England for a year during college.”

  “England. Beautiful place. Lovely people. My daughter, Diane, lives there, you know. Are you a friend of hers?”

  I notice Hank’s attention slide past me a split second before I hear the tap on the door. Suddenly self-conscious I tighten my tummy and reach to smooth the hair that’s been tickling my cheek. I force my spine straight, proper posture shows confidence, my mom always said.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt.” The apology is accompanied by the sound of shoes on tile, but the voice isn’t his. My bottom vertebrae give out and my posture collapses.

  “Dr. Edwards, welcome.” Hank gestures the apology to enter. “This is…” He falters, turning to me for help.

  I turn, ignoring the grumbling of the chair. “Maya Brice.”

  “Yes, yes. Miss Brice is restoring the old carousel on the boardwalk, my old carousel.” The beaming Hank is back. I’ve been with him for barely half an hour and I’m emotionally exhausted from the memory lapses and catch-ups.

  Tap, tap. Hard-soled shoes close the distance into the middle of the room. How had I not heard him with those shoes? I look up, right hand following obediently, and shake hands with Dr. Edwards, mentally cursing my rolling stomach. I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or relieved it’s not Simon.

  “Lee Edwards. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Maya.” He pumps my hand, practically lifting me out of the chair with his enthusiasm. “I’m one of the doctors keeping Hank here out of trouble.” He smiles at Hank, who chuckles and winks at me.

  “I won’t keep you,” Dr. Edwards continues, turning his attention to Hank. “Just wanted to make sure you were feeling okay. Julie says you haven’t g
one for a walk yet today.” It’s as much a question as a comment, and I catch a slight grimace on Hank’s face.

  “I could use some fresh air,” I offer. “Hank, would you like to walk with me and we can compare notes on the carousel?”

  “That’s a good idea, Hank,” Dr. Edwards says, with the encouraging nod of a patient teacher.

  Hank crosses his left leg over his right, his eyes riveted on his shoes as the left foot waves to its companion. Just when I think he’s going to turn me down, the feet square, and Hank pushes himself up from the chair. He holds out his right arm and I lace my left arm around it, placing my hand on his forearm. Together we walk down the hall, Hank’s rubber soles squelching, my flip-flops slapping. I laugh at his research stories, like the time he chased an ostrich around the zoo pen to get a close-up view of its beak and feet.

  I marvel at the memories his brain contains and the details it can’t retain.

  Twelve

  I lean against the fence and look through the opening at the “restoration-in-progress” carousel.

  The ostrich is back in its post, restored to what I hope is almost the original beauty. I can’t help but smile thinking about Hank chasing an irate bird to examine its feet and the irate bird pecking Hank on the head when he did finally catch it. At least this one wasn’t mean and hadn’t pecked at me when I worked on him.

  There’s an empty spot where the dominant stander goes. I should have gone straight back to the studio after talking to Hank but, somehow, I wasn’t ready to face him. I feel like I’ve let him down in some warped way. The only thing I learned for sure is that Hank carved the inscription. But I already knew that.

  Every question specifically about that horse had gotten lost in a memory hiccup. I can’t help wonder if he was playing me to avoid the subject. Don’t be crazy, Maya.

  We’d spent over an hour in the Tower Oaks garden. Barista Barbie had fixed us up with a latte for me and a hot cocoa—extra whipped cream and a saucy grin—for Hank.