by Orly Konig
“Like a job offer?”
“Fair. Except I wasn’t trying to keep it from you.”
“I haven’t been trying to keep it from you either.” Not really, at least.
He cocks his head at my response, and heat sears my cheeks. I may not be able to read him anymore, but he sure can see through me.
“There’s not much to tell.” My eye twitches. I open my mouth and snap it shut. He tightens the cross of his arms across his chest. The clock is ticking. “I hate this,” I finally blurt. “I hate that we don’t talk, that everything between us is so hard.”
He softens. “Me too.”
I wait for more. Vale is the olive-branch carrier, the one who always knows what to say and when to say it. But not this time. This time he’s waiting for me to be the first to extend the branch.
I know what I should say. Instead, I tell him about Hank. How Hank mistook me for my grandmother, how animated he gets when I ask questions about the carousel, how he can’t remember who I am some days and asks my name every few minutes. I finish, breathless, exhausted.
I wait again for Vale to say something. He doesn’t.
“You know what pisses me off, though?” I’m surprised at the sudden stab of anger in my voice and the pounding of my pulse. “I’m pissed that she kept him a secret.”
“I’m sure she had her reasons.” That’s what I get from him?
The answer fuels my temper. “She knew what the carousel meant and what it would mean to talk to him directly. All the questions, all the what-ifs—every single one was a lie.”
Vale turns and fusses with the espresso machine, leaving me to fume about lies behind his back. A few minutes later, he walks to the table with two mugs. I set my now cold coffee on the table and happily accept the new offering.
“Not all secrets are lies.” He pulls out the chair across the small table and sits.
I gawk at him. Of course they are.
“What did Hank say when you told him who you were?”
“I told you, he was excited to talk about the carousel restoration.” I’m not answering the real question, and Vale gives me a pointed look. “It’s complicated.” It’s a cop-out.
“So you lied to him.” He watches me over the mug as he takes a few slow sips.
“No.” He’s got me.
Are secrets lies? Are they ever justified? Am I right keeping secrets from Vale? From Hank? Was Grandma right keeping her secret from me? I detour the conversation. “I’d like to include him in the grand reopening ceremony.”
Vale’s face hardens. He stands and dumps what’s left of his coffee into the sink. With his back to me, he says, “Be careful what secrets you’re hiding behind, Maya.”
* * *
An hour later, I walk into the lobby of Tower Oaks, making a point of not acknowledging the open stare of the gum-popping receptionist. The hall toward Hank’s room is mostly empty, but I’m hyperaware of every movement in the rooms I pass. Am I hoping Simon will come out of one of them, or hoping he won’t?
Nurse Julie waves me into Hank’s room. He’s sitting in the wingback chair, legs crossed, a book balancing on his knee, his lips moving in silence. His airborne foot taps in time to a melody I can barely make out. I’m not sure for a minute if I actually hear music or if it’s only coming from the movement of his foot. I rap on the open door, almost afraid of breaking into his private moment.
Hank looks up, his face opening, welcoming. “I’m so happy you came to see me today.” He stands and drops the book to the chair.
I hesitate. Who is he happy to see? Who am I today?
Hank shuffles forward and grabs my hand. “Come, come, my dear. No need to stand in the doorway. I think we’re old enough to be trusted in my room together.” He winks playfully.
I follow him to the chair, unsure what to say or who I’m to be. “What are you reading?” I reach for the book, plucking it from his chair just before his rear makes contact with the cushion.
“Oh silly me.” He takes it from me. “Thanks for saving my book.”
In the immediate silence that follows, I hear the distinct notes of a trumpet. He really is listening to music, not just hearing it in his head.
“Meera? What’s wrong?”
Today the part of Meera will be played by her granddaughter.
I close my eyes, tuning out everything but the music. The trumpet soothes away the tension and I turn to look at Hank. “Maynard Ferguson?”
He nods, his lips pulling into a reflective pinch. “Remember that concert he gave in the old Spanish ballroom? We danced so long we had to put our feet in the ocean to stop the aching.” He chuckles at the memory. “We had some good times back then, didn’t we?”
Like a hot air balloon when the air below is turned off, I wither into a pile of colored fabric. Those are the exact words he used just days ago. I wonder if he remembers that I was here before.
As though reading my thoughts, he says, “But I’m repeating myself, aren’t I? I was feeling nostalgic last time you were here as well. You must think I’m losing my marbles.”
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? “Not at all,” I answer and bite the inside of my lip.
I look up, sensing he’s studying me, and force my smile a bit wider.
“Meera, honey, something is troubling you. Please talk to me.”
I can’t very well bring up the carousel reopening now. Simon had said that on days like this it was best to keep the conversation where Hank believed himself to be.
“I love this record.” I pop out of the chair and walk to the table where the black vinyl disk spins.
“Me, too. We used to listen to it over and over. I’m surprised it still plays after all these years. Remember how annoyed your mom used to get with this music?” He grins, and it looks just like the grin my father gave me and Thomas behind Mom’s back, when she ragged on us about our music.
A silver picture frame glistens on the bookshelf next to the desk. The fluorescent overhead lighting reflects off the glass, blurring the photo tucked inside. I pick it up and tilt it from the glare. A woman stands in front of Big Ben. Her brunette hair is cut in an elegant bob. A red Hermès scarf, expertly tied around her neck, provides the only splash of color. I squint at the image, wondering if it was Photoshopped to make the scarf pop more. She’s smiling in the direction of the photographer, but her eyes betray a desire to be someplace else.
“Is this…?” I have no idea who it could be. I turn, holding the photograph in front of me.
“Ah yes, that’s Diane.”
“Is she still in London?” Tiptoeing through the minefield of someone’s memory is a skill I haven’t developed.
“Noooo.” He draws out the word. “She was just here, actually. Maybe you saw her leaving?” He brightens, turning to the door as if she might be standing right there.
“I didn’t pass anyone on the way in.” I replace the picture frame on the shelf and make my way back to the chair next to Hank.
“Pity. You two would probably hit it off.” His eyes flutter then close, his head tips back into the cushioned support of the chair. But his foot continues to bob to the beat of the music.
I fidget in the chair. It complains, and I force my body still. My hands refuse to cooperate, though, and I fuss at the creased hem of my shirt. I should have tucked it in. Mom would tell me to tuck it in, that looking sloppy makes you feel sloppy and be sloppy. I like sloppy. Sloppy feels comfortable. Except now. Suddenly it feels immature and out of place. Like me.
“Hank,” I start then stop the words before they take us into the wrong decade. I don’t know how to be my grandmother. I don’t know how to be myself either.
“Oh, Meera. It wasn’t easy at first. I knew we didn’t have a future together, but I still hoped. I hoped the magic of the merry-go-round would be enough. Which was stupid, of course. But you can’t blame a romantic for wishing.”
He leans forward, grabs my hand and squeezes. “Annabelle understood me, she qu
ieted me. She was so different from you. Where you were passionate and opinionated, she was tender and understanding. I loved her. And I loved you.”
My mouth flaps open but there are no words. Hank squeezes my hand again. One of us has sweaty palms. I wipe my other hand on my pants.
“Hank,” I finally manage, although I’m not sure what I want to say.
“We made the right decision, Meera. What we had was intoxicating, but it wouldn’t have lasted. We wouldn’t have lasted. And we wouldn’t now have this friendship. I wouldn’t give this up.” He smiles, and I melt. “And, in my heart, I know it was the best thing for our Claire.”
My hands turn from clammy to icy and I pull away from Hank. Our Claire?
Movement in the hall stalls the current speeding through my body. I twist to see who’s there, who may have overheard, who else now knows yet another secret my grandmother was keeping.
There’s no one there. I hear talking down the hall, muffled voices, someone laughing, a telephone ringing.
Our Claire.
“Meera, honey, I’ve upset you.” Hank grabs for my hand, but I push off the armrests and walk to where the record player now sits idle.
It’s one thing to know they had a relationship. It was even somehow comforting to know they’d found their way to each other again after all these years. But this? I don’t know how to wrap my brain around this.
A knock on the door startles me. Apparently it startled Hank, too, because he bolts from the chair faster than I’ve seen him move during any of my visits.
“Excuse me for interrupting, but it’s time for your physical therapy, Hank.” A nurse leans into the room, enough to be present, not enough to intrude.
Hank is by my side before I’ve processed his movement. He leans close, left hand on my left upper arm, and places a whisper of a kiss on my cheek. “You’ll come tomorrow?” It’s part question, part command, part wish. He doesn’t wait for my answer before shuffling to the door and disappearing with the nurse.
I stand in the empty room listening to the squeak of shoes on linoleum and the murmur of voices.
“Holy shit.” I mumble into the quiet. “Any other secrets you’re waiting to release on me, Grandma?”
My phone chimes with a meeting reminder. Time for the monthly mother-daughter lunch at the country club. I’d hate to keep “Our Claire” waiting.
Sixteen
At six minutes past one, I pull into the circular drive of the country club. I thank the eager boy in his blue shorts and white polo shirt as he helps me from the car and hops in. It takes only two steps before I hear the gunning of the engine and pebbles scattering behind me. In all the years we’ve been doing our monthly mother-daughter lunches, I’ve never arrived exactly on time. Well, I’ve never arrived at the table exactly on time. Last month, I sat in the car for twenty-five minutes so that I’d get to the table seven minutes late.
Mom is a stickler for timeliness. So am I. Except when it comes to meeting my mom.
She’s already seated next to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the pond and golf course. She puckers brilliantly outlined rose lips and releases an air kiss when I lean to kiss her cheek. She doesn’t bother getting up. But I do get a halfhearted tap on the back, a one-armed pseudo hug.
“You look beautiful as always, Mom.” I settle into the chair across from her and fuss with the napkin as a waiter fills my water glass.
She studies me for a minute, a hair twitch of one eyebrow the only comment necessary about my decidedly un-country club appearance. At least I’m not in paint-splattered attire this time.
“So,” Mom says after a respectful few minutes of squirming on my part. “Vale tells me you’re remodeling the bathroom.”
I stare at the glass of water she’s just placed back on the table. There’s not one smidge of lipstick on it. How does she do that?
Focus, Maya. “You talked to Vale?” And I talked to Hank.
Her mouth pulls into a satisfied smirk. My body tenses in response.
Well, Claire, I bet I could wipe that smirk off your face. No, not now, not here.
“Yes, we are,” I say, forcing the edge from my tongue before continuing. “Then I’m sure he gave you the highlights.”
“Umm.” It’s a nonresponse response, punctuated by an “I see” tip of her head. It makes me want to yell, “No, you don’t see! You don’t know anything about what’s going on!” But I don’t. What would she say if I told her about Hank? How would she react? Hot like Grandma or reserved like Grandpa? I don’t know Hank well enough to guess what he’d do.
“So, Mom.” I chew on my pale naked lip and seesaw a fork between my left thumb and pointer finger.
“For god’s sake, Maya, stop fidgeting.”
I’m rarely completely at ease around my mom, and never at the country club. I look around, at the white linen-covered tables, the cut-crystal votive holders, the waiters in starched white shirts and creased black pants.
We’d gone against Mom’s wish to have our wedding reception here. Vale had given it the old diplomatic “come on, Maya, this means a lot to her.” Grandma had been less diplomatic with “stand your ground, Mims. A stuffy reception leads to a stuffy marriage. Just look at your mom.”
The waiter arrives for our order, blocking my visual tour of everything I’m not.
“Spinach salad with poached salmon, please, Jaimi. And Perrier with a lemon slice. Please make sure there are no seeds in the lemon.” She winks at Jaimi with what to him no doubt looks like a pleasant smile. I wonder if he realizes it was really a warning.
“Um, oh, same I guess.” I hand Jaimi the menu I haven’t opened.
As cool as a prosecutor assessing a shaky defense witness, Mom waits. I down an entire glass of water and watch as the busboy refills it. The entire time, Mom stays perfectly still, not even a hair waves under the air-conditioning.
She’s reading me. It’s what Grandpa used to do. It’s also what Hank does.
“What do you know about Grandma’s pre-Grandpa days?”
This was obviously not the question she was expecting. She reaches for the glass with its dancing bubbles and seedless lemon, and sips.
The waiter brings our food, and for a few minutes, we abandon our awkward attempt at friendly conversation. Mom takes small, elegant bites while I pull apart the perfectly cooked fish but don’t eat.
“Did Grandma tell you about any boyfriends before she met Grandpa?” My heart hammers and I whisper “shhh” to it. I could say something, I could crack this open. I can’t. Not yet. Not until I know more.
“Not much.” She studies what’s left of her salmon filet, flaking a few more pieces then rebuilding the mound.
“Didn’t you guys talk? Weren’t you interested?”
Mom’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows distort. “You mean the way we talk?”
She’s got me there. Except she’s intimidating and unwelcoming. Grandma wasn’t. At least not to me.
The waiter picks up an empty plate from a nearby table and walks to ours. “May I take anything? Get you anything?”
Mom dismisses him with a flick of her wrist. Hank would never be rude like that. Grandpa wasn’t like that. Grandma would have invited him to sit.
“Your grandmother wasn’t an easy person to talk to.”
I take a larger than anticipated swallow of sparkling water and snort as the bubbles fizz up my nose.
“Maya.” Mom’s eyes bug then dart around the room. “Manners, please.”
I cover my mouth and nose with the white linen napkin and wait for the tears to subside. This is why I rarely drink anything with fizz. Fizz and I don’t play well together.
I gawk at my mom and dab at my eyes. “She was the easiest person to talk to.”
“I guess we saw different sides of her.”
“I guess.” How were those sides so drastically different?
Mom folds a dark green leaf onto her fork with the tip of the knife, then flakes a piece of salmon. I’m once ag
ain mesmerized as the fork leaves her lips without a hint of smudged lipstick.
“Why are you staring at me, Maya?” She puts the fork and knife down and taps the corner of her mouth with the corner of the napkin. Her lipstick stays intact.
Because I know something that would blow your perfect rock to gravel. Because you’re not who you think you are. Or pretend to be. Because I can’t see how you came from two such easygoing people.
I swallow hard and reach for my water.
“I’m sorry, dear. I know how hard losing her is on you.”
I may have caught her off guard earlier, but this knocks me flat on my butt. The sudden tenderness threatens to uncork my barely contained emotions. Navigating Mom’s soft side is not something I know how to do.
Are all relationships between mothers and daughters cursed to bruised emotions?
The waiter comes to collect our plates, and Mom orders two espressos. I don’t like espresso. I don’t correct her.
There are so many questions I want to ask, so many sensitive spots I want to poke. But she’s disarmed me, and the weight I’ve been carrying for the last twelve months drops around me like an ancient, moldy blanket.
We sip our coffees and revert to safe topics: Megan’s upcoming birthday and the lavish party Bree wants to throw, against Thomas’s wishes. That Alex has started sleeping on the floor with the puppy because Bree won’t allow the dog on the bed.
“I’d let my child sleep with the dog. I think it’s so sweet,” I mutter. For the briefest of heartbeats, our eyes meet and we’re connected by the grief of a tiny coffin.
The waiter slips the white china plate with the bill on it next to Mom’s left elbow. A gold pen anchors the paper against a sudden gust of air-conditioning. I shiver.
She signs her name and places her napkin on the table. Another monthly mother-daughter lunch over. Another opportunity for this mother and daughter to connect, missed. The chance to expose a newly discovered secret, gone.
The cars are waiting for us when we step out the front door. Mom leans left then right, her cheek barely making contact with mine. I’m not sure that even qualifies for air-kiss status. She waves and calls, “Bye, darling. Thanks for lunch,” as she glides down the steps and into her waiting carriage.