Carousel Beach_A Novel

by Orly Konig

  I’ve wished, pleaded for a do-over of that day. I’ve rolled the details over and over in my mind until every last one is lodged deep, like a splinter you can’t extract.

  The floor of the merry-go-round mural is outlined in black paint. So is the roof. The rooster at the tip of the roof shines a brilliant black. The ostrich’s beak is black, and the chest strap is partially painted. Also black.

  Black was the only color I’d had on hand that morning. I’d made a list of the colors I needed. Vale had told me to wait; he’d stop by the store on his way home then help me paint in the evening, when it was cooler. The forecast was calling for thunderstorms in the late afternoon, with cooler temperatures and rain the following day. Perfect for painting, he’d said.

  But I’d been possessed by the dream that had given birth to the mural. I’d wanted to finish at least one merry-go-round before the baby was born. So when Grandma said she’d go to the store for me and buy the paint I needed, I didn’t argue hard enough.

  The doctors had said it could have happened anywhere, at any time.

  She’d been feeling run down—not that she complained, and not that it slowed her down. But I heard the sighs when she sat, and the catch of breath that she dismissed as nothing. I noticed the deeper bags under her eyes and the paler tone of her skin.

  I should have insisted she rest. I should have made her go to the doctor. I should have told Mom. But she’d made me pinky-promise not to.

  I should have been more patient and waited for Vale. I should have left that stifling room. I should have listened to my body. But I’d been impatient, selfish.

  When my dad called with the news, I should have let him come for me immediately. But I’d said no. There was nothing to do for her, and I couldn’t face my mom. It was my fault Grandma was dead. I told dad I’d wait for Vale, we’d go to their house later. I had to stay here, in this room. I had to wait for the paint to finish the mural. So I’d gotten on the stepstool, in the heat, with the open paint can in my hand.

  I outlined the ostrich. I outlined the carousel house. She’d said she would return within the hour. It was so much longer than an hour. But she’d said she would be back. Like a woman possessed, I kept outlining my mural with the one color of paint I had. And I waited.

  But in the heat, on the stool, paint fumes and realization stealing what air there was, my magical merry-go-round blurred.

  My body feels heavy as the memory of gravity slams into me. My brain clouds with the memory of the loss. And yet, I see myself capping the paint, pushing the stepstool back to the corner.

  Did Vale know what really happened that day? If he did, he’s been keeping the same secret.

  The rocking chair moves under me with each muscle contraction; forward, back, forward.

  I’d been against having one in here. Too old fashioned, I’d never use it, just one more place for clutter to collect. I’d had all the excuses. My mom bought it anyway. “You’ll love it, Maya, you’ll see.”

  Why hadn’t they canceled the order for this as well?

  I let my head drop back and clutch the stuffed dog to my chest. I close my eyes against the sting of tears and allow my legs to push harder against the floor. Forward, back, forward. I wait for the racking sobs, the ripping heartache. There’s only deafening emptiness.

  “Hey, what are you doing in here?” Vale’s warm hand rests on my knee.

  My eyes flutter open. They feel rough, like I’ve been staring into a wind tunnel. Or the sun.

  “There was a light from under the door.” Like that explains everything.

  Vale’s expression turns worried.

  “The sun.”

  It doesn’t ease the concern etched between his brows.

  “The rug is gone.”

  He nods.

  “You?”

  He shakes his head.

  “My dad?”

  “Why does this matter, Maya?”

  “It just does.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  We both look at the spot where the rug should have been.

  “This was supposed to be our future.”

  Vale sits at my feet, holding on to my calves. “Listen to me.” He tightens the hold on my legs to make me focus on him. “It was an accident. A horrible, unfortunate accident.”

  I shake my head, triggering a waterfall.

  “Dammit, Maya, enough. When will you stop punishing yourself?”

  “What if I can’t have any more babies?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  I shrug. The dog slips from my hands, landing on the floor between us with a gentle thud that echoes in my chest.

  “What happened to the rug?” The rug would have muffled the thud.

  Vale exhales and releases my legs. “Let it go.”

  I look from the shiny black-plastic eyes to my husband’s sad brown eyes.

  Vale sighs, resigned. “I asked your dad to throw it away. I couldn’t get the blood out.”

  I wait for more tears. This time, they don’t come. My body stays quiet, my mind still. Waiting. Still nothing.

  Suddenly desperate to get out of the room, to feel something, I stand and pull Vale to his feet. Gripping his hand, I lead him to the bedroom. He stops at the door, but I walk to the bed. I turn and pull my T-shirt over my head, then let my shorts drop to the floor. Vale’s eyes roam my body, his Adam’s apple slides up and down.

  The ceiling fan twirls overhead and the cool air makes my skin tingle. I reach for Vale’s hand and pull him toward me. He snakes one hand around my waist, the other cups my breast. A moan breaks the silence. I undo his pants, push off his shirt.

  We tumble to the bed, naked, fumbling with each other like two inexperienced teenagers. It’s been too long. We’ve been too far apart.

  I wrap my legs around his hips and pull him closer. He moans and I tense. Vale pulls back and, with hands on either side of my head, pushes up to look me in the eye. “Maya, look at me. Are you sure about his?”

  I nod and tighten my grip around his hips, drawing him closer. His upper body closes the distance between us and his lips find mine.

  “Let’s make another baby. Now. Please, Vale. Now,” I breathe the words between kisses, our bodies moving with an urgency of a year’s denial.

  With an abruptness that leaves me gasping, Vale rolls off. “No.”

  The fan taunts me from above, the cold making me feel even more exposed and vulnerable. All the months when Vale wanted to make love and I’d turned him away, unable to trust my body—now this. Heartache and humiliation take hold. I leap from the bed and bolt for the bathroom, but there’s no floor, no sink, no door. No hiding.

  Vale’s arms close around me from behind. “Stop. Shhhh,” he whispers into my neck.

  My body vibrates from the tsunami building inside. I don’t push him away though. I don’t have anywhere to go. He turns me without releasing me.

  “Look at me.” He dips his head until we’re eye-level. “This isn’t the answer. We’ll get the baby-making underway when the time is right. But not like this. Not now.”

  He leads me back to the bedroom. I stand in the doorway, arms wrapped around my body as my husband pulls on boxers and shorts. He tugs a T-shirt out of the dresser. He takes a step closer, his hand barely grazing my waist. It scalds my oversensitive emotions. He leans to give me a kiss and I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to make eye contact. I wrap my hands around my waist in a protective hug, wanting to erase the memory of his touch.

  “Put something on and come downstairs. Let’s stay home tonight instead. I’ll fix us something to eat.”

  I stay rooted to the spot, arms pretzeled tight around my naked body, and listen to his footfalls going down the stairs and into the kitchen. I stumble half a step back and dissolve into a puddle on the hardwood floor.

  If we had that blue and yellow rug, I could have moved it into this room. Now I need to buy two rugs.

  Nineteen

  “Ouch.” I jerk my foot away, slammi
ng my knee into the wood picnic table in the process. Dov is teething on the rubber toe of my Converse sneakers.

  Bree looks under the table. “Oh good grief. Come here, you mutt.” She tugs at his collar. The puppy performs a reverse army crawl, but not without one final chomp on my toe. Denied my shoe, he proceeds to gnaw on the wood bench.

  Vale leans into me and whispers, “Still think we should get a dog?”

  “Yes. And new shoes.”

  It’s been three days since my failed seduction, which wasn’t much of a seduction at all. We’ve been tiptoeing around the subject and each other ever since. More so than usual. And in true Maya fashion, I dealt with it by sequestering myself in my studio.

  I haven’t been to see Hank or gone for a run on the beach. I’ve dodged calls from my family and responded to Sam with the shortest of texts.

  For all the attempts at hiding, I’m now sitting at my brother’s house. “Mandatory fun night,” is what Vale had said when he pushed me out the door. So far, it hasn’t been much fun.

  “Who wants well-done steak?” Thomas is fanning flames from the grill.

  Bree rolls her eyes and twists out of the picnic table. “Good thing I bought backups.”

  “You should help. I’m not sure she has backups for the backups,” I say to Vale, nudging him.

  “He’s got it. And if not, there’s always pizza delivery.” Vale takes a draw from his beer. “Are you still mad at me for insisting we come?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No.”

  He chuckles. “What can I do to redeem myself?”

  I pretend to ponder the dilemma, then hand him my empty plate. “Refill on the guacamole and chips. Don’t be stingy. And another beer.” I call after him.

  He flashes a grin over his shoulder and disappears into the house.

  Thomas has finally gotten the flames under control and dinner is once again moving forward, this time more carefully supervised by Bree.

  The kids and puppy are chasing each other at the other end of the fenced-in backyard. The squealing and barking drown out the lawn mower in a neighboring yard.

  Eventually, the exhausted puppy throws himself at my feet, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. Megan disappears into the house only to emerge a few minutes later with an assortment of nail polishes and paintbrushes. “Aunt Maymay, will you paint my nails?”

  I flex my left hand and look at my fingers, short nails overrun by cuticles, and the only color is flecks of brown from the morning’s work on the carousel horse. “Have you seen my hands? Do you really think I’m qualified?”

  Megan scrunches her nose and squints at my hand. “But you’re an artist so I bet you can do something pretty on me.”

  “No pressure there,” Bree says, taking back her spot at the picnic table.

  Megan hands me a bottle of hot pink nail polish. “And then I want white polka dots.”

  “So how was lunch with your mom?” Bree attempts a casual tone as I dab hot pink polish on her daughter’s tiny fingernails.

  I don’t break my concentration from the delicate paint job. “The usual.”

  The corner of Bree’s mouth pulls in. I can tell she’s itchy to ask outright but doesn’t want to open a can of family slime in front of her daughter.

  “What kind of relationship do you have with your mom?” I ask. It’s somewhat of a trick question. I know Bree isn’t very close to her mom, although she claims otherwise. Then again, I suppose the interpretation for a “close relationship” is subjective.

  “We’re very close, you know that. We don’t see much of each other since they moved to Arizona but we talk at least once a week.” Bree’s tone bristles.

  “What do you talk about?”

  There’s an uncharacteristic furrow to Bree’s brow. “The usual I suppose. What the kids are up to, their schedules, weather.”

  The usual. Those aren’t my usual discussion topics.

  Did Grandma and I talk about schedules and weather? I guess we did. But we talked about so much more, too. I’d confided in her about almost everything.

  Mom and I rarely talk on the phone. When we do or we’re together? Schedules and weather. Okay, so I guess those are usual topics. And that makes me sad.

  I finish painting the last of Megan’s fingers then watch as Bree takes Meg’s small hands and blows on the hot pink polish to speed up the drying. Meg meanwhile is running a monologue that in the few minutes of drying time has spanned the gamut from her new swimsuit that matches her friend Amy’s but now that they’re not best friends anymore she won’t wear it, to the flavor of cake she wants for her birthday party five-and-three-quarter months away.

  Is their relationship predestined to become an emotional tug-of-war? Maybe. And maybe that’s why I hoped for a boy when I found out I was pregnant.

  Megan shoves her pudgy fingers in front me. “They’re ready for their dots.”

  “Steaks are done.” Thomas puts a tray of meat on the table. “What are you two talking about? Maya has that constipated look she gets when she doesn’t care for the topic. Wait—” He pauses for effect. “You’re talking about Mom.”

  I glare at him. “Not funny.”

  “But I’m right, aren’t I?” he gloats.

  “Can you two stop for a day? Set a better example for your kids.” Bree swats at Thomas with a flyswatter.

  “Yeah, Thomas.” I taunt, then wink at Alex and Meg, who are watching with anxious delight.

  We settle into neutral conversation while we eat. The kids and puppy alternate bites with sprints. By the time we’re done with dinner, I’m exhausted, and I haven’t gotten off the bench once.

  Bree talks Alex and Meg into popcorn and a movie. While she gets them settled, Thomas lights citronella candles and refreshes drinks.

  “So, Vale,” Thomas asks, his mouth so close to the lip of his beer bottle that his S’s whistle. “What’s the latest on Seattle?”

  I can feel their eyes on me. I watch the flickering flame on the candle in the middle of the table. I release a long breath, and the flame performs a perfect limbo before straightening and sputtering in protest.

  Yes, Vale, what’s the latest on Seattle? Let’s hear how you spin this. I still have a week, and he hasn’t brought it up with me since setting the dreaded deadline.

  “Not much to tell.” He’s still watching me.

  The deepest discussions we’ve had the last few nights have revolved around what to have for dinner or who needs the car. Since I haven’t left the studio except to eat or sleep, and food has consisted of whatever Vale felt like fixing, we’ve exchanged only a few words.

  Which is probably why he insisted we go out tonight. The where was a surprise, although he’d hinted that oysters would be involved when I was reluctant to leave my studio. Now, not only am I not getting oysters, I’m also spending the evening under my brother’s microscope. Even the discussion pointed at my husband has a side spotlight on me.

  “Don’t you owe them an answer?”

  My stomach knots.

  “Yes, but they’re not pushing. I’ll get back to them soon, though.”

  A week soon. I can’t make that decision in a week.

  “But you’re interested?”

  “Of course. It’s a hell of an opportunity. But it’s not that easy.”

  “You guys are about as subtle as donkeys,” I grumble.

  “Did she just call us asses?” Thomas feigns shock.

  “I think she did.”

  Sounds from Disney’s Aladdin fill the night as Bree opens windows in the family room. “I don’t know why she insists on doing that,” Thomas complains. “It defeats the purpose of putting the kids to watch something so the adults can have quiet time.”

  “She’s just being cautious,” Vale says, looking at the windows and flickering shadows from the TV. “Most accidents happen in or around your own home.”

  From the dark of the house, Genie is explaining “wish fulfillment”
to Aladdin. “Three wishes, to be exact. And ixnay on the wishing for more wishes. That’s it. Three. Uno, dos, tres. No substitutions, exchanges, or refunds.”

  What would my wishes be? I can only think of two. A magic carpet to whisk me away from here and back to my studio; and a time-travel machine to take me back thirteen months, to undo the damage.

  Twenty

  “You’re a little overdressed for the studio.” Vale takes in my yellow capris, white T-shirt, and the blue sweater wrapped around my waist.

  “Going to visit Hank. Unless you need the car?” I stop midmotion, one foot in a flip-flop, the other sandal still in my hand.

  “No, I have bathroom duty. George is coming over to help.”

  On cue, George knocks on the back door and, with Vale waving him to enter, comes into the kitchen.

  “You look lovely as always, Maya.” George gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  “Thank you, kind sir.” I curtsy.

  “Just don’t get too close to the hair. I think there may be a squirrel nesting in there. It’s time to get the shower fixed.” Vale winks and dodges when I pretend to smack at him with my bag.

  “At your service.” George bows.

  I roll my eyes. “I’m leaving the bathroom in your capable hands. Don’t screw anything else up.” I wag a finger at Vale. “George, you’re in charge.”

  “Hey.” Vale squeaks, and George laughs.

  “Smart woman.” George winks. “No worries, we’ve got this.”

  “That’s what worries me,” I say, sliding on my other shoe. I wave good-bye and jog to the car, happily escaping from the discussion of moving water lines, and measurements, and best brand of grout.

  * * *

  I ease the Audi into the parking lot of Tower Oaks, anxious to see Hank—whichever Hank will be there today. An ambulance, back doors open, stands in the no-parking zone directly in front of the entrance. From my parking spot, I can see the front doors of Tower Oaks and the open back of the ambulance. No gurney.

  My knuckles turn white with the pressure on the steering wheel. There’s no reason for the skipping in my chest. No reason to think this has anything to do with Hank. And yet I can’t make my fingers work on the door handle.