Carousel Beach_A Novel

by Orly Konig

  Through the frosted glass of the facility doors, I catch movement. I push the car door open and stand, my right leg still in the car, my heart hammering louder than the sound of the TV drifting from the second-floor room with the open window.

  The shadows inside Tower Oaks continue to move closer until the large glass doors slide open. A square man with a buzz cut is the first out; the puff of air released by the opening doors ruffles his dark-blue scrubs. His left arm trails behind, pulling the gurney. The white sheet bulges around a human figure. I catch my breath as the other end comes into view. The medic at the head is a slight woman, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, her dark-blue scrubs bookending the stark white of the wrapped figure. She tucks a corner of the blanket under the rounded shape where the head is.

  Simon follows them out. He stands at the edge of the sidewalk, watching as the medics push the gurney into the waiting ambulance. The square man walks to Simon and pats his upper arm before continuing around and getting into the passenger side.

  Simon watches as the ambulance pulls away. He turns and catches sight of me, his body shudders as breath escapes from his parted lips.

  I take a few hesitant steps toward him. I can’t read his expression. I used to be able to read him perfectly. When I’m arm’s-distance away, I stop, turn, and together we watch the ambulance as it disappears out of sight.

  “That’s one part of the job that never gets easier. Come on, I need a drink. Coffee will have to do, though.”

  I skip a couple of steps to catch up to him. He orders a latte from the young man at the coffee kiosk. I decline. I don’t need more caffeine to spike my overactive pulse.

  “Where’s Barbie?” I whisper, hoping the answer isn’t in the ambulance.

  “Hair salon. Then brunch with her grandkids. She has nine, and they come for her every Sunday.”

  “Who was it?” I nod in the direction the ambulance went.

  Simon looks down at me then at the doors to the West Wing. “Jonah. Nice old man. It’s been a hard year for him and his family though. This is a relief for them. Don’t look so scandalized, Maya. I’m not a monster, and I’m not overly jaded. Jonah had advanced dementia. He wasn’t the person his family knew. Most of the time, he wasn’t much of a person at all.”

  I flinch.

  “Sorry, that sounded harsh.”

  It did. But I also understand. Mostly.

  “How’s Hank?”

  “He’s okay. He’ll be happy to see you.”

  “You think?” I can’t contain the jump of anticipation in my voice.

  “I think. I have some calls to make and paperwork to do. I’ll catch you later.” He stands a heartbeat longer, maybe wanting to say something else, maybe waiting for me to say something else. “Okay, later then.” He turns and walks the opposite direction from the West Wing.

  The entrance to Hank’s room is blocked by a cleaning cart. I peer inside, but he’s not in there. I know he’s okay and yet a fresh wave of panic flushes through me. I make eye contact with a nurse at the desk. She points to the courtyard.

  I find him sitting on a bench, leafing through a magazine.

  “Hank?”

  He looks up and blinks at me, once, twice, then a flicker of recognition. “Nice to see you.” Doubt crowds his forehead with more wrinkles. “Who are you again?”

  I collect my heart before I step on it and move forward to sit on the bench next to him.

  “Maya Brice. I’m the restorer working on your carousel.”

  His face lights up. “How is the old girl?” He closes the magazine and sets it between us.

  “Still beautiful.” I suppress the shudder of déjà vu. “What are you reading?” I twist around to look at the magazine and stifle a wince; we’re both repeating ourselves, again. Will every conversation with Hank be a dance of two steps forward, one back?

  “Trash,” Hank chortles. “The only thing these nurses bring us to read is trash. Who cares about some self-absorbed teenage music star? Or what celebrities are getting divorced? No respect for marriage or commitment these days.”

  I turn the magazine over and laugh at the cover. Star News winks at me in bright gold letters. It’s one of those tabloids I’m tempted to pick up in the grocery-store aisle, but I always chicken out.

  Hank assesses me for a quiet minute then says, “So Miss … um…” He waves the lapse away. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “There’s not much to tell.” I shrug, uncomfortable at being in his crosshairs.

  He lets out a hearty laugh and leans back. “That’s nonsense. A young lady who restores carousels and comes to sit with an old geezer. You, my dear, are fascinating.”

  I smile, can’t help myself. He’s utterly charming, and I picture my grandma as a young woman taken by a younger version of him.

  “What?” He leans forward. “You’re smirking.”

  My smile widens. “I was just thinking that you remind me of someone.”

  The twinkle in his eye from a moment ago clouds over and, just as quickly, the shadow is gone and a slow smile takes over his face. “I was thinking the same about you when you first walked in.”

  “When I walked in?” My eyes dart to the front door.

  “Yes, when you walked in. There’s a reason I sit on this bench. When the light cooperates, I can see everything in the lobby.” He winks, and we both look through the wall of windows. He’s right.

  I feel a slight prickle on the back of my neck at the realization that he’d seen me, watched me. “Who do I remind you of?”

  Another hearty laugh. “Someone from a long, long time ago. She was a beauty. Like you.” He pats my hand and winks again. He’s flirting. I feel the heat of a blush.

  “But I want to hear about you. Miss … what did you say your name was?”

  I deflate into the hot bench, the smug face of the self-absorbed teenage music star on the cover of the magazine beaming at me.

  “Maya Brice.”

  “Yes, yes. Miss Brice.” He waves his hand as though slapping away an annoying fly. “What would make a beautiful young woman choose to restore a decrepit old relic?”

  I resort to my standard answer. “I got tired of being cooped up in the basement of a museum, restoring artifacts.”

  There’s a slight narrowing of his right eye as he studies me. “And?”

  “And I’ve always loved carousels, especially this one.”

  “Well lucky me that you’re rescuing mine.”

  “Maybe it’s rescuing me.” The words take flight. I suspect that my face looks as surprised as his.

  He recovers first. “It is a well-known fact that carousels are magic.”

  “My grandmother used to say the same thing.”

  “Your grandmother was a wise woman.” He’s looking through the windows, through the lobby, and by the low timbre of his voice, I’d guess through several decades as well. Does he know?

  “You’re married, Miss…?” Hank indicates my left hand.

  I roll my ring back and forth with my thumb. “Please call me Maya. Yes, I am.”

  “And you love him?”

  “Yes, of course.” The words fly from my mouth, more defensive than I’d intended.

  “So why are you sad?”

  “I’m not.”

  He smiles, his eyes glued to a shadow in the lobby. Simon is there talking to a couple, the woman leaning into the man for comfort. Could they be Jonah’s family?

  Hank turns to me. “But you are.”

  I don’t know why, but the words I haven’t wanted to say out loud suddenly have to be spoken. “It’s been a hard year. My grandmother died and I lost my baby the same day. Nothing has been the same since.” I tell him everything.

  He pats my arm, a distracted attempt at comfort. I chew the inside of my lip, wishing I could walk through the door again and start over. He doesn’t know you, Maya. You shouldn’t have dumped that on him. I scoot to the edge of the bench, ready to push myself up, ready to apologize for that la
pse in social graces. Hank rests his hand on my arm, anchoring me to the hot bench.

  “You blame yourself?” His voice is low, his eyes seeing far more than I’m comfortable sharing.

  I nod.

  “Does he blame you?”

  I shake my head. Vale never blamed me. At least not openly.

  “You shouldn’t carry so much guilt, Meera.” His voice melts in the heat of the morning.

  My skin prickles. Meera. No hesitation with that name.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “It’s not that easy.”

  “You have to allow it to be.”

  “How?”

  “By trusting.” He smiles at the look on my face. “My wife, Annabelle, went through a similar episode. We lost our first baby. And our second. I almost lost her. When she got pregnant the third time, we were both too afraid to hope. Annabelle was so scared and depressed, and it was all I could do to hang on for both of us. Somehow we were blessed with Diane. Annabelle was so sure she’d be a terrible mother. But I knew better. I knew we were given Diane as a third chance. Because we both deserved another chance.

  “I wanted to be a good father, but I wasn’t ready the first time. I wasn’t ready for Claire. We weren’t ready, Meera. Annabelle’s miscarriages were my punishment.” He squeezes my hand, Meera’s hand.

  He inhales, exhales. “I’m an old man, Maya. I remembered that time.” He winks and gives me a crooked, saggy smile. “I’m far less moony and romantic these days. Losing the baby is not punishment. It happened. Trust in your relationship. Trust me.”

  Before I have a chance to comment, he scoots a quarter inch away and tucks his hands into his lap. “Oh boy, here comes the warden.”

  The nurse I’d seen earlier walks toward us.

  Hank pushes himself from the bench with a groan.

  “Trust, my dear, trust.” He taps his heart twice with his index finger then points at me with the same finger. An invisible current tying our hearts together.

  “Hank.” I want to tell him, I need to tell him.

  He shakes his head without turning to look at me. “Enough for today. Good-bye for now, Meera.”

  Twenty-one

  “Ah, shit,” I mumble as I ease the car into the driveway.

  The vanity is sitting outside, by the door to the kitchen. “Guess the measurements didn’t work.” Vale and I had measured and remeasured, argued and compromised. I argued, he compromised. The measurements were tight, but it fit. At least on paper it had fit. Guess I better get in there and figure out which one of us had been wrong.

  I drop the bag with sandwiches onto the kitchen table and head upstairs, painfully aware of the deafening silence in the house. No hammering. No clang of tiles. No discussion.

  I gasp in surprise as I make the turn into the bathroom. Vale and George are sitting on the floor by the door, surveying the room. They look up, perfectly synchronized. They heard me coming.

  “What are you guys doing?” I push my right fist against my chest, trying to slow the pounding. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “We’re taking a break. Admiring our progress,” George drawls, and Vale nods in agreement.

  “You’re a little jumpy,” Vale adds helpfully.

  “Progress? The sink is outside.” I stab a finger in the direction of the door.

  Another finger points into the bathroom, and I follow the line of Vale’s hand. My mouth drops as I take in the progress. The rectangular tiles I thought we were buying as accents cover two walls. The gentle ripples of the blue-green glass run at an angle, and I have the immediate sensation of standing in a waterfall. A showerhead pokes out of the wall in the far corner, while my claw-foot tub hunkers down in the adjacent corner. With the angle of the tiles, it looks like the waterfall is pooling directly into the tub.

  “Wow. This is beautiful. This isn’t what we agreed on though. These tiles were supposed to only be accents.”

  “I know. But this is more you. Us,” he corrects himself.

  There’s more to his comment, more to his decision on what to do with the tiles. I want to ask, but it’s not a discussion I want to have with George sitting at my feet. I look for any sign in Vale’s face.

  He turns back to his handiwork. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “How did you get it done so fast?” I step into the bathroom to get a better look. Two walls still stand naked; there’s a hole where the toilet once was and an open space that obviously won’t fit the vanity from the driveway; the shower needs walls and the tub needs a faucet, but the tiles on the finished walls shimmer, beckoning me into a soon-to-be calming oasis.

  “The angle was his idea.” George hitches a thumb at Vale. “Pain in my ass. Would have taken half the time if we’d just put them up the way they were intended. We’ll finish the rest after lunch. You did bring lunch, right?”

  “What?” I force my eyes from the tiles to George, who’s looking at me like a puppy begging for food. “Oh yes, sandwiches are downstairs.”

  They’re up and past me before I can sidestep out of the way. I give the bathroom another once-over before following.

  “You guys do good work. When you work.” I smile at them.

  “Be nice, if you have any desire to shower before the end of this year.” Vale waves a chip at me.

  Does that mean we’ll still be here at the end of the year? I bite my lip to keep the words trapped.

  “So, Maya,” George says around a mouthful of meatball sub. “Vale was telling me you’ve been talking to the carver of that carousel you’re fixing up. He must be ancient.”

  I picture the old Hank, with the paper-thin skin on his hands that accentuates every vein and the eyes that water slightly when he’s thinking about something. The Hank who talks to me about the colors he used on the carousel and how he decided where to place each animal. The Hank who asks who I am every couple of sentences. The Hank who squeezes my hand when he knows I need comfort.

  I picture the young Hank, with the strong, wide hands and ready grin, and the eyes that sparkle mischievously, like my brother’s. The Hank who talks to Meera about dancing and running in the waves. The Hank who squeezes my hand searching for comfort.

  I feel the electric pulse of anticipation and focus on the two men sitting at the table with me. “He’s amazing,” I answer, biting into my sandwich. The fragmented conversation with both Hanks tumbles in my brain.

  Before either of them can ask for more on Hank, I wrap the rest of my sandwich and stand. “Time to get busy.” I need to be with the horse, to sort through what I learned or didn’t learn, to decide what to do with the secrets spinning in my head. Do I give them free rein to gallop into the open? Am I ready to let go?

  I walk across the yard and unlock the door to my studio. It jolts awake under the lights. I pick up the tools I’ll need to scrape off the rest of the old paint and stand face-to-face with the wooden carousel horse.

  “No talking today. We have work to do.”

  * * *

  The paper to my left ruffles then settles back into place. I glance up, surprised that the light has shifted from noon to evening.

  “Hey.” My brother’s deep voice rattles the quiet of the studio.

  “Hey back.” I wait for him to come in. “What brings you here?”

  “Peace offering.” He hands me a cold bottle of beer, and I notice the one in his other hand is half empty. He catches my look. “I started with your hubby.”

  “Is he coming?” I look behind my brother to the still-open door.

  “No. He said something about brother-sister time.”

  I give him a get-real gaze.

  “Yeah, well, yesterday didn’t go as planned, and Vale said you seemed even more agitated after your visit with the old man this morning.”

  “Oh he did, did he?” I’m not angry and yet I’m something, something I can’t name. A feeling that’s taken root so deep inside me, I wonder if I’ll ever be able to extract it.

  Thomas settled into the chair
by my worktable and studies the horse over the lip of the bottle. “So, what’s the deal?”

  “What deal?”

  “The horse. The old man. Your obsession.”

  “I’m not obsessed. I’m focused.”

  “That you are.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Thomas holds up his hands. “I didn’t come to fight. Really. I’m worried about you. We all are.”

  I deflate into the chair next to my brother. I’ve become that person, the one person in every family who people tiptoe around, whisper about, watch with concern.

  “I’m fine.” The belligerent pout in my voice proves I’m not.

  “Wanna talk? I’m a good listener.”

  Thomas was never a good listener. The few times I tried to confide in him as a kid were disastrous. He’d gotten me grounded twice, and Sarah Kline, my sixth-grade friend stopped talking to me after Thomas ratted us out about going to the Dollar Store with a bunch of friends instead of staying at the school for the lame Valentine’s Day Dance. That’s when I stopped confiding in my brother. I look into his eyes, Hank’s eyes, and calculate my options.

  “What if I tell you Hank is Mom’s biological father?” I level a how-about-that challenge.

  He doesn’t take the bait. “Have you been inhaling too many fumes?” He scans the room for evidence.

  “I’m serious.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “I should have known you’d take her side.”

  Thomas sighs dramatically and plunks the beer bottle onto the worktable. “I’m not taking her side. I just think you’re barking up the wrong infidelity tree.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Based on what, the inscription? A letter? Neither of those are proof of anything. And seriously, Maya, those were different times. That didn’t happen back then.” The pleat at the corner of his right eye counters the confidence in his tone.

  “You mean getting pregnant out of wedlock? Like Mom did?”

  A matching pleat gathers at the corner of his other eye, but he doesn’t jump to correct me.