Carousel Beach_A Novel

by Orly Konig

  “Rubbing it won’t help.” He continues to stare.

  I nod and shove my hand under my thigh. Maybe a change of topic will help. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m here.” He turns away and stares at the dark TV.

  “Do you need anything?” I squirm in the chair, the vinyl creaking under my shifting weight. Hank is watching me again.

  “What were you painting?”

  He hasn’t given any indication who he thinks I am today, and I’m momentarily at a loss for how to respond. “The girth of the big stander horse.” I opt for the present.

  His eyes narrow a fraction. For the first time since I entered, I notice the slight droop of the right side.

  The fingers of my right hand develop a mind of their own, pulling and twisting the fingers of the left hand.

  Hank winces at the sound of a cracking knuckle. “You shouldn’t do that.” The puffing of the blood pressure cuff punctuates his comment with a huff and sigh.

  “My grandmother used to say that.” Tell him. The gruffness of this Hank steals my words.

  His mouth tightens, the right side drooping even further. “She’s right.”

  I push my hands under my thighs again and search for something to say. He’s never been difficult to talk to. Both Hanks have been chatty and warm. I scooch forward in the uncomfortable chair. I could leave and come back. Maybe he doesn’t even want me here.

  “I can come back later if that would be better.”

  He turns from the lifeless TV, his droopy eye releasing a tear. One tear. “Laters are not a guarantee.”

  “No, I guess they’re not.”

  We’re silent, listening to the sounds of machines trying to guarantee more laters.

  “Why the carousel?”

  I squint past the noise in my brain, hoping to catch the thread that led to that question.

  Hank harrumphs, or at least tries. “The carousel. Why are you restoring it?”

  “Because it’s an important part of the history of this town. I didn’t want that to get lost.”

  His stare elicits more babbling about the importance of history. I stop to catch my breath and my thoughts.

  “Okay. What’s the real reason?” His tone doesn’t leave much interpretation to his mood, and once again, I find myself cursing Simon for the earlier texts calling me here.

  “Because of the dreams the carousel inspires and the memories I didn’t want to lose.”

  “That’s a big project for such personal reasons.” I can’t tell if he’s impressed or irritated.

  “I didn’t do it for me personally.” My irritation duals his.

  “Then for whom?”

  “Why does that matter? Isn’t it enough that the carousel, your carousel, is getting another chance?”

  “Ahhh.” It’s an annoying nonanswer, and in Hank’s case, could just as easily have been a sigh of relief at the release of his blood pressure cuff, except for the smug look on his face.

  “What’s wrong with second chances?” I want to hear him say it. I want him to move this conversation, not just poke at me.

  He closes his eyes and sinks into the whiteness of the sheets. I’ve lost him to sleep.

  I stand and tiptoe to the door.

  Behind me, his voice is soft, almost apologetic. “Second chances can be good. But some dreams are better left to fly away.”

  I stay in the hallway, reluctant to leave but unable to stay.

  “You look upset.” Simon stops next to me, and together we watch a sleeping Hank.

  “Why did you text me that he was asking for me? He was borderline hostile.”

  Simon looks surprised, either by the question or the sharpness of my tone. “Because he was asking for you.”

  “Me or Meera?”

  “You, actually.”

  I turn abruptly and walk to the ICU waiting room. Simon follows, waiting patiently as I first fidget with the water cooler then poke buttons on the coffee machine.

  “I’m not offering coffee, you look wound up as it is, but I can help with the water before you break the handle.”

  I take my mostly empty paper cup and retreat to the other side of the room. Simon fills another cup and comes to sit next to me.

  “Listen…,” he says at the same time I start talking. He defers to me. “Ladies first.”

  “No, that’s fine. You go.” Because while I’m bursting, blurting what’s on my mind won’t get us far.

  “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable last night.” He lowers his voice when a family walks into the lounge. They settle into a tight huddle at the opposite corner.

  “You didn’t.” He did.

  “It was wrong to go to the party. When Manda suggested it, she didn’t know about us. I should have told her. But I wanted to see you.”

  “You see me when I come visit Hank.”

  “I wanted to see you outside of your visits with Hank. I wanted to see you with him.”

  I twist to look at Simon. “Why?”

  He keeps his eyes on the growing group. “I wanted to see if you were happy with him.”

  “And you thought you’d get that from a few sightings at a party that my parents were throwing? You know I hate those events to begin with.”

  “I remember.” His smile takes me back more years than I want to travel.

  “Did you get what you were hoping for?” I’m angry, but I’m also flattered.

  “Yes and no. I wanted a reason to pursue you but, in a way, I was hoping to see you were in a good place.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “I didn’t come here to screw with your life, Maya. I returned here for a job. But yes, part of me was hoping you and I would have a second chance.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible.”

  Simon reaches for my hand. “Thomas said your husband was going out of town. Have dinner with me tonight. Just catching up. Please?”

  I’m going to kill my brother. My stomach somersaults and I feel the word yes forming. Luckily a few brain cells are still on duty, and I manage to squeak out a no instead.

  “What are you afraid of? Two old friends having dinner. That’s it.”

  “I’m not afraid, Simon. And we’re not old friends.”

  “Your grandma and Hank managed to rekindle a friendship.” His eyebrows challenge me. His aim, as usual, is pinpoint perfect.

  “Then maybe when we’re eighty we can have dinner.”

  I leave the ICU waiting room, focusing on my footsteps, my breathing. This would not be the time to hyperventilate. Although there could be worse places to faint than in a hospital.

  Twenty-eight

  For at least the thirtieth time in the last half hour I check my phone for messages. Still no missed calls or texts. I check the coverage bars, which are, of course, full. And who exactly am I waiting to hear from? Vale? Simon? My traitor brother? No one. I’m not waiting for anyone.

  Restlessness takes over and I start to pace. Kitchen, family room, back to kitchen.

  I’m drained from the emotional upheaval of the day, but every corner of the house acts like a gate in a pinball game. Bing, change direction. Bing, change direction.

  Hank said some dreams are better left to fly away. Flying … why haven’t I heard from Vale yet? I text a “hi” and get an immediate smiley face and “hi” in return. Okay, at least I know he’s alive.

  The house echoes my neurotic ramblings. I should have gone for dinner with Simon after all. At least then I wouldn’t be stuck here arguing with myself. Two old friends, right? No, not two old friends. Is this the dream Hank was referring to? But he and Grandma were still friends, despite their past. Or because of their past.

  I pull open the fridge then give the doors a hard push shut. There’s nothing appealing in there. I should have agreed to dinner. I could call him and tell him I changed my mind.

  No, bad idea. How dare he make assumptions about my happiness anyway? And how dare he still know me well enough to be right?
>
  Maybe a bath will mellow the brain cells.

  Every time I walk into the finished bathroom, I find myself standing for a jumping heartbeat, taking in the transformation. It looks like something out of a remodeling magazine. And it reminds me how long we’ve waited to make this house “ours.” Did we wait too long?

  I never really pushed though. Deep down—or, if I’m honest, not so deep—I think I was still holding out for that dream house on the beach.

  Since the first time I saw it, I’d fantasized about living there. Simon and I had been boogie boarding, moving farther and farther from the overcrowded part of the beach. The house had been under construction during the winter and spring. That summer day, it stood in its glory, ready to welcome its family.

  And I’d wanted to be the family it welcomed. Simon and I had jokingly said “one day it’ll be ours.” We’d spun dreams of sharing morning coffee on the upstairs balcony as the sun tickled the sea awake. Watching our kids play in the sand then sprint over the dune and fall laughing onto our lush lawn. Throwing parties on the patio in the summer and by the fireplace in the winter.

  I’d shown Vale the house when we first moved back. But for some reason, I couldn’t picture the two of us in that house, the dreams we shared belonged elsewhere.

  Some dreams are better left to fly away.

  I turn on the faucets and pour a capful of bubble bath into the tub. When it’s almost full, I sink in and close my eyes, waiting for the eucalyptus oils to work their magic.

  Stop thinking, I scold myself. Relax. No thinking.

  And no banging. Who the hell is banging on my door?

  Water and foam splash onto the floor. “Shit.” I slide across the wet tiles.

  I toss sweats and a T-shirt on and jog down the stairs in time to the incessant banging. I yank open the front door, ready to yell at someone. Anyone but him.

  “You didn’t answer the phone.” Simon feigns innocence. His right arm lifts to half-mast, until a brown bag creates a barrier between us.

  “Simon?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I texted and left a message. I didn’t want to eat alone.”

  “Simon?”

  “Yes.”

  We’re not making much progress.

  “I said not tonight.” I’m suddenly aware he’s no longer looking at my face. I glance down, following his gaze. “Oh shit.” I clamp my arms around my chest and back away from the door. I’d yanked the clothes on while still wet, and the T-shirt is soaked and clinging in all the wrong spots. Or right spots, judging by the expression on Simon’s face.

  “The food can wait if you’d like to finish your bath. Ummm, eucalyptus.” He inhales and mischievousness sparkles in his eyes.

  “I’m fine. I just need to change.” I squeeze my arms tighter.

  “May I?” He waves the bag and points at the kitchen.

  My stomach gives a lurch. Just hungry, I justify. I tick off something that can double as a nod. Simon walks past me and into the kitchen. My stomach gives another lurch. Can’t justify that one.

  I two-time the steps and slide into the bedroom, then return to the kitchen in dry clothes. He smirks at my choice of a sweatshirt this time.

  “Simon, why are you here?”

  “Told you already, I didn’t feel like eating alone.”

  “Except that I told you it wasn’t a good idea.” I stand, arms crossed.

  Simon takes several containers out of the bag and points at a couple of cabinets. I point at the one next to the fridge, where the plates are. He removes two plates then points at the drawers. I point at the one next to the dishwasher. He plucks out two forks and two knives and places everything on the table.

  He moves through my kitchen, unsure of where things are but sure in where he is. I’m intrigued and annoyed. Seeing him at Tower Oaks and the hospital is weird, but weirdly normal. He was always going to be a doctor. He’s one of those people who decided what he’d be in kindergarten and never wavered. Me? I changed my mind every other week and switched majors three times in my first year of college.

  But here, he’s just Simon, and the feelings that were stirred up in me last night are now in full boil.

  “Relax, Maya. It’s just dinner.” He gestures for me to sit then opens a bottle of beer and places it in front of me.

  “Eat. It’s your favorite.” He pauses, serving spoon hanging in midair. “Well, was your favorite. Hopefully you still like it.”

  I inhale. Cumin, coriander, garam masala. Still my favorite. I hate-love that he remembered.

  “My wife divorced me because of Indian food.”

  “What?” I swallow hard. I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

  “I’m serious. Every time we went out, which was often because she couldn’t even fix her own coffee, I wanted Indian. And I kept ordering that for her.” He points at my plate with his fork. “She’s a vegetarian.”

  I spear a piece of chicken. “Oops.”

  “Yup.”

  “Why did you really divorce?” I skate the hunk of chicken through the masala sauce then shove it into my mouth.

  “We should never have gotten married in the first place. I don’t really know why or how we lasted almost five years. Not true. We lasted that long because I was never home. She loved the idea of being married to a surgeon, and she tolerated my crazy hours through med school because her friends thought it was so romantic. When I switched my specialty, she switched the locks. A week after our divorce was final, she married a hotshot gynecologist ten years older than her.” He forks in a mouthful of lamb curry and shrugs.

  “And you never remarried?”

  “Obviously.” He smirks and I feel the flush through my cheeks that has nothing to do with the spicy food. “Too complicated,” he adds, and takes a drink from his beer.

  “What made you switch to internal medicine?” He’d always talked about being an orthopedic surgeon.

  He’s quiet for a minute. There’s sadness in the droop of his mouth. “When my grandfather was moved to a nursing home. I was doing my residency in orthopedics at the time and spending every waking, and a lot of sleeping, moments at the hospital. When Grandpa fell and broke his hip, we agreed the assisted-care facility was the right place for him. But whenever I was there visiting and tried talking to his doctor, I got the uncomfortable feeling the guy just didn’t care. He didn’t know anything personal about his patients, didn’t hang around talking to them or inquiring about how they were feeling or what they were doing—or what they weren’t doing, which is often more telling.”

  Simon stops talking, but the bitterness in his voice floats around us. I sneak a look at him, wondering if I should say something, but he’s staring straight ahead, sorting through the past.

  “It made me sick to see how he would blow in, do a cursory exam, and blow back out. Sometimes he’d only say hi and bye to the patients, beyond the necessary open your mouth, lift your arm.”

  His words pick up speed as he talks.

  “And then Grandpa had a heart attack. It’s not something I can prove, but in my gut I know the doctors didn’t react fast enough. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. But when he sat in Grandpa’s empty room and told us what happened, it felt like he resented us taking up his time with pointless questions. That’s when I decided to switch.”

  Simon shrugs, as though it was just that obvious and that simple.

  “No regrets for giving up orthopedic surgery?”

  He looks at me, an expression I can’t identify on his face. “That’s one of the few things in my life I don’t regret. If I can make a difference to someone who’s at the end of their life, then I’ve done my job. As a doctor and a human being.”

  We finish eating, discussion shifting to neutral topics. When we’re done, I put the dishes in the sink, grab two more beers, and lead the way to the front porch.

  The evening is warm but doesn’t yet have the fullness of full-blown summer. Between
the heavy meal and the still air on the screened porch, I catch myself sinking into a comfortable ease. Two friends spending an evening together.

  I finally break the silence. “Do you like being back here?”

  “Yes and no. It’s a nice place, but I still feel like I’m visiting.”

  “Did you buy a place?” Such a normal question yet it feels loaded.

  He swallows, and I can almost feel the lump in my own throat. “No. Almost though. I made an offer on a house, but thankfully someone outbid me.”

  “Thankfully?” I try to read his expression. It shouldn’t surprise me that I can’t, but I’m still caught off guard.

  “It was the beach house we used to fantasize about.” He doesn’t look at me.

  I don’t remember the house being up for sale. “It was for sale?”

  “It was about to be put on the market. The owners were Manda’s clients, and in a moment of insanity, I told her to put an offer on it for me.”

  “Manda.” I shudder, the vision of them in bed in the house we were supposed to share rolls through my stomach like a rotten fish.

  “We’re not involved, if that’s what you’re gagging about.” I hear the smirk in his voice. “I told you I met her when she came to Tower Oaks. We got to talking, went out a couple of times, and she decided to make me her pet project.”

  “I wasn’t gagging.”

  He laughs. “You were. I know you. Now tell me why you carry the guilt of the world around.”

  “Wow, Simon, way to cut to the heart of things. You should have been a cardiologist.”

  “Or maybe I’ll start moonlighting as a therapist. I have a way with people, you know.” His smirk deepens and my stomach somersaults.

  “Yeah, well, don’t give up your day job.”

  He feigns a shot to the chest. “Way to hurt a man.”

  We exchange smiles and a look that lasts longer than one between friends.

  I stand, and the sudden movement sends the rocking chair banging into the siding of the house. “I need another drink. You?” I take a few steps toward the screen door into the house, but before I reach for the handle, Simon grabs my wrist.

  “Don’t.” He stands, still holding my hand. His fingers open my fist and wind through mine.