Carousel Beach_A Novel

by Orly Konig

  “Don’t,” he whispers, the word brushing my cheek.

  “Don’t…” he breathes the word onto my lips.

  “Please.” My voice is raspy and unsure. Please what? Please Simon don’t do this; or please me, don’t feel this? I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t look at him, can’t feel the feelings that are shifting inside me.

  He touches my cheek, lifts my chin. “Thirteen years. I’ve waited thirteen years. I wanted to hate you, but I can’t. I convinced myself I should leave you alone, but I can’t do that either.”

  “You have to.” My voice quivers, and I pull my hand from his, put a step between us.

  He touches a rogue curl, then my chin, tilting my head so I’m forced to look at him again. “I will when I’m convinced you’re better off without me.”

  My phone pings from somewhere in the house. A text. Probably Vale. A flash of guilt pushes me two steps away from Simon.

  “Thank you for dinner, but you should go now.”

  He takes a step toward the door. “We don’t always get a second chance. There’s never a third chance.”

  The old wood screen door slaps shut behind him, and I listen to his footfalls crunch over the pebbled sand that covers much of the sidewalks around here.

  The phone buzzes again. Second chances. Are we all hoping for one? And what do you do when the second chance you thought you wanted shows up on your doorstep?

  Twenty-nine

  The text from Vale checking in from the other side of the United States had been followed by a text from Simon, checking in from the other side of town.

  I tossed in bed for longer than was sane before giving in and coming to the studio. At least the carousel horse’s second chance is under control.

  The light shifts as the sun muscles out the night. I stand, stretch. My head throbs from lack of sleep and paint fumes.

  I send Sam a text. Maybe she can meet for coffee on her way to the store. I haven’t talked to her since the disastrous breakfast Friday morning.

  Before I’ve had the chance to set the phone back down, it vibrates with an incoming message. “Couldn’t sleep either. Already at the store. Come over. Sock Sorting Therapy is the next big thing.”

  “On my way.” I don’t bother to change, just grab my keys and some money. Thankfully there’s a coffee shop between my house and Sam’s boutique.

  Forty minutes later, I tap on the glass door of Socks-A-Lot, a paper cup in each hand.

  Sam unlocks the door and ushers me in. She wrinkles her nose as I walk by with the cups.

  “What’s with the face?” I hand her the cup with the vanilla latte I ordered for her.

  She takes it but then shoves it back at me and backpedals, almost falling over a couple of boxes. “Throw it away. Out there.” She waves me out of the store.

  “It’s your favorite,” I say in defense of the offending cup.

  “Get it out. Get it out.” She flails her arms.

  “Okay, okay, don’t rip your arms out of the socket. Geez.” I drop the untouched latte into the trash can on the sidewalk and return to the store, keeping my drink close to my chest so she doesn’t evict us as well. “What was that about?”

  She grabs an assortment of headbands out of a box with so much force that I worry for their safety. I take a green-and-blue one from her and shove it onto my head then duck to see my reflection in the tiny mirror on a nearby display rack.

  Sam pulls it off. “Not your color.”

  I reach for a purple headband with white and teal polka dots. Sam snatches it back. “Not your style.”

  She slides the not-my-color and a fistful of not-my-style accessories onto a display.

  “What has you so crabby this morning? I’d offer to get you coffee but, oh yeah, I did and you threw it and me out. What gives?”

  “Nothing,” she sulks. “I’m just not feeling well, and the smell of the coffee made me want to hurl.”

  “Lovely.” Sam definitely has a way with words sometimes. “Flu?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “So, what’s the story with Taylor? Is it serious?” Maybe she’ll talk boys if she won’t talk health.

  She twists away so I can’t see her face. “He’s pretty great, isn’t he?” She sways and grabs the counter. “Crap. Third time that’s happened this morning.”

  I take her by the elbow and lead her to a cluster of boxes. She sits without argument.

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed? Have you seen a doctor?”

  She shakes her head. “Darcy will be in at noon. I’ll go home then. I’ll be fine until then. It’s pretty slow in the mornings. And yes, I’ve been to a doctor.”

  “I can stay and help out if needed.”

  “That would be great, thanks.” She closes her eyes and draws in a slow, deep breath.

  “Okay, Sam, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

  She takes my hand and squeezes it. An un-Sam-like gesture that seizes my gut. Something is wrong.

  “This isn’t how I imagined telling you. Oh hell, I have no idea what I imagined.”

  I fight the urge to grab her, shake the news from her, run from the store not to hear.

  “I tried to tell you a couple of times but, I don’t know, it was never the right time.” Her eyes turn watery, and she wipes the unshed tears.

  “You’re scaring me. Just spill.”

  She gives my hand another squeeze. “I’m sorry. Taylor thought we should talk about it together but I don’t know, I thought it should be just the two of us. Not like this though. This wasn’t how we were supposed to talk.” She gestures at the store and the boxes we’re sitting on.

  The borderline panicked part of my brain wants to crack a joke about the status of her relationship with Taylor since he’s clearly in the know when her best friend isn’t, or about the box that’s caving under her weight. But the look on Sam’s face tugs at the terrified part of my brain.

  “Just tell me. We’ll get a second opinion. Or third if you’ve already gotten a second. Whatever it is, Sam, I’m here, I’ll be here.” I take her other hand. I won’t lose my best friend. I can’t lose her as well.

  Sam blinks me into focus. She takes a deep breath that feels like it’s being sucked right out of my lungs.

  “I’m … oh god, Maya.” She exhales and I catch myself inhaling. Her chest expands and mine collapses.

  “Okay,” she starts again. “Oh god, okay, Maya, I’m pregnant.”

  I realize she’s looking at my stomach. My hands become clammy and I pull them away, wipe them on my pants. I’m supposed to hug her and say congratulations. I’m supposed to gush about how wonderful this is and ask how she’s feeling.

  “I was afraid to tell you, but I had to tell you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I didn’t know how.” She stops, out of breath.

  I pull her in for a hug. “Oh, Sam, I’m sorry.”

  She tenses and tries to pull away. I tighten my hold. “I mean I’m sorry you didn’t think you could share this with me.”

  She relaxes into my hold, but there’s still an awkwardness in the embrace, and we both break contact.

  “How far along are you?” The questions I’d been asked by friends and strangers race through my mind.

  “Fourteen weeks.”

  “Three months?” My voice is too loud in the too-quiet store.

  Sam nods, still avoiding eye contact.

  “And Taylor…?” I allow the question to hang.

  She nods again, this time adding a slight smile.

  “Wow.” I exhale, waiting for my brain to stop spinning.

  “Yeah, I wanted to tell you right away, but I was afraid to upset you. And then I was afraid you’d be upset that I kept this from you. But obviously I can’t keep it secret forever.”

  I want to be excited for her. I am excited for her. But sadness and anxiety whirl through my brain.

  Sam looks at me and I watch, helpless, as she swallows a lump of emotion.

  “How are you
feeling?” I wince at the banality of my question. She’s my best friend, this is not how this moment should be.

  “I’m okay. Queasy one minute, starving the next. Exhausted, excited, terrified. You know.” She gives me a hint of a Sam smile that promptly dissolves into tears. “And weepy. I’m so sorry, Maya, that was a stupid thing to say.”

  Sam was with me when I found out I was pregnant. We’d gone out to lunch at the Taco Hut because she was having cravings. The moment we sat down and unwrapped our food, I’d turned greener than the guacamole. When I returned from the bathroom, Sam was grinning like the cat who ate the stork.

  We’d stopped at the drugstore on the way home, and she sat with me on the cold bathroom tiles, staring at the pregnancy test stick, and waiting for the timer to go off. And then she’d sat by my side on that same cold tile while I alternated throwing up and crying my lungs out after coming home from the hospital without a baby.

  I wasn’t quite sure if my family didn’t trust me to be alone those first few weeks or just didn’t want me to feel alone. It didn’t matter, though. There could have been a pod of well-meaning people and I still would have felt alone. And empty.

  But it was Sam who held my hand and helped me change out of clothes I’d worn for days. She got me out of bed and into the studio. And she dragged me out of the house that first time then rushed me home when our quiet moment on the beach was disturbed by a small herd of squealing, giggling toddlers.

  “It wasn’t a stupid thing to say, and you’re right, I do know. It’s okay, Sam. Really. I’m happy for you. You’re happy, right?”

  She nods. Tears drop from her eyelashes, and she sniffles.

  “No crying. This is wonderful.”

  “You mean it?” One hand wipes at her cheeks, the other covers her still-flat stomach.

  I force the corners of my mouth to stay up and swallow the grapefruit-sized lump in my throat. “I mean it.”

  I want to hug her, but all I can convince my arms to do is squeeze her upper arms. I want to be okay with this, but this is Sam. Sam who doesn’t even like kids and had no interest in settling down. She wasn’t supposed to have a baby before me.

  “Still want to help with the merchandise sorting?” Her discomfort radiates from her. Or maybe that’s my discomfort being deflected.

  “I should get back. Deadlines … the horse…” My brain hiccups through excuses.

  “Maya.” Sam laces her fingers through mine, trapping me. “I know you hate hearing this, and I’m probably not the person to be saying it, but I think you should get pregnant again. I know the first time wasn’t really planned, but you wanted that baby, and you would have been such a great mom.”

  I force a smile and pull away. “I’m really happy for you, Sam. You and Taylor will be great parents.” I give her a kiss on the cheek and turn for the door.

  “You’re upset.” She sounds like a little girl who’s just been brushed off by an angry parent. My usually fiery friend stands next to me like a scared child.

  The hurt and guilt and hopelessness that have become my constant companions dissolve into a pool of tenderness. I hug my best friend tight—tighter than I did when she was my lifeline.

  “I’m not upset. I’m happy for you. A little sad, but that’s not because of you. I love you, and I’m happy for you. Really.”

  “Really?” She sniffles into my shoulder.

  “Really, really.”

  There’s a knock on the glass door behind us. I pull back, and Sam ducks her head to wipe at her glistening face. “You have customers to attend to, and I have a wood horse to attend to. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

  Sam sniffles. “I’m glad, you know. About the baby.”

  “Me too,” I say and mostly mean it.

  I smile at the customer who darts past me the moment the door is unlocked.

  The walk home is a confused mess of emotions. Every family I pass is a reminder of what Sam is gaining and I’ve lost. Every couple is a reminder of what Sam has nurtured and I’ve broken.

  One block, I’m shattered, the next I’m hopeful. A child’s trike—shattered. Mom and toddler waddling hand-in-hand—hopeful. Guy getting into his car and blowing a kiss to his wife—shattered. Dad carrying beach paraphernalia—hopeful.

  I am happy for Sam and Taylor. Now I have to stop being sad for me and Vale.

  Thirty

  “Look how handsome you are with your shiny new bridle.” I step back to admire the still wet paint.

  I stretch my back and glance at the window. It’s becoming light out and birds are chirping their good mornings to each other. I should venture out today. Or at least return a few calls before the national guard shows up on my doorstep. Although I guess my guardsman would be Taylor, coming on the orders of his commanding officer, Sam.

  I responded to one of her texts Monday evening and told her—again—that I wasn’t upset, and I was happy, and I was okay. But since then, I’ve ignored seven texts and three calls.

  I won’t be lucky enough to hide much longer. And I don’t want to hide any longer.

  I cup the horse’s muzzle with my hand and whisper into his ear, “I’ll tell him today.”

  * * *

  “Hank?” I tap gently on the door. He’s propped up in bed watching TV again. This time it’s a talk show.

  He turns to the door, momentary annoyance at the disruption wrinkling his one good eye. He stares, and then, like a light bulb that takes a minute to reach maximum brightness, the sag of suspicion turns into sunshine.

  “Meera, you came.” He reaches a fragile, bony hand to me.

  My heart slams into my ribs then free-falls.

  The right eye droops with concern. “Meera? Is everything okay?”

  I move forward, dropping my disappointment at the door.

  “Of course. How are you feeling today?” I ease into the chair by the bed.

  “Better, now that you’re here.” He grins at me.

  “The nurse mentioned you’ll probably be released tomorrow. That’s good news.”

  The host of the TV program is standing between two guests on stage, her body and extended arms creating a barrier between them. He has, like last time, been watching without the volume.

  I nod at the TV. “What’s that about?”

  “Ah, who knows? Pure trash these programs.”

  “So why do you watch?”

  He considers me then the TV. “I don’t. I just want the company.”

  Those simple words, said with a matter-of-fact shrug, tear a hole in my lungs, and I collapse into the back of the chair.

  Hank clicks the remote and squirms higher onto the bed. “But you’re here now.”

  Speak, Maya. Say something.

  I wanted to tell him that I’m Meera’s granddaughter. His granddaughter. I wanted to offer to take him to see our special horse when he’s up to the trip.

  I look to the dark TV for help. I wish the remote could change the scene reflected back at me.

  “Will you go with me to visit the old merry-go-round, Meera?”

  Our eyes meet in the blackness of the TV screen. “I’d love that, Hank.”

  He fusses with the blood pressure cuff and winces at the tug of the IV. “As soon as they spring me from this hellhole.”

  A nurse enters the room and bats his hands down. “Mr. Hauser, you and those busy hands of yours need some rest.” Her tone is light, her smile genuine, and Hank relaxes into the pillow she repositions for him.

  “I can go, let you get some rest,” I offer but don’t get up. My body refuses to move.

  The nurse gives me a sympathetic look. “Nah, stay. Just make sure this character doesn’t try to escape again.” She winks at Hank.

  I feel like a little kid given permission to stay up past my bedtime. And by the look on Hank’s face, he feels the same.

  After she leaves, he returns to the carousel. “It’s been years since I was last there. Strange isn’t it? I miss her. Well, I miss her the way she was in our day. I m
iss her magic. That’s what brought us together.” He flashes a mischievous grin.

  He sobers, his droopy eye suddenly drooping further. “But the magic isn’t always enough, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t.” How many couples rode that carousel, any carousel, and believed that their happiness would circle forever? How many parents watched their young children squeal in delight and hoped that their happiness would never stop?

  “Life, parents, timing were all stronger than the magic,” Hank mumbles.

  “Do you ever wonder what could have been?” I ignore the groaning of the chair and push deeper into it, bringing my feet up. I rest my chin on my knees and hug my shins, waiting for Hank to tell me the rest of the story.

  Hank’s features disappear into exaggerated wrinkles, forced from the grin. “You used to sit like that and watch me paint the animals.”

  I straighten, self-conscious. “Really?” Although I shouldn’t be surprised, I was Grandma’s mini in almost every way.

  “And no,” he continues. “I don’t think about what could have been. With or without your mother, it wouldn’t have worked. Life works the way it’s supposed to. I believe that. It’s the only choice.”

  His words fade into the hissing and beeping of hospital machinery. In the length of an exhale, he’s asleep.

  What did he mean? I never met my great-grandmother, but from the stories, she was nothing like Grandma.

  Grandma used to poke fun at Mom for being just like her grandmother. I was never sure if Mom bristled because she didn’t want to be like her grandmother or because she was annoyed at being the outsider with her own daughter.

  Life works the way it’s supposed to. Did I believe that? Would life have been better for Grandma if she’d married Hank back then? Would Mom have turned out differently? What if Simon hadn’t proposed that night? What if I hadn’t gone to England? What if he’d come after me? What if I’d gotten his letters?

  I ease out of the chair, careful not to scrape the metal feet on the floor. I leave a message with the nurse to let Hank know I’ll be back. Right now, I have a few questions for my mom.