by Orly Konig
“Maya,” Thomas reprimands, but laughs anyway. It’s a uniquely soft moment between us, and I don’t want it to end.
“I’m kidding.” I flash the most innocent grin in my arsenal. “Go ahead. I need to change and will be right behind you.”
Thomas shakes his head. “Yeah, no. I’m driving you there. And home, assuming you behave.” He waggles a finger at me in a playful scold.
I fix the meanest stare I can on my brother, one neither of us takes seriously.
By the time we’ve pulled out of my street, Fred is already snoring in my lap. Thomas looks down and laughs. “Wow, he’s noisy.”
“Yeah, he makes weird sounds when he sleeps. I may have to rethink putting his bed in my room.”
Thomas opens his mouth then closes it quickly. His jawbone seesaws back and forth a couple of times. I wait. He doesn’t verbalize whatever he was thinking, and for once, I don’t poke.
My phone rings before I get too far into speculating. The name blazes at me, and for a crazy heartbeat, I’m paralyzed. Thomas gives me a questioning look, and Fred repositions himself on my lap.
I tap the screen to accept the call at the last second. “Hi.” The word comes out as a weird squeak.
“Maya, it’s Simon.” I nod, not that he can see me. I have the momentary urge to crack a joke about caller ID, but the edge in his voice stops me. “It’s Hank.”
Thirty-three
He was going back to Tower Oaks tomorrow. Sunday I was taking him to see the carousel—our carousel.
I suck in a shallow breath. “I can’t do this. This isn’t happening.”
Thomas wraps his arm around my shoulder. It’s comforting and claustrophobic. I squeeze my eyes shut and count to five. The beeping and hissing of life-controlling machines heightens my anxiety, and I fight the urge to flee.
“He needs you, Maya,” Simon says from somewhere in the distance. I open my eyes and he’s a couple of strides to my left. “His daughter won’t be here until later tonight. He’s asked for you.”
“Which me?”
“Both.”
Thomas tightens his hold on me. “I’ll go in with you.”
I allow myself to be maneuvered the few steps from the hall into Hank’s room.
“You. Came.” His words are raspy whispers that fight with the machines to be heard.
“Of course I came.” My face hurts with the effort to appear calm.
“Come.” His left hand lifts from the bed, hovers for two beeps then drops. I wince.
Thomas squeezes my shoulders. I step out of his hold. I have to breathe. I have to breathe for both of us, and Thomas’s grip is making it hard.
“Don’t. Be. Afraid.” Hank wheezes. I blink back the panic.
With Thomas and Simon watching, I walk to the chair next to the bed and perch on the edge. Hank’s hand twitches in my direction. I put a hand on top. Partly for him, partly for myself. Every time he moves it, I think of a dying fish, like the ones Thomas and my father caught one summer. The only time we’d gone fishing. I’d thrown up over the side of the boat and refused to eat seafood for years after. I swallow, forcing down the sour taste of that memory.
“I won’t get to see the carousel.” A tear travels the crease in his cheek.
I wipe at my face. “Hank, I have to tell you something. I’m Claire’s daughter. Meera’s granddaughter.”
I try to catch my breath. So few words, and yet I feel like I’ve delivered the longest speech of my life.
He stares at me. I can’t tell if the tears are a reaction to my confession or a side effect of the stroke.
“You look like her.”
“I’m sorry, Hank.”
“Why?” His gaze is more focused than it’s been.
“For keeping this from you.”
“I knew.”
“You knew?” I slump in the chair. Thomas’s hand covers my shoulder.
Hank releases a sound that could have been a sigh or a “yes.”
“How?”
“You look like her.”
“But…”
He pulls his hand from under mine and puts it on top. I’m trapped under Thomas’s hand and Hank’s hand and the weight of the past.
“It’s okay, Meera. Knowing the truth.” He inhales, exhales, closes his eyes. I wait, breathless. His eyes open, and he pulls me into a secret, buried for fifty some years. “She couldn’t know. She needed to be Jonathan’s daughter.”
“But…” I stammer, stopped by the intrusion of my grandfather into this conversation. Did he know or was this secret kept from him as well? “But…”
“No buts.”
“She should know, she should be here.” I start to get up, but I’m anchored in place by both men.
“No,” Hank growls. “No,” he adds, losing energy.
“Hank, please. Let me call my mom.”
“My beautiful Maya. So much more beautiful than in pictures.”
Machines beep, voices mumble, and the world slows.
Thomas bends and whispers, “I’ll give you some time.”
“My beautiful Maya.” Hank tightens his hold on my hand. “Let go of the past.”
I let the tears flow, unable to dam the flood of misery from this past year. “I don’t know how.”
“You must. Meera wouldn’t want you to lose yourself because of her.” I open my mouth to protest, but he squeezes my hand and continues, “Or because of the baby. You cannot live if you’re weighed down by guilt.
“Meera hadn’t been well for several months. She didn’t listen to me either.” His eyes close and his lips part, releasing silent words that I assume are meant for Grandma’s ears only.
“And the baby? I don’t know what happened, but I know you would not have done anything intentional. Accidents happen. You cannot go back, my sweet Maya. You cannot live in what should have been.”
His body caves into the bed, spent from too many words. His eyes close, his mouth parts, small puffs of air joining the ensemble of sounds in the room.
I want to wake him, ask him questions. I want him to tell me stories and listen to mine. I want answers from him, from Grandma. I want to scream at all of them for keeping secrets. I want to crawl out from under all of our secrets and finally catch my breath.
Hank’s hand tightens around mine. “I’m sorry, Meera. Annabelle needs me. You are with him. He’ll take care of you. I will love you forever. But now, I need her.” His hand goes slack, and a trickle of tears slides from his closed eyes.
Simon and Thomas each clasp an elbow and lift me from the chair. I pull away and lean to kiss Hank on the cheek.
His eyes flutter open. He smiles and his fingers graze my cheek. “The carousel. It holds our secrets. It’s magic.”
Thirty-four
“Do you want to talk?”
I roll my head along the back of the chair to look at Thomas, and then roll it back. The pressure feels good, like a massage. Slow left, slow right.
We’ve been sitting on the front porch, mostly in silence. I’m empty.
Thomas takes the puppy for a quick pee then makes tea. “You’re going to have to talk at some point,” he tries again, handing me a mug.
I roll my head to the side and blink my brother into focus. “Why? Why do I have to talk? What will talking help? Will it bring any of them back? No. So what’s the point?”
Thomas waits out my tirade. He was always good at waiting me out. Even as a child—especially as a child—I had a short fuse. I never held anything back. Until I became an adult. Until Simon proposed. Until I let them die. And every day since.
Tears stroll down my cheeks, slow, steady. I didn’t cry at the hospital when Simon confirmed that Hank was gone. I didn’t cry on the way home. I haven’t cried in the three-ish hours we’ve been sitting on my front porch.
I also haven’t talked since we walked out of Hank’s hospital room for the last time.
“What time is it?” I look at my watch but can’t make out the numbers through th
e haze of exhaustion and emotion.
“3:07 A.M.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“It’s Sunday.” Thomas agrees. No snarky big-brother comeback though.
“Hank was supposed to be back at Tower Oaks today. I was going to pick him up after lunch and bring him here to see the horse. I couldn’t even get this right.”
Thomas sits up, abruptly. “Stop it. Now. Enough, Maya. This has been a horrible year for all of us, most of all for you. But you have to pull yourself out of this spiral of self-flagellation. You are not responsible for all the bad that’s happened. Listen to me: You have to pull yourself together. Now, before it’s too late.”
“Too late for what? It’s already too late for Grandma and Hank. It’s too late for my baby.”
“But it’s not too late for you and Vale, and it’s not too late for you to have a family.”
“What if it is?”
He pushes his fingers into his hair. “You make me crazy sometimes. If you weren’t my sister and I didn’t love you, I’d tell Vale to leave your sorry behind and move on. I know that’s harsh, but the only person who would have dared say this to you is gone. She’d be busting you so hard for how you’re behaving. She would have sat you down and told you to stop wallowing, that life is precious. None of us knows how much time we have. Hopefully we die of old age. But it’s not a given. And even that isn’t much consolation for the people left behind.
“Grandma knew how to be happy,” he continues. “She knew how to find happiness in anything, any situation. You used to be like that, too. She’d hate this.”
I can’t respond, can’t defend myself.
Thomas takes my silence as permission to continue. “Whether you want another child or to save your marriage is your business. But you cannot lose yourself. Do that for her, Maya.”
From inside the house, a phone rings. Thomas’s. He stands but doesn’t go in.
A wind breezes through the screened porch, rattling the rocking chair next to me. The rocking chair Grandma used to sit in.
I watch the chair move back and forth. I expect to see her, head back, eyes closed, legs slightly apart, hands on the armrests, and fingers tapping to imaginary music.
Thomas is right. She’d be spitting mad seeing me now.
I stand and hug my brother. “You’re released from crazy watch. I’ll be okay. I have a horse to finish.”
I watch as Thomas pulls out of the driveway and crawls away in the slowest escape he’s ever made. I can almost feel his eyes on me in the rearview mirror. When the taillights finally make the turn away from my street, I enter the studio, my tired puppy companion at my heels.
I turn on the lights in the studio and look around. The dancing dust fairies don’t feel like coming out this morning. Even the carousel horse seems to be drooping.
The glint I painted in his black eyes two days ago looks dull now, and the unfinished portions of his neck and hindquarters catch at my throat.
“You know, don’t you?” I run a hand along his yet-unfinished neck. “I wanted him to see you looking shiny and almost as good as new.” The horse blurs as tears take possession of my sight.
Today there’s no music, no chocolate-orange tea, no talking. Just painting. Except for letting Fred out to pee, I paint. The only accompanying sounds are puppy yelps and snores.
“Maya?” A voice from the door startles me. Fred’s head pops up, and he lets out a sharp bark and a growl that fades into a grumble as his head flops back onto his bed.
“Some bloody watchdog you are,” I hiss at him.
“I brought you something to eat,” Mom says, walking in and setting a bag down on the worktable. She looks from Fred, to me, to the carousel horse. “You’re almost done.”
“I wanted Hank to see him finished.”
Mom’s mouth tightens. “I’m sorry.”
There’s nothing to say. “Thank you,” is inadequate. “I’m sad,” is obvious. “It’s unfair,” is trite.
“Have you eaten anything at all today?” Mom takes out a couple of containers followed by two bottles of Orangina.
“You brought Orangina?” I laugh, taking a bottle.
“Orangina and tuna melts.” Mom pushes one of the containers toward me.
“Comfort food?” It wasn’t meant to be a question, but there’s no mistaking the surprised uptick in my voice. It was my favorite consolation meal when I was a little girl. I turn quickly and pull up a chair, hoping the movement will mask my discomfort.
I look at Mom, perched at the edge of her chair, only her eyes moving as she takes in the contents of my studio, and very conscious of the harrumphing blob on the plush doggy bed at the end of the table. It’s hard to tell which of us is less at ease.
“When did that happen?” Mom’s chin juts in the direction of Fred’s bed.
“That’s name is Fred. And I got him yesterday.”
“Does Vale know?”
My sandwich hovers between the Styrofoam container and my mouth, my fingers pinching into the warm bread.
I ease the sandwich back into the container just as the tomato attempts an escape out the bottom. I stuff a clump of warm, cheesy tuna into my mouth. “Sam found him in a box outside her boutique. And yes, Vale knows.”
Mom’s left eyebrow moves almost imperceptibly, and I’m sure she’s itching to tell me not to talk with my mouth full.
“Do you know how he’s getting on in Seattle?”
“I haven’t really talked to him. He seems to be pleased though.”
“How do you feel about that?” She plucks a string of melted cheese from the sandwich and pops it into her mouth.
Normally I’d snipe something hostile, but Mom seems oddly non-confrontational, and I can’t deny the tuna melts and Orangina are a peace offering. “I don’t know. I don’t want to move. But I don’t want to lose Vale either.”
I wish for maternal advice like I’d wished for the maternal hug a few days ago.
“He’s due back soon right?”
I nod.
“Then I guess you need to make a decision.”
Apparently comfort food delivery is as touchy-feely as we’re going to get.
“Mom, when did this happen between us?” I wave my hand in a small circle, Mom and I both clearly outside the warm, gooey center.
She takes a long drink then gently places her Orangina on the table, her finger tracing the embossed letters on the old-fashioned bottle. And for the first time that I can remember, Mom slumps in her chair.
“You came out fiery.” There’s the slightest hint of a nostalgic smile. “And challenged me every step of the way. Your way was never my way, and I couldn’t convince you otherwise. Thomas, on the other hand, was more than happy to take my lead and do what was asked. He never questioned. You always questioned.”
She watches me for a minute. I don’t know whether to respond or wait. For once, I don’t question.
“You and Mom were like two gulls on a wave.” No clichéd pea pods for my mom. “Always in motion, always looking to see what else was out there, always free and on your terms. I was closer to Dad. I understood him, related to him better than to Mom. She intimidated me to be honest.”
My eyebrows crash into each other. “Grandma?”
Mom laughs. An honest-to-goodness, from-the-belly, uninhibited laugh. “Your grandma. My mother. Scared the shit out of me.”
I pick up my drink but before taking a sip, take a quick, discreet sniff. What’s in here?
“Don’t look so shocked, Maya. Your kids will probably see me much differently than you do. That’s nature’s private joke. Our own parents are never as fantastic as our grandparents. You’ll see.” She wags a finger at me.
A gull screeches outside, sending Fred into convulsions of high-pitched barks. He runs in circles around the studio before settling back in his bed. He’s asleep in one snort.
“How much more do you have to do?” Mom closes the Styrofoam container on her mostly untouched sandwich and indicat
es the horse.
“Just a bit more on the tail.” I stand, walk to the horse, and cup his muzzle in my hands. “A few touch-ups, some shading, and you will be one handsome pony.”
“Do you always talk to them?” Her voice surprises me—not that she’s there, but that she sounds interested. Sarcasm I expect. Even ridicule. Interest, however, is new.
“Yeah.”
“Do they talk back?” There’s something else in her tone this time, but still not what I’ve come to expect from my mom.
“In a way.” I watch for a reaction.
“Your grandma always insisted that they talk. Drove her batty that I couldn’t hear them. I was convinced she was two waves from being sucked into the loony bin.”
Another thing I inherited from Grandma.
“Did she ever tell you what they said?”
Mom lets out a deep, throaty laugh. “Do you really think I would have had that conversation with her?”
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard my mom poke fun at herself. My brain cells scurry, trying to think of something to say. I’m at a total loss.
I watch as she studies the carousel horse. Maybe she’s trying to figure out where the voices would come from. Or perhaps what secrets he might be hiding from her. “He’s beautiful.”
I’m staring. I can’t help myself.
“What?” She asks, surprised more than annoyed at my open mouth and unblinking stare.
“I thought you hated the carousel.”
This time it’s Mom who’s left in open-mouthed surprise. “Why in the world would you think I hated it?”
“Maybe because you never wanted to go with me. Or because you always said it was a waste of time. You call it ‘that thing.’ Want me to keep going?” I hadn’t meant to sound harsh. Old habits.
She shakes her head. “You and your grandma were nuts about this carousel. When I was little she was forever planning outings to the ‘merry-go-round.’” She air quotes, but her tone holds a nostalgic fuzziness. “She even planned my fourth birthday party there. And every attempt she made, I battled—until I was, oh, maybe seven, and she just stopped. We’d pass the carousel and Mom would stop to look at it, then grab my hand and pull me on. You could tell it was killing her, but she wasn’t going to fight with me about it.