by Orly Konig
That’s not fair. The last year has been hard on both of us. But we’ll get through it. Somehow. I hope.
I crumple the note and drop it in the trash on my way to the wine bottle. The notepad and pen rest on the counter next to the wine. My fingers strum a silent chord on the accordion of yellow sticky notes. It’s a thin cube, not the one I bought a couple of weeks ago. Or have we used that many notes already?
I pour a glass of wine, grab the plate, and ease into my regular seat at the table. It’s a good thing Vale likes to cook. That was never one of my strengths, and even though I’ve managed to master a couple of simple recipes, I’m more than happy to turn over kitchen duties.
The long, floppy pasta reminds me I need to put an order in for leather straps. I’ll need them for the reins.
There’s a yellow legal pad on the table, a pen clipped to the side. I reach for it and an envelope slips out, gliding to the floor at my feet.
It’s addressed to Vale, the return address an architectural firm in Seattle. I shouldn’t read it; it’s not addressed to me. But I’m curious.
I slip the paper out. It’s short, to the point, and delivers a karate kick to my gut.
Dear Vale,
It was a pleasure meeting you last week. We’re all looking forward to welcoming you to the firm.…
Three
The paper crinkles in my fist, loud in the quiet of the empty house. “What the hell?” The words reverberate through the kitchen. Not even the clothes dryer answers.
We’re all looking forward to welcoming you to the firm.
He’s leaving? A jab of fear jolts me out of my chair. He can’t leave me. I know things haven’t been great, but there’s a reason. He said he understood. He said he’d be there with me. That we’d get through this together.
My legs turn to limp linguine, and I sink back onto the chair.
I grab for my phone, then slap it down on the table. What do I say? “Hi honey—when will you be home so we can discuss the fact that you’re leaving me and moving to the other side of the freaking country?” My phone buzzes angrily as I hit the wrong password again. Tears stream down my cheeks and my teeth chatter. I want to scream at him, at myself, at the world.
I finally unlock my phone. I can’t call him. I don’t want to scream, and I don’t want to sound hysterical.
Instead, I type, “When will you be home?” and hit send, then strangle my phone waiting for a response.
“Ten-ish. Your bro says hi.”
“I don’t give a crap about my bro,” I yell at the phone. I do. But I don’t. Not now. Now I only care about my imploding marriage.
Breathe, Maya, Breathe.
Ten-ish is still an hour away. I’ll lose my mind waiting.
How did he never mention this? Seattle? That’s the other side of the world. He hates rain. It rains there. A lot.
The ice maker spits out a fresh batch of ice into the internal container, the sound sharp and unsettling. A shudder barrels through me.
Was the seduction attempt earlier today a final test?
I stand and walk to where the bottle of wine sits next to an empty wineglass. He had his glass with his dinner. Alone. While I was in the studio. Alone.
I pour myself another glass. I need to do something. I need a plan. I need a bath.
Clutching my wineglass, I make my way up the narrow stairs. At the top, I turn left and into the small bathroom. I hate this bathroom. It needs to be gutted. And it’s been the “next project on the list” for the last three years. The only thing I want to keep is the old claw-foot tub. It’s luxuriously deep and one of the few tubs where I can actually keep chest and knees under water. But the rest has to go. From the wobbly toilet with the tiny round seat to the miniature Tums-yellow tiles on the wall and the not-so-white-anymore tiles on the floor.
What happens to that project list now? Who will renovate this bathroom? We should have made the time.
I turn the hot-water knob as far as it goes and give the cold-water knob a nudge, just enough so I don’t shriek like a boiled lobster the moment my behind hits the water. Then I pour eucalyptus bubble bath into the waterfall plummeting from the faucet. When the room is sufficiently steamy, I ease into the tub, catching my breath at the initial scorch of hot water. A sip of wine, an inhale of the eucalyptus aromatherapy oil, and I sink in deeper, the water warming the tension from my back.
Don’t think about it. Relax. Think about the horse. Think about the beach. Relax. Dammit, why didn’t he say anything to me?
I lurch forward, wine slopping over the rim of the glass and bleeding into the fluffy white bubbles. “Shit.” I lick the side of the glass.
Footsteps on the hardwood stairs give me just the warning I need to slip back under the protective bubbles. With my foot, I nudge a snowy white peak where my midsection lies submerged, just in case.
When was the last time my husband saw me completely naked? Four months ago, when he walked in on me in the shower. He’d wrapped the towel around me when I got out but didn’t let go. I was wet and trapped. He was aroused. I wanted to be. I tried to be. For a few delicious moments I was. I’d gone through the motions, then apologized. The kiss of death to intimacy.
Standing at the altar you repeat the words, “for better or for worse,” and looking into the eyes of the person you adore, it feels like “for worse” will never happen.
Then it does.
“Hey,” Vale says, easing the door open.
“Hey,” I answer over the lip of the wineglass.
“Thomas says hi.”
“So you said in your text.”
He narrows his eyes, probably wondering if that was an invitation for a fight or an awkward attempt at a conversation. I’m equal opportunity for both these days.
Deciding on the latter, Vale continues, “He wanted to know if you’ll be coming out of your studio long enough for your mom’s big summer barbecue.”
I groan and scoot lower into the tub. My hand juts out of the water to capture the snowy mountain before it escapes and exposes my chest.
Mom’s annual “Summer Fun” barbecue that’s anything but a casual, fun barbecue.
I shrug, causing a fluffy white cone to relocate. “What’s the point?” I keep my eyes on the dancing bubbles.
I hear him inhale sharply. “Because,” he draws out the word, “they’re your family. And we go every year.”
“You’re not even planning on being here, though, are you?”
“What are you talking about?” Our eyes meet and his face becomes a conflict of emotions. His mouth tightens to a thin, don’t-go-there line. His eyes soften, revealing a sadness that all but guts me.
“Why didn’t you tell me about the job offer?”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Too many times. Not that you would remember, because it didn’t revolve around your mourning or your carousel.”
“That’s not fair.” My insides clench.
“It’s not. But it’s also true.”
“Were you planning on telling me, or was I going to find out when your suitcases were packed? And what about me? Or am I not included in your plan?” My heart beats in my ears. “Or should I be on alert for a courier with divorce papers?” I prattle on, aware that my voice is rising in pitch and volume.
“None of the above.”
“Then what, Vale? You have a job offer that I didn’t know was even a seedling of an idea.”
Confusion and frustration war for dominance in his expression. “I told you I was meeting with Ed. I told you that they were trying to recruit me.”
I toss through the recesses of my memory and come up empty. “When?”
“Two months ago. A month ago. Last week.” His shoulders slump in defeat.
I don’t remember. How can I not remember something this critical? Two months ago I was in the middle of restoring the lion. A month ago I was rebuilding the jumper rabbit from the inside circle. And last month would have been Grandma’s b
irthday. Last week I was fighting with my mom about details for the yahrzeit. And preparing the studio for my new arrival.
“I’m tired, Maya. I’m going to bed.” He rolls his shoulders and takes a step out of the bathroom.
“No.” I startle us both.
He does a quarter turn but doesn’t fully commit. “No, what?”
I swallow, hard and loud, the words fighting their way to freedom. “I don’t want you to go.”
“To bed? Or to Seattle?”
I can’t find the words to answer.
“I don’t want to go either, Maya, but I need a reason to stay.”
I push forward and onto my knees, my soapy, exposed upper body stopping us both. Vale’s eyes travel from my face to my breasts. With one blink, his expression turns from beaten to hopeful. I skid along the porcelain base of the tub and scoop bubbles over me, the movement louder than any words.
“That’s what I thought,” he mumbles. He turns, leaving me to decide if I can give him a reason to stay.
He takes slow, small steps across the hall. It shouldn’t take more than seven normal strides to go from the bathroom to the bedroom. But he seems to be stalling. I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes tight. I hear the dresser drawer squeak open and then shut with a knock.
We need to fix that. Or better yet, get a new dresser. The bedroom set was a gift from Vale’s grandparents. “Set” is a misleading word. Most of the furniture came with the house. We bought a new couch for the family room and what little furniture I needed for my studio. Everything else is a mishmash of left-behinds. What’s here works, and best of all, it was free, so I can’t complain. But I wish we’d made more of a mark on this house.
There’s only one room we started personalizing. We yanked out the old musty furniture and painted the walls a fresh spring-morning-at-the-beach blue with fluffy white clouds on the top third and the ceiling. The smell of paint still oozes from the crack between the door and floor, even after all these months. Or maybe only in my mind.
I turn to put the wineglass down on the back of the toilet and gasp as a wave of cold water slaps against my stomach. The suds have all moved on, leaving a murky film skittering around the top of the water. I wrap a towel around my body and tiptoe down the hall.
The slow, deep breathing from the bed tells me he wasn’t waiting for me to make the next move. He’s lying along the edge of the bed, a clear “your side/my side” distinction. His body forms a lightning bolt, and his hands are tucked under his left cheek. I’m rooted at the door, the light from the hallway reaching around me and highlighting the expression on his face.
He seems so peaceful. No “should I accept the job?” angst. No “what’s happening with my marriage?” worries. Not a care in the world. I wish I could lose myself in sleep.
I pull open the dresser drawer and cringe at the creak of the old runners, twisting quickly to see if the sound woke him. He tugs at the blanket but doesn’t wake. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed.
A year ago, I would have shaken him awake. We would have talked or argued, but we would have reached some decision, and then we would have made love. Or we would have made love then talked it out.
But tonight, I slip quietly past the foot of the bed and ease under the blanket as gently as possible. I lay on my back for a minute, listening to the thwank-thwank of the ceiling fan, and try to stir some emotion that will move my left arm to reach for Vale. In the end, I turn, my body curling into a question mark, my hands tucking under my right cheek.
I’m no closer to having a plan than I was two hours ago, and I’m no closer to keeping my marriage together. I’ve taken a giant leap backward in moving forward.
Four
The curtain flutters and my dream scurries out the open window. Seagulls bicker outside, and a lawn mower kicks over. The smell of freshly cut grass tickles my nose. I roll to my side, feeling a bit disoriented, like after a ride on the carousel when I’ve been looking up at the ceiling panels.
Vale isn’t in the bed next to me. I listen for sound inside the house. No water running in the bathroom, no footsteps in the kitchen below.
I push myself out of bed, straighten the T-shirt I’d slept in, pull on a pair of shorts, then pad down the stairs barefoot, careful to avoid the creaky fourth step. I stop at the bottom and listen.
The only noise in the kitchen is the tocking of the wall clock. I pour a cup of coffee and glare at the clock. Vale’s mom bought it for me a couple of years ago thinking it would be a “colorful addition to my studio.” It certainly is colorful, with its rainbow numbers and glow-in-the-dark hands. I hate it. Not because it’s from my mother-in-law, mind you. The incessant tock, tock, tock of every passing moment makes me absolutely toddler-tantrum crazy.
I finish the coffee, grab a banana, and head out the back door toward the studio, where there are no noisy clocks.
The studio snoozes under a hazy blanket of morning light. The sun is still too low to wake up the dust fairies living in the skylight, and without the overhead lights, the daylight filtering in from the windows creates deep shadows around the carousel horse.
As usual, I flick on the music and electric kettle. It’s become reflex. And it’s become my work quirk. I only drink tea while I’m in my studio. Outside of these walls, I’m a die-hard coffee-bean supporter.
When the water has boiled, I pour it over the tea bag and inhale the deep chocolate aroma as it mixes with the tangy orange. It’s an acquired taste. My best friend Sam introduced me to this concoction. Vale hates the smell, so, like my paint supplies, the tea has been banned from the house.
I stare at the horse standing majestically in front of me. He is a “stander.” Standers are larger, more elaborately carved and painted than their jumper brethren. Some people may think they’re not as much fun as the horses that go up and down, but I always loved them. This one most of all.
My vision blurs, a combination of steam from the mug pressed against my lip and memories crowding teardrops onto my eyelashes. Grandma and I would race to the carousel for the honor of riding him. If I got there first, Grandma would stroke his head, then run her hand along his shoulder. Her hand would rest on his belly before she’d concede and move on to the next animal in line. Then she’d wink and whisper, “If you listen carefully, Mims, he has some great stories to tell.” I hear Grandma’s cackling laugh in the washed-out notes of a fading memory.
“Okay, big guy, I’m listening.” I set my mug down and approach the horse. I start at his tail and walk along his right, or “romance,” side. It’s the side facing out, more elaborate in its decoration, to entice riders. The details are vivid in my memory, even if nature and the years haven’t been as kind.
“You’re in better shape than a lot of your friends were. Lion was the worst. Do you know I had to completely replace one of his legs? Poor guy.” I flick a look at the horse’s head.
“Remember Angie’s tenth birthday when stupid Robby Morgan pushed her off the lion because only boys were supposed to ride ‘The King of Beasts’?” I drop the tone of my voice, mimicking Robby, even though his voice had been as high as mine back then. “Wonder whatever happened to him? He was such a jerk.”
I push away the memory of Jerky Robby and crying Angie, her dress ripped from getting caught on the metal stirrup, and her knee bloody from landing on the wood-plank base of the carousel.
“We used to have fun, didn’t we?” I pet the horse’s wooden neck.
I return to the table and jot a few thoughts on my notepad. The song fades into a momentary hush. There’s a rustle behind me, and what sounds like the gentle knock of a hand with a ring tapping hollow wood. I feel a prickle on my neck, the fine hairs shifting.
I squeeze my eyes shut and turn. The prickle melts into a shiver. I force my eyes open and walk back to my friend. It’s not fair that she isn’t here to share his restoration with me.
I run my hand over the saddle, at the once-raised sections worn down by years of riders. My index fing
er traces the outline of the saddle and the delicate swirls barely visible on the painted saddle pad.
My hand slides along the curved wood of the horse’s shoulder until my palm is cupping his belly. The same movement Grandma used to make, her greeting and good-bye to a special wooden friend. “Oh, Grandma, I miss you,” I whisper into the horse’s hard mane, my forehead pressing into his neck.
“I miss you both.”
This should have been the perfect summer. The summer with my baby. The summer Grandma and I got to see the carousel come back to life. Now only one of the three will be alive.
Absently, I rub the raised strip of the girth. My forehead scrunches, and I rub the spot again. “What is that?” I squat to get a better look at the rough lines on the horse’s belly.
“Did someone ding you when they removed the pole? And you didn’t kick them for doing this to you?” I look closer. My finger traces the marks. That’s not a ding.
“Let’s get you on the table.” I wrap my arms around the horse’s middle and carefully lift him from the stand in the middle of the studio. He’s not heavy, but I walk slowly, conscious of his size as I near the table and ease him up.
With the horse on his side, I get a better look. It’s absolutely not a ding.
For Meera. Forever.
Meera? That’s what everyone called Grandma. She hated her given name, Maria; she claimed it was too formal, too stuffy. It was the only name her mom ever used, and from the stories Grandma told, her mom was a tough enforcer of rules and proper behavior.
“What in the world?” I squint and read it again.
For Meera. Forever.
“Grandma? What’s the story behind this?”
I trace the carving with the index finger of my left hand. The diamond of my engagement ring zaps a bolt of light at me. I try to picture my grandfather contorting to carve this inscription. My grandfather the lawyer. Not likely. Grandpa was as honest and straight-arrow as they came. Predictable is the word Grandma used.
I squint at the horse’s belly, trying to picture a young version of my grandfather twisted under the horse, carving the love note to his bride. Nope, still don’t see it.
