Carousel Beach_A Novel

by Orly Konig

  The electric doors whoosh open. A blast of sterile air assaults my nose and sends goose bumps scampering up my bare arms. The heaviness of anticipated death clashes with the overtly cheerful décor.

  A barely twenty blonde smiles up at me as I walk to the reception desk and pops an invisible piece of gum in greeting.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Riley.” I try what I hope is an authoritative tone even though my nerves are pinging like an arcade game. I’ve just opened the door to my own soap opera. Here to see the man I was certain I’d grow old with then walked away from on the night he proposed. The man who may be the link to a secret my grandmother wanted to hide.

  “Are you family of one of his patients?” An eyebrow lifts with the register of her voice.

  The phone on the desk in front of her chirps, and she raises a finger in a “one minute” request. She transfers a call to a Mrs. Fowler and turns back to me.

  I still owe her an answer.

  “No. A friend.” Friend. I doubt Simon Riley would classify me as a friend.

  The receptionist assesses me for the length of two gum pops.

  “Is he…?” I start to ask, but stop at an extra loud pop of her gum.

  She picks up the phone, her expression unimpressed and unconvinced. “Dr. Riley, please come to the front desk. Dr. Riley to the front desk.”

  She darts a look sideways at the swoosh of automatic doors opening. I turn in the same direction. A green plaque with white letters reads West Wing. Above the door, in elegant stenciling, are the words Tower Oaks Memory Support Center.

  A man in plaid golf pants and a yellow polo shirt walks through and the doors squelch shut behind him.

  “You can wait over there.” The receptionist points at the grouping of uncomfortable-looking chairs by the windows.

  I perch at the edge of a chair, my attention jerking with every opening of a door. I try focusing instead on counting the up and down of my right knee, but it’s moving too fast.

  “Maya?” The voice reaches my ears a split second before the brown tips of dress shoes enter my vision.

  I close my eyes, count to three, and lift my head. On three, I open and look straight into Dr. Simon Riley’s confused face.

  “Hi, Simon.” My voice sounds croaky, as though I’ve just woken up and haven’t cleared my throat yet.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He’s standing with his legs slightly apart, arms crossed over his chest. Not the most welcoming of hellos. Although I really didn’t expect anything else. Did I? If he’d wanted to see me, he would have found me.

  You didn’t look for him, either.

  “How’ve you been?” My left eye twitches. Lame, Maya, very lame.

  “Fine. But I don’t think you’re here to inquire about my well-being. Not after all this time. So?” He shifts his weight.

  I pull the envelope out of my pocket. “It was left on my grandmother’s grave. It’s on Tower Oaks stationery. And it’s personal.”

  Simon’s gaze drops to the paper flapping wildly in the space between us. “And?”

  “It’s from someone whose name starts with H.”

  “That narrows it down, doesn’t it?”

  I want to shake the answers out of him. Because suddenly I’m absolutely convinced he knows so much more about my grandmother than I do. And that stings worse than a flu shot. I focus on movement at the other end of the waiting room. A family walks by carrying bags and balloons. The balloons are depressingly cheerful and a stark contrast to the pained look on the face of the man carrying them.

  “You know who wrote this, don’t you?”

  “Why is it important?”

  So we’re going to play the answer-a-question-with-a-question game.

  “Who’s ‘H’?”

  “We’re not playing this game, Maya.”

  My face flushes. He could always read me. “I’m not playing a game, Simon.” I sound about as convincing as I feel.

  “Then tell me why you’re here, blazing mad. It’s been sixteen years. No hi, how are you?”

  “I asked.”

  He gives me his don’t-bullshit-me look. It was a meet-an-acquaintance-at-the-grocery ask and we both know it. He inhales and, with a practiced patient tone, says, “I’m great, Maya, thanks for asking. I’m happily married with three kids, a puppy, and two guinea pigs.”

  I sneak a look at his left hand. No wedding ring. I twist at mine with my thumb until the diamond is tucked in my palm. I knew he’d gotten married. Not having a ring doesn’t mean he’s not anymore. And what does it matter either way?

  “Truce?” I put my hands up in a peace offering.

  “Truce. Now tell me what this is about.” He sits in the chair next to me, body angled, our knees almost touching. I shift my weight to the opposite butt cheek, giving my knees an extra half an inch of don’t-touch-the-ex space.

  “It’s about my grandma. And the carousel. You know how special they both were to me. And secrets. Secrets she kept, and secrets that I think you have an answer to.”

  He tips his head and looks at me from under the brown forelock. I’m oddly comforted that he’s still wearing his hair shaggy. He releases a puff of air and the forelock flutters. “I guess I’m not surprised you put it together.”

  I sag into the back of the chair. I’d been waiting for the confirmation, but I wasn’t ready for it. “You obviously know more than I do. Care to share?”

  “I’m not sure it’s for me to share.”

  “Well it won’t be her telling me, so it’s either you or H.”

  “H is Hank,” he indicates at the letter. “He moved back to town years ago. Your grandma used to come visit him.”

  “Hank?” I feel the creases deepen on my forehead as the information collides with reality. “Hank Hauser?”

  Simon nods.

  “My grandmother has been visiting Hank Hauser?”

  Simon nods again, his eyes searching my face, tugging at my soul.

  “Hank Hauser the carousel builder? The man she told me she barely knew and didn’t know where he was?”

  Simon shrugs.

  I want to scream. I want answers.

  “For how long?”

  “A couple of years, I think. Every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. Teatime. Or cocoa time actually. Hank likes cocoa.”

  Tuesday and Thursday afternoons were her book-club meetings, although I don’t think they ever actually read books. Of course not, there wasn’t a book club. Friday was knitting group. I have scarves and a hat as proof that she went to those. Doesn’t prove anything, Maya.

  My body deflates. “Wow. What else was she lying about?” It’s not really a question though, and Simon only shrugs in response.

  We’re quiet for a few minutes. Simon acknowledges a doctor walking past and an older couple walking arm-in-arm toward the sliding doors to the back garden.

  “She was here the day before she passed.” Simon swallows hard and looks away. He’d always liked my grandma. And she adored him. She’d save a stash of Rice Krispies bars just for him because she knew they were his favorite. “Her death has been very hard on Hank.”

  I remember the envelope, still clutched in my right hand. “He was at the memorial?” I try to force my memory back to the faces surrounding the grave.

  “No. After. He didn’t want to intrude. Said he wanted to say a private good-bye.”

  “Did you know he built the carousel?”

  Simon nods.

  I shake my head. All these years he’s been right here, in the same town. All these years, Grandma has been coming to see him. So many years of lies. How could she?

  “Can I see him?” All the questions I wanted to ask him, all the questions I peppered Grandma with instead. Why didn’t she tell me?

  Simon’s eyes dart to the doors of the West Wing as they slide open for a slow-moving procession of two. I watch as the old man maneuvers his walker, the nurse walking slowly by his side, one hand on his back.

  The words abov
e the door to the West Wing pull at my eyes like magnets. “Memory Support Center,” I read aloud, and then turn back to Simon. “Can he…?”

  Simon’s head bobbles left then right in an uncommitted response.

  “What does that mean?”

  “He has good days and not-so-good days.”

  “Is it just age or does he have some form of dementia?” A sense of dread rattles through my insides.

  “Alzheimer’s.” The word drops out of Simon’s mouth.

  “What does he remember?” The butterfly in my stomach has reverted to an uptight caterpillar, the slithering feeling leaving me queasier than I’d been with morning sickness.

  “Some, yes. Come on, he’ll appreciate the company.”

  I let Simon lead me across the lobby and through the secure doors into the Memory Center. What memories will I find in there?

  We walk down the hallway, past doors propped open, revealing the intimacies of those unable to care for themselves. I cringe involuntarily as we pass a room with a woman crying softly.

  “Some days are harder than others,” Simon says as we round a corner and start down another long corridor. “Here we are.” He stops in front of a room.

  “Julie, this is Maya Garrison.” Simon turns and I suddenly notice the nurse’s station behind us. “She’s here to visit with Hank. How’s he doing today?”

  Julie flashes a smile at me and a broader grin at Simon.

  “Brice. It’s Maya Brice,” I mumble as a flush of heat sears my cheeks. “Do you think he’s up for company?” I look between nurse and doctor.

  “A short visit should be fine,” Nurse Julie responds. “But if he gets agitated, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  “That’s fair.” I take a hesitant step forward, aware that both Julie and Simon are watching me. I take another less-hesitant step and tap gently on the brown wood door propped open by a rubber doorstop. I’m answered by the soft, sad sounds of a trumpet muffled by a pair of old speakers. Contrasting smells of lavender and hospital antiseptic assault my nose. And in an oversized brown leather chair sits Hank Hauser, hands resting on the armrests, eyes closed. He doesn’t move when I knock again, harder this time. I turn anxiously toward Simon and Julie. Simon tips his head in a go-on, and I rap a third time on the door.

  “Mr. Hauser?” My voice squeaks with sudden apprehension. “Hank? May I come in?”

  The song fades to a crackle. I look to where the noise is coming from and my mouth forms an O as I realize he’s listening to a record player. Vinyl records. My grandmother used to play her favorite old vinyls for me over and over on the sweltering summer days when we hid inside under the gentle movement of the ceiling fans.

  The record player rests on a desk by the window, a handful of books and picture frames sit neatly on a chest-high bookshelf. Next to the desk is the hospital-issue bed, saved from its sterile appearance by a quilt in burgundy and forest green checks. An Oriental rug covers the cold tiled space between the bed, desk, and chair. Having finished my visual tour, I turn to the two armchairs in the middle of the room.

  Hank is watching me.

  I open my mouth to speak, but no words form. The look on Hank Hauser’s face has stolen them away.

  “Meera. You’re here.”

  Seven

  Hank’s words are as soft as the air escaping from his lungs. His eyes glisten with unshed tears; his gnarled hands grip the armrests.

  An electric current zips down my spine.

  He thinks I’m her.

  I came because of an inscription carved into the belly of a carousel horse and a letter left at a grave. But the answer to whatever questions I have is beaming at me in full wattage.

  My legs wobble and a hand grips my elbow, steadying me. “Are you okay?” Simon whispers into my ear.

  “Doc, help the girl in.” Hank waves his hands animatedly, gesturing for me to sit in the chair beside him.

  Simon retains his hold on my elbow but doesn’t move.

  I tug my arm free. “I’m okay.”

  “Hank, hi.” I take a couple of tentative steps forward. “I’m…”

  “Oh, Meera.” Hank tosses his head back and lets out a deep belly laugh. For a split second I can picture him as a young man. Strong and handsome. Commanding. “My memory may not be what it used to, but I’d never forget your angelic face. Come sit with me.”

  I perch on the edge of the chair, keenly aware that both men are watching me.

  Hank reaches forward and traps my hand between both of his. I look down. The heat from his hands is both comforting and claustrophobic. I want to say something but I’m afraid of breaking the spell, of crushing the joy on his face.

  “It’s been so long, Meera. What…” He thinks for a minute, head tilting as though to catch the memory. “Twenty-four years, right?” He grins like a child pleased to have found the correct answer to a challenging question.

  “Twenty-four years?” My voice chirps with confused surprise.

  I sneak a look at Simon, still standing in the doorway. His shoulders lift in a slow not-sure-where-this-is-going look.

  Hank laughs again and pats my hand. “You never were great with numbers,” he teases. A shadow of recollection darkens his face, then passes with a blink. “Well, I’m just delighted to see you now. Tell me how you’ve been. Have you moved back or are you just visiting your folks?”

  I’m trapped in a past that didn’t include me, yet insists on sucking me into its depths. My palms feel clammy and my heart slams against my rib cage. I’m sure everyone in Tower Oaks can hear the pounding.

  Hank pats the top of my hand, bringing me back to the present. But whose present? Mine or his? His with me, or his with my grandmother?

  I ease my hand out of his grasp and shift in the chair. I have so many questions that I’m ready to burst, and yet I’m at a complete loss for words. My right knee jiggles and I catch a smirk on Simon’s face. I was always a nervous jiggler. So was my grandmother.

  Hank’s warm hand stops an upward bounce. “I’ve made you nervous. I’m sorry.”

  I force my legs still and slide my hands under my thighs. “I’m fine. Tell me, how’ve you been?” I smile, hoping my nonanswer will slip through the time warp of our conversation.

  “Ah, you know me, I’m always good. Strong as a horse.” Hank flexes his right arm to show what must have once been an impressive bicep but is now an old man’s thin arm in a blue button-down shirt.

  My brain stumbles over what to ask next. I want to know about the man who was obviously closer to my grandmother than just a passing friend, as she’d insisted. I have so many questions for the man who built my beloved carousel.

  All questions are scratched away as the needle reaches the end of the record. I pop up from the chair, suddenly itchy to move, and walk the handful of steps to the record player. I pick up the album cover.

  “Maynard Ferguson,” I read aloud, then place the needle on the black vinyl disk. Suddenly I’m six again, wearing a frilly dress and sequined sandals and dancing with Grandma in the open-air ballroom by the beach as Maynard Ferguson and his big band send summer off with a rollicking party.

  “Remember that concert he gave in the old Spanish ballroom, Meera? That was the grand opening for the carousel. We danced so long we had to put our feet in the ocean after, to stop the aching.” Hank chuckles at the memory and sways to the music. “We had some good times back then, didn’t we?”

  I turn slightly toward him, wondering how to respond. He’s not waiting for a response though. His eyes are closed, and he continues to sway in time to the music, a small figure in an oversized chair. The ancient player behind me skips, and I turn quickly to rescue the precious record from getting scratched, blinking away a sudden tear.

  “Tell me about the carousel.”

  “The carousel.” Hank’s face crumples into the past. The serene memory of dancing gives way to something more complex. Nostalgia. Sadness. Love.

  Caught in the swirl of emotions, I’m
pulled back to the chair next to him.

  “Ha.” He lets out a laugh from deep inside a memory. “Remember when we helped old lady Marsh onto the ostrich and she almost tumbled off the other side? Or when we got caught in the storm and waited it out in the engine room?” He smiles, and I swear I catch the hint of a blush flash across his cheeks. “We were so afraid your parents would come looking for you.”

  The portal into the past is wide open, and I want more. “What else?”

  He pats my knee. “You always were crazy about that merry-go-round. Just like me.”

  And just like me, I add silently.

  He looks up, the radiant smile fading like a bulb on a dimmer switch. “You know, it’s not running anymore. They shut it down.” A lone teardrop escapes onto his check, and I choke down a lump of emotion.

  “I know. But it’s being restored. That’s actually…”

  “I hate to break this up, but the kitchen will be cleaning up from lunch soon. Hank, you should eat something,” Nurse Julie says from somewhere behind me, cutting me off. She walks past Simon and comes to kneel in front of Hank. Simon follows but stops a few paces from us.

  “Oh, okay.” Hank looks from the nurse to the doctor, then at me. “Oh, okay,” he repeats. The eyes that moments ago sparkled with memories are now glistening with confusion.

  “I’ll come again when we have more time to talk,” I assure Hank, who’s looking from me to Julie like a child unsure which parent to follow. His hands grip the armrests, bulging veins winding their way to the sharp ridges of his knuckles. I squeeze his hand. “I’ll come back very soon.”

  I stand, and Hank grabs at my hand, a silent plea not to be left behind.

  “I’ll see her out for you, Hank. You go with Julie and get something to eat,” Simon says, smiling at him. He puts a hand on the small of my back, and I instinctively lean in to the touch.

  “Oh, okay. I am a bit hungry,” Hank agrees, somewhat reluctantly. He releases his grip on me, then pulls himself up from the chair, with Julie’s steadying hand on his elbow. “Well, thank you for stopping by.” His tone is suddenly stiff and formal. He narrows his eyes, assessing me, placing me.