by Orly Konig
“Doesn’t matter.” I wave the jab away. “Hank told me.”
Thomas stares, mouth slack. “I was wrong. You’re not nuts. You’re off your freaking rocking horse.”
“That’s not fair.” Thirty-some years of being dismissed by my brother takes over.
“You’re pouting.” He does his big-brother eye roll.
“He’s our grandfather, Thomas. I know it. I feel it. Here.” I dig my fist into my stomach.
“That’s heartburn.”
“You’re just like Mom,” I snap, resorting to my childhood comeback.
“Lame.”
We stare at each other in silent sibling stubbornness.
“Maya, you can’t bring her back. And making Hank your new grandfather doesn’t solve any of this. It’s time to let go.”
“I’m not trying to bring her back.” I swallow and ignore the pursed all-knowing look on my brother’s face.
Unlike during those childhood squabbles, Thomas doesn’t charge into the arena for a fight. This time he allows a slow, thoughtful nod.
“Come visit him with me. Please? You’ll see. He’s amazing.”
Thomas shakes his head. “I’m sure he is. But I’m not going to visit some old man you’re fixated on. I’m glad you found your carousel builder and that he’s helping you finish your restoration. You and Grandma always loved this thing, and I can only guess how special it is to talk to him. Especially since he obviously knew Grandma as well. I guess it’s almost like having her back in some way.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Thomas raises his hand to stop me.
“He has Alzheimer’s, Maya. His memory isn’t reliable. I’m not saying you shouldn’t believe everything he says, but please don’t upturn our whole world because of something you want to believe.”
Want to believe? I don’t want to believe. I do believe. Because it’s true. I push down the bubble of doubt.
“It’s the truth.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Why does it matter?”
All the reasons it matter, the reasons I’ve been burning to find out more, fizzle.
“Because it’s the truth,” I say with far less conviction.
Thomas’s eyes are on the horse when he answers. “The truth isn’t always what you’re looking for. Sometimes secrets are secrets for a reason. Unraveling them can destroy more than it solves.”
He stands, kisses me on the cheek, and leaves. Whatever smart comeback and argument I could have unleashed are left rattling their cages inside my brain. And the most frustrating part is that I’m not sure he’s wrong.
Twenty-two
Secrets. For three years, I’ve been unraveling the secrets of the merry-go-round. For a year, I’ve been stewing over the secrets that led to the deaths of my grandmother and my baby. And for the last month, I’ve been torturing myself with the secrets of my family. All released by this one horse. The one horse who held so many great memories.
He’s stripped to the original paint layer, and most of his dings and breaks have been repaired. Standing in the middle of my studio, he’s nothing more than a wood creation. The magic, the memories, no longer transform him into the fantastical beast he was.
Yesterday, I finished rebuilding his tail. Today, I start painting. New layers of the old designs. A fresh start for new secrets.
The old ones will stay with me. And Hank.
There’s a knock on the door behind me.
“I brought food.”
My stomach grumbles a loud thank-you. “I wasn’t expecting you home until late. Didn’t you say you had a late meeting?”
“Yeah, but I snuck out for lunch.” Vale sets the paper bag on the table and pulls out two burritos wrapped in aluminum foil. I’d gotten addicted to Jose’s when I was pregnant. A wave of nausea rolls through my stomach. The fact that Vale picked this after over a year of not going there seems like a sign. A blinking red warning sign. It’s a burrito, Maya.
He pulls the chairs to the table then sits in one. He unwraps his burrito and takes a big bite, his eyes on the carousel horse. “How long do you think it’ll take to repaint him?”
I sit but don’t reach for my food. “A week. Maybe two.”
Vale’s eyes dart to the calendar on the wall. Five weeks to the grand reopening ceremony. A big red square marks the three-week deadline for this guy to be reinstalled on the merry-go-round. I’d given myself more time with him than with the other animals. I’d wanted as much time with my memories as I could squeeze in.
What the calendar doesn’t show is the looming deadline to decide on Vale’s job offer. While I’d hoped the bathroom was a sign he’d made up his mind not to go, it’s a conversation I’ve avoided like prune juice.
“Can you take a couple of days off?”
My eyes instinctively go to the calendar, but I know the answer. “I can’t”
“Please, Maya. It’s important.” He inhales, and I can almost hear him count out the stress before continuing. “I have to answer Ed.”
My insides liquefy. He’s moving up the deadline. “It hasn’t been two weeks yet.”
“I know.” He puts the burrito down and swipes at a glob of sour cream and guacamole that’s oozing over the edge. “I want you to come to Seattle with me.”
“Seattle? Me?”
“Yes you. You’re the only wife I have.” His attempt at levity falls with the glob of guacamole.
“I’m not going.”
He blinks, fast, as though recovering from a slap. A verbal slap can hurt far more than a physical one.
“I’m not talking about a move. Yet. A visit to check out the city. See what you—we—think of it.”
“Why now? You know I’m on a hard deadline. This project is important.”
“We’re important, too.”
We are. But …
But I can’t leave. If I’m not here, how can I keep their memories alive?
“Just a visit, Maya.”
I want to scream at him to leave me alone, to not push me. And I want to fling myself at him and tell him I’ll follow him anywhere.
I shake the voices out of my head. “I can’t go.”
Our eyes meet, and for the first time, I see a hardness in Vale. The sadness, hope, and love that tempered my guilt this last year are gone. I broke the final piece holding us together.
He stiffens, stands. “I’m leaving on Sunday.”
“Vale,” my voice cracks.
“It’s one week. I have to decide what’s best for me. And you need to decide what’s best for you.” The door shuts behind him. I wince at the gentle click of the latch. A slammed door would have meant passion. A quiet click screams finality.
My burrito remains untouched. Another glob of sour cream oozes from his. I grab the trash can in time to throw up in it.
* * *
Twelve. Twelve people have walked out of Tower Oaks in the twenty-two minutes I’ve been sitting here. Twenty-three minutes. Thirteen people.
I wasn’t able to refocus on work after Vale left. I tried. I put in my favorite Chris Botti CD. But neither Chris nor the carousel horse was holding my attention.
I should have gone after him. I didn’t. Guilt kept me away. How has that become my standard excuse?
Twenty-four minutes. Fifteen people.
I wipe a drop of sweat from my cheek before it can dive-bomb my leg. If I’d kept the car running, I wouldn’t have been marinating in this heat.
Vale had gone back into the house. Obviously, because his work clothes were on the bed. I assumed he went for a run. He hadn’t left a note. I sent a text asking if he needed the car and almost jumped out of my shorts when his phone buzzed from under the pile of clothes on the bed. He never goes anywhere without his phone.
I left a note. Two actually. Seeing Hank had felt urgent, but now that I’m here, I can’t get out of the car.
A man in a blue suit gets out of a blue SUV. He looks at me, steps onto the sidewalk, and looks down at the front of my car. Probably memorizing
the license plate in case there’s an incident and he’s called as a witness.
An incident? Witness? Really, Maya? Vale’s right, you do need to get out more.
I make a show of gathering my belongings and get out of the car. I follow him in, aware that he’s not the only one who paid attention to my loitering.
Barbie waves a paper cup in my direction as I enter. I wave back. The receptionist waves cheerfully as I march past. I wave, less enthusiastically. Even Nurse Julie smiles at me as we pass in the hall. I force a smile. I’ve stepped into the twilight zone.
I hear Simon’s laugh, strong and sure, then Hank’s wobbly laugh joins in, along with a flirty female giggle. There’s a collection of people standing around the nurse’s station, and a half-eaten cake on the counter.
Hank looks up and motions me over. My heartbeat picks up in anticipation while my feet slow. Which one of me will he welcome to their party?
Hank waves me forward. “Come, come. We’re celebrating the doc’s birthday. Have some cake.” He holds out a paper plate with a square hunk of cake precariously tilting on it.
I overrule my feet and shuffle forward. Hank beams at the nurse perched on the Formica desk on the other side of the counter. As I come closer, I see Simon. He’s leaning back in a chair, feet propped on the edge of the desk, inches away from the nurse’s knee. There isn’t much distance separating them.
“Here,” Hank says, thrusting the plate at me. “Miss, umm…?”
“Maya,” Simon’s tenor fills in before I have a chance.
Hank blinks three times in quick succession, as if trying to trap the word into memory.
“Maya Brice, I’m restoring your carousel,” I add, taking the plate dancing in front of my face. I glance at the odd shape left on the counter, the cake cut and eaten so that all that’s left is Hap Bir Do S.
How could I have forgotten it was his birthday?
“Happy birthday.” Does he know I forgot? Would he have expected me to remember? Of course I should have remembered.
Since his birthday fell during the summer, we were always together at the beach. For his fifteenth birthday, his parents had planned a bonfire on the beach. We’d roasted hot dogs, made s’mores, and ran into the cold night waves.
I flush with the memory of his eighteenth birthday. Our eyes meet, and I wonder if he’s remembering the same. His parents had taken us for a nice dinner, then Simon and I had gone for a drive in his brand-new black Jeep, a gift from his parents. My gift to him had been hesitantly unwrapped then devoured on a secluded beach. It had been the first time for both of us.
“Eat,” Hank commands. “And I don’t want to hear about you being on a diet. Girls these days are always on a diet. It’s silly. Men appreciate women with curves. Don’t they, Doc?”
The nurse pfuts and waves the comment away, then nudges Simon’s thigh with the toe of her sneaker. He winks, and I fumble to keep my cake from plummeting to the shiny tile floor.
“So, Miss, umm, what did you say your name was?”
“Maya.”
“Brice.”
Simon and I answer at the same time. A shiver rattles up my spine.
Hank looks at me with concern. “You’re cold? Come, my room is warmer.” He grasps my upper arm and pulls me gently across the hall.
The back of my neck prickles as we walk into Hank’s room. I know Simon is watching.
“So, Miss, umm…”
“Brice.”
We settle into the chairs and I silently curse that I’m once again in the chair with my back to the door. Is Simon still watching us?
“Yes. Miss Brice. What brings you to me today? More questions about the carousel? You’re obviously not here just for the cake.” He chuckles, and with a pleased smirk, commands, “Eat.”
I take two minibites, then set the plate on the table next to me.
Hank shakes his head. “Ahh, girls these days. When I was your age we appreciated women with substance.” He looks to the dresser on the other side of the room and the cluster of framed photos.
“You must have had quite a few girls trying to catch your attention.”
“Not that many.” He looks at me, and I’m pulled into a sudden memory that trembles behind his rheumy eyes.
I stand and walk to the dresser. I pick up a picture of a young Hank with his wife. “Tell me about her.”
“My Annabelle. She was my everything. She came into my life at a time when I needed positivity. And there she was. It started as a summer infatuation. She was here with her sister and brother-in-law. At the end of their vacation, I couldn’t bear the idea of losing her. She had such a fresh outlook and a spirit that made everything feel possible. I had nothing left here. The carousel was done and running, and I was back to floundering as a carpenter. I couldn’t get another carousel gig. There were too many of us and not enough need for the hand-carved ones. The modern amusement parks wanted fiberglass animals or mass-produced ones.
“So I followed Annabelle to Kansas City where her family was from.”
I spin to look at him. “You lived in Kansas City.”
“Yes,” he answers, taken aback at the abrupt interruption of his story.
“When?” Did Grandma know he’d moved to Kansas City? Did she know when he moved back, or did she think he was still there when she came to visit me?
“From August 1954 until March 2007.”
I stare. I’m not sure if I’m more astonished at the additional link between us or the fact that this man, who can barely remember who I am from visit to visit, can remember dates so clearly. Then again, by now I’ve come to expect the unexpected with Hank’s memories.
He mistakes the look of surprise. “Not the place you’d expect a beach boy to end up, is it?”
“No.” I collect my thoughts. “I lived there, too. Not at the same time obviously, but I lived there, too.” My voice fades like the echo of my thought.
“What about her?” I pick up a recent picture of Hank and my grandmother. They’re at the beach, sitting side-by-side in the chairs Grandma schlepped every time we went to the beach. A red-and-blue-striped umbrella casts a dark circle. They’re both looking at whoever took the photo, smiling, relaxed.
He looks from me to the photo and back to me. Now would be the time to tell him, Maya.
Voices in the hallway chase away the words threatening to explode from my mouth.
“There was cake and we weren’t invited?”
“You don’t need cake. You need rice cakes.”
“Oh, stuff your rice cakes. Might as well eat cardboard.”
“Wouldn’t hurt your waistline to gnaw on that either.”
“Stop nagging me, woman. You’re not my wife.”
“And thank god for that.”
“Hank, you old goat, get out of your room. We need a fourth player for Rummikub.”
Hank looks up, and I swivel to see three bodies trying to cram through the door at the same time.
“Ouch. What was that for?” An old man with wild, bushy gray hair frowns and rubs his side.
“You’re standing on my foot.” The pixie grandma standing next to him pushes his shoulder.
“Will you two stop fighting for one minute? Geez,” says a voice from behind them. I recognize the voice as the rice-cake hater. “Let me through.” Hands part the two bickering bodies and a bald head pokes through, followed by a surprisingly square body.
As though busted by parents, Hank straightens his sweater then runs a hand over his thinning hair.
“Hi, Joe,” Hank says to the square holding up the bald orb.
“Well, well. And who do we have here?” Joe grins at me. “Shame on you, Hank, for hogging the beautiful ladies. At least sit in the lobby so we can all enjoy, instead of having to just look at the prunes.” He shoots a look at the door where the pixie is still slapping at the significantly taller man next to her.
“You could use a few more prunes in your life. Might help that problem you have,” she says, gesturing wi
ldly at Joe.
Hank stands and shuffles to where I’m standing. I replace the picture frame, suddenly shy under the scrutiny of the three musketeers.
“Miss, umm…” Hank blinks three times quickly, then shakes his head and takes a different approach. “This is Joe, and those two are Dottie and Nick.”
Joe sweeps his right hand to his middle and bends in a grand bow. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“I’m Maya Brice.” I rub my lower lip to hide the smile. “Nice to meet you, too.”
Dottie pushes past Nick and shuffles over to stand in front of us. She slaps Joe on the back. “Quit posturing, you old fart. No one is impressed. Hi.” She flashes a smile at me and sticks out a child-sized hand that has a surprisingly strong grip.
“Hi.” I can’t take my eyes off her smile. Are those her real teeth?
“We didn’t know you had company, Hank. Sorry for interrupting,” she says through the perfectly formed teeth. Though she’s speaking to Hank, her eyes are trained on my face. She doesn’t look sorry at all. “Hold the prune juice—I know you.”
I feel my mouth stretching, the easy smile from earlier becoming tight. Was she one of Grandma’s friends?
“Yes, yes.” She slaps at my arm playfully. “You used to come into my shop with your mom. Tall, elegant woman. She was one of my best customers.” Dottie beams at me then turns to each man in turn with an I-knew-it nod. “Your mom had a nose for the quality jewelry and impeccable taste picking gifts for people. Then again, I had impeccable taste for ordering those things in the first place.”
Her store? I slap a few brain cells into motion trying to find the hidden memory of a feisty pixie in a store.
“Dee’s.” My voice is a mixture of question, surprise, and pleasure. “Dee’s was your shop?”
Dottie grows a full quarter inch taller at being recognized. “Ah, if only my memory was as sound as yours. I stink at names.” She taps her temple with an elegantly manicured finger.
“That’s not the only thing you stink at,” mumbles Nick.
Dottie ignores him. “How is your mom? Remind me of her name?”
“Claire,” I mumble, chancing a look at Hank for a flash of recognition. He’s busying himself with the pocket of his slacks. “She’s fine. Good.”
