Carousel Beach_A Novel

by Orly Konig

  He takes a long swallow. “I don’t know.”

  I close my eyes and picture the merry-go-round. “I stopped by the carousel site this morning. I’ve been so intent on the individual pieces that I haven’t thought about how it all fits together. In my mind, each animal, each component was its own unique entity. When I saw the rest of the carousel today, almost complete except for one ceiling panel and one horse, it suddenly hit me—the magic is in the whole.”

  I wipe at tears traversing the outline of my cheeks. “I don’t know how we … I … let this get so far out of hand. I didn’t mean it to. I just … I don’t know.”

  The words, the emotion, pool at my feet, and I feel drained and relieved.

  Vale’s voice is low with emotion when he finally speaks. “It’s been a challenging year.”

  I wait for him to continue, to tell me we’ll be okay, that we’ll get through this. He doesn’t. He pours himself another glass of wine and sips, eyes on the shadows passing on the street.

  When did it get dark? I look at my watch. When did it become so late?

  “I didn’t realize how late it is. The food is probably ruined.” I wipe away the last of the tears and stand.

  Vale grabs my hand as I walk past, jolting me to a stop. “Maya…”

  He’s interrupted by a phone ringing inside the house.

  “That’s mine.” I tense. A call at this hour can’t be good news. He releases my hand and a frustrated sigh.

  The phone is on the kitchen table, next to my keys and the cookbook I’d followed so carefully. I pick up the phone and frown at the unfamiliar number. Then scowl at the brown blob in the pot on the stove. Way to fix a romantic dinner, Maya.

  “Hello?” I steel myself for whatever is coming.

  “It’s Simon. Hank had a stroke.” No hello. No I’m sorry to call so late. No warning.

  My knees shimmy and I flop onto the nearest chair. “Is he…?”

  “He’s alive. It appears to have been a mild one, but we won’t know the full extent until we run more tests. I should have a better idea tomorrow. His daughter is making arrangements to come. She said it was okay to call you. He’ll need the support until she can get here.”

  Breathe, Maya.

  “Will I be able to see him tomorrow?” I can feel Vale standing in the door, watching. I squeeze my eyes, shutting him out.

  “He’s in the hospital.” Not exactly a yes, but it’s not a no.

  It’s my turn to say something.

  “Okay. Simon?” My brain races with what else to say. “Thanks for letting me know.” The phone goes dark as Simon hangs up. No good-bye, no I’ll see you tomorrow.

  “Simon?” Vale’s voice is rough, sandpapered by hurt.

  “Hank had a stroke. He was calling to tell me.”

  “Why is he calling you?”

  “Because Hank doesn’t have family here.” Except he does. Me.

  Vale’s mouth tightens, eyes narrow, his expression warring between understanding and anger. “Why was he calling you, though? And why does he have your cell phone number?”

  “Why is this an issue?” A warning bell in the back of my mind screams for me to shut up, back up, stop.

  “If my ex was suddenly an integral part of my days, wouldn’t it be an issue for you? And if she was calling me at all hours, you’d be upset.” He crosses his arms, his presence filling the doorway, sturdier than any solid structure.

  “I wouldn’t be upset. I trust you.” I try for self-assured, but neither of us is impressed. Trust, once shaken, is harder to grasp. And without it for stability, every slight shift feels like it could be the end.

  He shifts his weight, his eyes blasting through the layers of guilt and secrets I’ve built around myself.

  “No, you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t have shut me out. You wouldn’t be hiding behind whatever wall you’ve erected around yourself. Because, yes, I know there’s something. But you know what’s worse than you not trusting me? You don’t trust yourself anymore. And that is impossible to recover from.”

  Twenty-five

  Neither of us slept much last night. The stroganoff had ended up in the trash, untouched. The romantic evening was shattered.

  My phone rattles on the breakfast table, the unread text jittery for attention.

  “Aren’t you going to respond?”

  For the last thirty minutes, Vale and I have been in a silent truce over coffee. Rehashing last night or discussing plans for the day are equally precarious topics.

  My fingers graze the edge of my phone. We both know who’s texting. He’s sent five messages already this morning.

  I’d looked at the first, but at the glare from Vale, set the phone down without answering. Now every incoming message is a silent standoff.

  “Can we talk about last night?” I turn the phone upside down so the temptation is less. The phone responds by vibrating again with another incoming text.

  “No. Not now.”

  “Yes now.”

  “No, Maya. Not when there’s a strong probability one or both of us will say something we can’t take back.”

  He gulps the last of his coffee, sets the mug in the sink, and turns the faucet on. The water gushes into the metal sink, loud and intrusive but he’s made his point.

  Finally, he turns the water off, leaving only the annoying clock to torture my nerves.

  “George will be here soon. He’s helping me finish the bathroom today. I’m leaving for Seattle in the morning and want it done before I go.”

  Last night was supposed to have been the first step to bridging the divide between us. I didn’t want him going to Seattle with a giant cloud hanging over our marriage. Not that one night would wipe it away, but at least it could turn it from dark gray to a lighter gray. Instead, he’ll be leaving holding the tail end of a tornado.

  “Round trip or one way?” The question is barely audible.

  He leans against the counter, arms bent and ready to push off.

  “Still round trip.”

  I bite my lip to balance the sting behind my eyes.

  Another text rattles my phone.

  “Just answer it already. It’s about Hank, right?”

  It feels like a test, one I’m doomed to fail.

  * * *

  It only takes nineteen minutes to drive to the hospital. Another twenty to get out of the car. There’s an ambulance backed into the emergency area, the back doors closed, occupant already deposited inside. Is it the same ambulance that brought my grandma here? The one that brought Hank?

  The paramedics get into the cab, and I squint into the awkward lighting to get a better look. Are they the ones who brought me here? I remember crazy details about that day—the smell of the paint, the way the paintbrush felt in my hand, the rough feel of the stepstool under my bare feet, the smell of coffee on the doctor’s breath, the sting of the IV. There are so many details I’ve pushed into the darkest part of my subconscious—had I still been in the nursery when Vale came home, was it him who called the ambulance, who told me about the emergency C-section and losing the baby?

  “Stop it.” I force my body out of the car, across the parking lot, and through the main doors. A volunteer at the information desk directs me to the third floor. A nurse on the third floor points me to room 325.

  He looks so small in the hospital bed. I watch from the hallway as a nurse checks his temperature and blood pressure, adjusts his oxygen line and IV drip. She places another blanket on his feet and straightens the blanket across his chest. Her lips move, and I wonder what she’s saying to him. I wonder if he’s able to speak. But I still can’t bring myself to move those last few feet into his room.

  Instead, I take a half step back and allow the wall to hold me upright.

  There’s talking, beeping, an occasional groan, more talking, more beeping, now someone is crying, someone else is laughing. How can there be so much noise in an ICU unit? I look around for the culprits, wanting to tell everyone to just shut the hel
l up and leave these poor souls to rest. They need their rest.

  That’s when I see him. He’s standing by the door to Hank’s room, hands in pockets, eyes on me.

  “Did you sleep at all last night? You look tired.”

  A silent laugh rocks my body. “Says the man who looks like he could dive headfirst into the deep end of a coffeepot.”

  “He’s my patient.” Simon answers. “What’s your excuse?”

  “I was worried about Hank.” And I’m worried about my marriage.

  He shifts to look into the room. The vein at the base of his neck pulses.

  “How is he?” I break the silence between us, my voice barely carrying over the sounds of the ICU unit.

  Simon back steps until he’s leaning against the wall next to me, our shoulders almost touching.

  “Okay. All things considered. It was mild. His right eye and the right corner of his mouth are drooping, and it’s affected his right hand, but otherwise he seems to be mostly okay.”

  Simon shifts to look at me. “He’ll be happy to see you. He was asking for you this morning.”

  My head jerks to look at Simon. “Me?”

  He rubs at a black spot on the white tile with his left foot. “Meera, actually.”

  My eyes drop to the black mark on the floor. Tears turn it into a muddy puddle.

  “Maya.” It’s little more than a breath, but it’s enough to disarm my resolve. Simon’s arms wrap around me, pulling me in, and I bury my head in his chest. After all these years and everything that’s happened, I still fit in that very same spot.

  I breathe him in. If I squeeze my eyes shut, squeeze out the sounds, the years, it could almost be the young us. His body hums against mine, the same intense current I drew from when we were kids.

  “Um … hum … excuse me? Dr. Riley?” A voice from the door breaks into our private circle.

  Simon loosens the hold but doesn’t let me go. “He’ll be okay, Maya. He should be back at Tower Oaks in a few days.”

  He leans back enough to make eye contact. I nod, straightening away from him. Only then does he acknowledge the nurse standing in the door to Hank’s room. “Yes?” He turns to the nurse, who is openly sizing me for fit with either or both men.

  “He’s restless. Keeps asking where Meera is?” She must have heard Simon call me Maya, because she shifts her body to block the door as I step forward.

  Simon turns to me. “Are you okay to go in?”

  I study the black splotch on the floor. It’s no longer a puddle, there are no more tears. I know what I need to do.

  “Yes.” I pull myself taller.

  He may be asking for Meera, but somehow I have to tell him who I really am. Before it’s too late.

  Simon places his hand on my lower back and nudges me forward. Together we cross the hall. The nurse turns sideways to let us pass but makes no effort to conceal her curiosity.

  “Hank?” I ease into the chair by the bed and reach for his hand.

  He rolls his head to the left. The hard hospital pillow barely changes its starchy shape. With the left side of his face smushed into the pillow, the droop on his right side becomes more pronounced. I force my smile wider.

  “I. Thought. I. Heard. Your. Voice.” The words are slow and slightly slurred. He shifts, winces. I look frantically around for the nurse or Simon.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Hard,” he exhales the word.

  A steadying hand pushes on my shoulder. “Does something hurt, Hank?” Simon asks.

  The pillow creases under the slight movement as Hank shifts to look at the speaker behind me.

  “Can you show me where?” Simon gives my shoulder a comforting squeeze before stepping forward.

  The blanket twitches.

  “Your stomach?”

  The pillow creases again.

  “Okay, let’s take a quick look then.”

  Simon walks around the foot of the bed and lifts the blanket just enough to get a look. Hank winces as Simon’s hands explore his midsection.

  “I’ll have the nurse give you something to make you more comfortable.” Simon tucks the blanket around Hank. “And I’ll give you two a few minutes to talk. Not long.” He waits for me to acknowledge his words then walks to the door. Behind me, I hear whispers as he gives the nurse instructions.

  The nurse returns and injects something into Hank’s IV. “This should ease the pain.”

  She checks his IV one last time then walks to the foot of the bed, stops, and looks up the bed to where Hank seems to have dozed off. She turns to leave and whispers, “Not long, he needs to rest,” as she walks past me.

  Not long. I need a long time though. I need time to get to know him. For him to get to know me. I need time to finish the horse and bring Hank to see the restored merry-go-round.

  I look up. He’s watching me. “You. Look. Tired.”

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

  He coughs a half laugh. “I always worry. About. You.” He winces.

  “I’m fine.” I repeat, trying for more authority over my emotions. Hank’s good eye blinks at me. “Really.”

  “You should rest.” His eyes flutter.

  “You need to rest.” I start to pull my hand away but he tightens his hold.

  Even in the hospital bed after a stroke, he has a firm grip. What those hands must have been able to do when he was young. A mental snapshot of the carousel horse in my studio flashes past. What those hands did when they were young, I correct myself.

  He squeezes my hand, more gently this time, and seems to deflate into the bed.

  His breathing gets deeper and the grip on my hand releases. I blink in time to the machine pulsing the jagged line of his heartbeat. Keep beating. Please.

  “Why so sad, Maya?”

  I look up, the world moving in slow motion. It’s the first time he’s called me by my first name without me prompting him. And the first time he hasn’t asked what my name is.

  “I’m not.” I fake a smile.

  “It’s me you’re talking to. You were never able. To hide emotions from me. Please. Meera. Talk to me.”

  The fake smile fizzles into a grimace. Who do I answer for? How do I navigate this?

  “I’m just worried about you.” It’s true even if it’s not the full truth.

  “Bull.” His chuckle turns into a wheeze.

  I smile at the stubborn glare he’s attempting. “It’s true.”

  “It’s. Not. All.” He doesn’t give up.

  “It’s not,” I concede.

  “So. Why. Sad? And don’t. Say. Me.” He blinks, or winks. It’s hard to tell.

  You wanted the opening to tell him, so tell him.

  “I had a fight with my husband last night.” I hear the words, the wrong words.

  “About?”

  “The past.” What had the fight been about? My emotionally exhausted brain juggles the options. Me shutting down. Me not being willing to move forward. Me not being willing to move, period. Me and Simon. “Me, actually. Doing all the wrong things.”

  “He’s upset. That you. Came. To me.” It’s not a question and he’s not talking to me. “Oh, Meera.” He labors to catch his breath or maybe he’s catching his thoughts. “We knew it was a mistake, that we couldn’t work. What we had was brilliant. Explosive. I’ve never forgotten. That night. But we both knew. And we were right. He was the better man. For you. The better man. To be your. Husband. To be the father. Of your child. It wasn’t me. Not then.”

  The wrinkles on his cheeks appear to slide down, leaving smooth, papery skin behind. His eyes disappear behind folds of skin, his eyelids thin and brittle. His jaw moves as if he’s chewing on something.

  “Hank?” I whisper.

  Wrinkles slowly crawl back up the boulders of his cheekbones and he opens his eyes. There’s a film across his gaze, and I’m suddenly not sure if he’s even aware I’m here.

  “Tell me. About. The carousel.”

  “The carousel
?” I paddle fast against the rapids of my emotions. Which one of us is he asking?

  “What. Animal. Are you. Working on?”

  I relax into the hard chair. This conversation I can do. “The big stander. The one in front of the ostrich.”

  Hank’s mouth contorts into a lopsided smile.

  “My grandma and I used to play rock, paper, scissors when I was little over who got to ride him. Now that I think about it, I have the feeling she let me win most of the time. She was quick, no hesitation usually, but now I can see that she was always half a blink behind when we played. She was good.” I smile at the memory.

  “That game. Always amused me. My daughter. Loved it. Over. And over. Best three out of five. Five out of seven. Seventeen out of nineteen. Annabelle didn’t have the patience after the fourth or fifth game.” He takes a few shallow breaths, machines beep and gurgle around us. “Is he almost complete?”

  “He is. I’m mostly done with the body. The saddle will take a bit more time. I want to get the details almost like they were. And then the head. I always leave the head for last.”

  “It’s. The portal. To their magic. It was the last. Thing. I finished, too.” His breathing is shallow, labored. I move to get up; I should let him rest. He reaches for my hand again, keeping me in place. “I hope to see the work you’ve done, Maya. I want to see the love you’ve restored into the old girl.”

  “The grand reopening is on the fourth of July. I’d love to take you.” Now, Maya, tell him now.

  He squeezes my hand. “You’re a good girl, Meera. Always.” He releases my hand as his eyes flutter shut.

  Twenty-six

  I watch Hank sleep, the beeping and hissing and clacking of machines playing a bizarre symphony.

  Despite the “not long” warnings, neither the nurse nor Simon had returned to shoo me away. After an hour, though, the hospital sounds get the best of my anxiety. I leave a note with the nurse for Hank. My number and a promise that I’ll be back. Soon.

  I pull up to the house and turn the ignition off. I should go talk to Vale. I should get to work on the horse. I ease myself from the car, unsure which should to follow.