by Orly Konig
“No.”
“What do you want then?”
“I want what we had. I want a redo of the last year.”
“That’s not an option, is it? I don’t have a time machine to go back. Or fast forward. All I can offer is my hand and a promise that I’ll be with you. But it has to be moving forward. And you have to want to go. This, us, can no longer be one sided.”
When I don’t say anything, he shakes his head and continues. “I told Ed that I’ll be there next month.”
“You what?” I croak.
He shrugs a nonanswer answer.
“You accepted the job? Without talking to me?”
“I accepted a job. You knew my deadline for a decision was up. How long did you expect me to stay on hold?”
“You didn’t even talk to me about it though. You decided by yourself. That’s not about ‘us’ starting over. That’s all you.”
“Would your answer have been different if I’d waited?”
I hesitate a heartbeat too long.
“That’s what I thought. I’m going to Seattle in a month, and I want you to come with me. It doesn’t have to be a permanent move, but it has to be a step forward. We need distance from here if we’re going to find our future together.”
The ticking clock has just morphed into a lit fuse.
Thirty-six
The trumpet tingles down my spine. It’s my favorite of Chris Botti’s songs, and I’ve almost worn out the back button listening to it over and over.
You can replay a song, a movie, a memory. But once a life is gone, it’s gone.
Yesterday had turned upside down on me. Like so many days lately. Maybe I’ve forgotten how to be happy. Is that possible?
The music transitions to the next song on the album, and, this time, I let it.
After our discussion, Vale played the jet-lag card and went for a nap. I left a note that I was in the studio and for him to get me when he woke up. He hadn’t. When I finally came up for air, it was almost midnight, the horse’s hooves were done, the tail highlighted like an extravagant salon makeover, and Vale was still asleep. Again asleep. The dishes in the sink were proof he’d gotten up at least once.
He’d been asleep when I crawled out of bed this morning.
I know what Grandma would have told me. “Get your head out of your armpit, Mims. You can’t smell the flowers if your nose is buried. And you can’t see what’s around if your eyes are closed.”
A knock on the door is almost obscured by the final notes of the song. Fred snaps his head up and barks. If it wasn’t for him wagging at the door, I would have assimilated the sound into a prank by Mother Nature, with an assist from my grandmother.
Then again, considering that it’s my mom standing at the door, a prank by Grandma isn’t a long shot.
“Can I come in?” She stands in the door, a purple bag in one hand and a yellow bag in the other.
“That’s a lot of Orangina and tuna melts.” I point at the bags.
She laughs. “No food this time.” She comes in and sets the bags down by the worktable. Fred pads over, sniffs the yellow bag, shuffles to the purple bag and paws at it until he’s collapsed the top enough to climb in.
“Fred.” I grab for him, but Mom waves me away.
“That one is for him.”
Fred backs out of the crumpled bag dragging a rubber chew toy that’s at least half his size. Mom rubs his ears and whispers something to him that I can’t quite make out. He responds with a wag and a lick to her nose. She laughs then laughs harder when she looks up and catches me staring. “Close your mouth, dear.”
“Who are you?”
Her smile tightens but doesn’t disappear. “I couldn’t stop thinking about our discussion yesterday.” She settles on the floor next to Fred, her eyes level with the horse’s belly. She focuses on the girth, on a spot not visible from where we’re sitting. “I knew. Not confirmed, of course, but I suspected. Your grandmother was a master at spinning stories. Your grandfather, not so much. And you always had questions. You wanted every detail on every part of everyone’s lives.”
Fred snuffles back into the purple bag and backs out with yet another gift.
“How many things did you buy him?” Between my shopping spree and my mother’s, this puppy is one spoiled boy.
“That’s the last of it. I promise. Except for these. She reaches into the bag and extracts a plastic container with paw prints painted on it. Inside are puppy treats. She takes one out and gives it to Fred, who thanks her with a slurpy kiss. She kisses him on the side of his muzzle. I force my mouth shut.
“I thought you didn’t like dogs.”
“Who told you that?”
“You.”
She lifts Fred’s ears and lets them flop down. “I didn’t want the mess or the heartache.”
“Mess, okay. But I don’t get the heartache part.”
“Dogs have too short of a life span. Especially the large ones that I always preferred. I couldn’t stand the idea of falling in love with a dog then losing him a few years later.”
“People die, too. That didn’t stop you from getting Dad or us.”
She smiles at my “getting” comment. “Your dad was already house-trained and he has a longer life span than a Great Dane.”
I raise my eyebrows at her. I cannot quite figure out this new version of my mother.
“Anyway,” she continues, and I try to focus on what she’s saying rather than the alien sitting next to me. “During one of your interrogations, Dad said something that struck me as odd. I don’t remember what it was now, isn’t that weird? You’d think something that monumental would have stayed with me. The brain is an odd organism.”
“Mom, focus.” For the first time since I pieced together the relationship between Hank and my grandmother, Hank’s Alzheimer’s lands on my heart. Is it possible that my mom, a force I never questioned, could have inherited the disease? Have there been signs I didn’t know to look for? No. But how to explain the person sitting in front of me now?
“I asked Mom about it, and she waved if off. Even that seemed odd at the time. But I guess it’s also true that we see what we want to see, accept what’s within our comfort for knowing. I didn’t ask again, didn’t question. But when she started visiting him, I couldn’t hide from it any longer. Little things she’d murmur, the look in her eye—nothing specific, but just enough.”
“Why didn’t you want the truth? That seems so out of character for you.”
“Because it didn’t matter. Dad was Dad. He was already gone. I didn’t want to lose him a second time. Hank was her memory, not mine.”
“But still.”
“Still nothing. My identity came from the parents who raised me. My happiness came from the people I chose to surround myself with.”
She leans to one side and stretches until she can grab the yellow bag. She pulls it into her lap and looks inside. Fred paws at the bag, growls, and bites at a curly ribbon.
“Loss is hard to get past, but it’s impossible to live in. I’ve watched you take tentative steps out of the cave over the last few weeks, then run back in the moment the light hits your face. I can’t tell you what to do, you won’t listen anyway, but it’s time to stop being afraid of the light.
“Your grandmother bought this for you, for the baby, but didn’t want to give it to you until after the baby was born. I think you should have it. I think she’d want you to have it. You’re ready.” She pulls the ribbon from Fred’s mouth, hands me the bag, and pushes up. She nods at the horse. “You’ve done a beautiful job restoring him. Hank and your grandmother would be very proud.”
Before I can pull myself together, the door to the studio closes, a hushed finale to an emotionally conflicting day.
I stare at the bag. Inside is a square box, beautifully wrapped in yellow-and-blue paper, with an elaborate matching bow.
My fingers tremble, fumbling with the bow then the Scotch tape. It was a typical wrapping job for my grandma—
more tape on the box than left on the roll, no doubt.
I slide a nail under the tape keeping the box shut then reach into the white tissue paper and pull out a snow globe. The white flakes, disturbed while I was extracting it, swirl around a miniature merry-go-round.
The storm inside the globe settles. And with it, the turbulence that’s been raging inside me.
I look at the carousel horse in my studio. “You are magic.”
Thirty-seven
Fred trots into the kitchen carrying a rolled pair of socks. “Dammit, dog, I need those, and I prefer them dry.” Vale is half a step behind, but every time he reaches for the socks, Fred ducks out of the way. “Why did we need a dog?” He collapses onto the chair next to me.
Yesterday had been business as usual. Vale had gone to his office; I’d spent the day in the studio.
But in a twist from our usual, we’d had dinner together, wine on the front porch after, and connected as husband and wife. Unlike the night before his trip, this time was slow and sweet and reminded me why I’d fallen in love with him. And what I’d be losing if I let him leave without me.
Fred drops the socks at Vale’s feet and plunks his butt down, head cocked, tongue stuck out the side of his mouth. His front paws have the slightest of ballerina turnouts and my heart swells.
Vale’s shoulders slump and his grin widens. “Yeah, okay, that’s why we need a dog. You’re lucky you’re so cute.” He rubs the puppy’s ears. Fred licks his hands and stares adoringly at his new dad.
“I’m taking him for a walk. Want to come?” Vale stands and Fred performs a clumsy spin at his feet.
“Yes, but I can’t. I have to check on something at the installation site and last touch-ups on the horse. He’s being picked up tomorrow.”
“Already?”
“Already. Time flies. Reopening is in three weeks.”
“Excited?” He’s beaming.
I want to beam. I am. Sort of. “Yes and no. I wanted to bring Hank. He should be there.” I blink away tears and wipe at my cheeks. “God, I have to stop doing this.”
Vale pulls me into a hug. “No, you don’t. There’s only so much space inside any of us for grief. You’ve had more than your share lately. If you don’t let it out, you can’t make space for the happiness.”
I nod into his chest. There’s a tug on my pant leg followed by a low growl. Another growl, this time from Vale. His body tenses, and he pulls away. “What the hell is he doing here?”
Vale steps around me and strides to the back door. Even his steps sound angry. “What can we do for you?” I wince at the edge in his voice and the possessive accent on “we.”
“I don’t mean to intrude. I have something for Maya. From Hank. Well, from Hank’s daughter.” Simon couches the delivery in soothing tones, no doubt in response to a look from Vale that I’m not privy to.
I slip under Vale’s arm where he’s gripping the door, his knuckles at eye level to Simon. “Hi, Simon.”
“Hi. So, Hank’s daughter asked me to give this to you and said she hopes you’ll come to the funeral.” He hands me a package wrapped in brown shipping paper.
“Okay.” I take the package, hyperaware of Vale’s outstretched arm resting on my shoulder, and the distance between the tips of my fingers and Simon’s fingers as the package changes ownership.
“Okay.” Simon lets go and takes a step down, so he’s now looking up at us. Another step and he pivots to walk away. He hesitates, turns back, and adds, “The funeral is at four.”
He walks slowly, and I struggle with the urge to call him back or run after him.
“I’ll go with you.” Vale’s arm closes around my shoulders but feels possessive, not protective.
I duck backward, back into the kitchen. “No need.”
“I want to.”
I exhale, slow and measured, then turn to my husband. “I’d rather you don’t, actually.”
He flinches as though I’ve slapped him. And as quickly, his features harden. “Well.” He turns and takes Fred’s leash from the hook by the door. Without another word to me, man and dog depart.
I clutch the package to my chest. It’s a book of some sort, from the feel of it. I pour another cup of coffee and go to the front porch.
I peel the paper away, holding my breath as the last piece of tape breaks. Inside is a black leather-bound journal. Hank’s journal. Written in angled script, are notes from the early days of the merry-go-round.
Notes about what inspired him, the colors he chose, the animals he included, the paintings on the engine housing.
“And he told me he didn’t keep records,” I mutter. Although technically, he wasn’t keeping records. There’s nothing technical about the construction or design. No details about the paint used. Just his thoughts and feelings, things he saw on the beach, discussions with friends, dreams.
I flip through the book, looking for anything on my horse. On my grandmother.
She was here today, in my studio. The blue of his saddle pad will match her dress. The brown of her hair will be his mane.
I turn pages with shaky fingers.
One more day and the installation should be complete. She came to see us, wearing my favorite dress. Standing on the carousel next to her horse, she looked like an angel. My angel. And for a fleeting minute I almost believe we have a future together.
What a glorious grand opening. A big band in the ballroom, a tremendous crowd, and the only person who matters. What a dream to ride the carousel with my Meera, to watch her laugh, her hair waving in the wind. And her lips! I could die a happy man tonight.
My fingers stroke the page, trying to extract the happiness and love out of the long-dried ink.
I leaf through a few more pages until I find it.
I have only one regret in my life. That I never held my own daughter. It is a secret I will forever hold close to my heart, where it belongs. Our secret. Until we’re together again, Meera, this time forever.
The pages blur.
Tomorrow I leave Kent, my merry-go-round, my past. Annabelle and I will make a new life, one that’s ours, one without baggage and regrets. The life my sweet Annabelle deserves.
Today I made my last touch-ups to the carousel, to my—our—horse. One last gift.
For Meera. Forever.
Thirty-eight
I stay hidden, far enough that I could be mistaken as a visitor for anyone else.
The three musketeers huddle together. Joe has his arm around Dottie while Nick stands, head down, arms clasped tight behind his back. Barbie is there, her face drooping more than usual. I imagine her clipboard. No more ticks next to Hank’s name. A handful of people stand at the other side of the casket, their backs to me.
Close to the head is Simon and a woman who looks to be somewhere in age between me and my mom.
Simon looks up, notices me. His eyes scan my surroundings, then with the tilt of his head, he encourages me forward. I shake my head. I don’t want to go closer. I want to remember Hank alive, sitting in his chair, swaying to the sounds of a jazz trumpet. I want to remember him sitting on the bench in the warm afternoon sun, complaining about the magazines the nurses brought in, or the laps around the building they made him do. I want to remember the man who talked to me about mixing colors and smoothing out the hooves of wooden carousel animals. I want to remember the man who looked at me and saw his first love, and the man who looked at me and recognized his granddaughter.
The crowd begins to disperse. People walk to the casket then to Hank’s daughter. After a hug or handshake, they step to the side where an easel stands. It’s hard to see the details, but my heart tells me it’s the photograph that hung in his room at Tower Oaks. One by one they write something on the photograph, some taking longer than others, almost all wiping tears when they finish.
“Why are you standing back here?” Thomas’s voice reaches me a heartskip before he appears at my side.
“I wanted the distance.”
My mom appears on m
y other side.
I exhale, torn between relief and anger that they’re here. They didn’t open their hearts to Hank. They didn’t even acknowledge who he really was within our family.
“Are you okay?” Mom asks.
“I will be.” I know I will be. “Would any of us have been better off if these secrets hadn’t been hanging over us?”
“Maybe,” Mom answers. “But if not these, there would have been others. These secrets were spun out of love, out of wanting to do the right thing. Parents don’t always know best. Sometimes we screw up. But everything we do starts from love.”
I want her words to wrap around my jagged heart. I want the storm cloud of secrets to blow away.
Mom touches my arm and turns. I listen to the crunch of gravel, the car door. Thomas gives me a kiss on the cheek and follows my mom. Another car door closes.
Simon embraces Hank’s daughter and steps away. She walks to the coffin and places her hands on the top, then kisses the lid. Her right hand lifts, and I realize she’s just waved at me. She places the hand over her heart, her lips move, and she turns and walks away. A man holds open the back door of a town car that swallows her before I can react.
“Oh god, Hank.” The air leaves my lungs as I look at the plain wood coffin resting on rollers above an open rectangle in the ground. I’d been too numb at Grandma’s funeral and my baby’s funeral to process what was happening. Vale and Thomas had kept me as isolated as they could.
But here, now, there’s no one to protect me. Only me.
“Bye, Hank.”
Simon is leaning against my car, the frame from the easel at his feet. I hadn’t noticed him walking this way. I stop a few steps away and indicate the car behind him.
“Your bodyguard didn’t come with you.”
“I asked him not to.”
“Because of me?” He cocks an eyebrow in a way that at one time would have melted my insides.
