Beneath the Waves

Prologue

Secondhand Smoke by Kelsea Ballerini

There’s a carousel in Boston Common that I’ve been coming to since I was a child. Every Saturday morning when I was little, my father would bring me there. He’d watch me hop on and pick the same horse every time. She was hand carved and had a white mane and blue eyes with a golden saddle. Inspired by the mother in The Aristocats , I named her Duchess. In my head, I used to play this little game of make believe where I would ride my horse on a mission of heroism. I always lived in these daydreams as a child. I’d create scenarios in my head and make my home within them.

The first time we came, I wasn’t old enough to ride alone yet, so he would hop on with me. He’d pick the horse next to mine and we would laugh together as our horses ran up and down on a joint mission to save the kingdom. We came every Saturday, right after breakfast, while dew still kissed the grass. When I was four, I was old enough to ride alone. Dad would pay for three rides and send me on my way while he waited on a bench, the same one every weekend. He’d sit there, reading the newspaper, glancing up every so often. It was our special time together, just the two of us.

Then, one weekend, everything changed. I remember it was April. The mild spring air was chilly. I whizzed around in circles, pretending my horse was outrunning a dragon. I didn't completely lose myself in the daydream. I remember my father’s face every time the carousel rotated past him. He was watching me, making sure his kid still had ten fingers and ten toes, but in his eyes was a far off look. Like he was there, but not really there. He didn’t look happy, or even sad. Just empty. I knew something was going on, even at such a young and innocent age. He was silent the entire walk to the park. It felt like he needed to tell me something, but couldn’t figure out how.

When I got off the carousel, I ran over to the bench to get money for a few more rides.

“No, three rides are enough. Sit down, sweet pea. We need to talk,” he said as he gently patted the spot next to him on the bench.

I climbed on to the bench next to him, my little legs in small yellow Wellington boots dangling off the seat.

Dad looked at me and took a deep breath. His eyes that moments ago seemed somewhere else, now seem locked in and serious. “Alice, you know I love you very much. That will never change, honey. But it’s just going to be the two of us from now on, okay?”

I didn’t understand. “Mommy?”

He sighed and looked around. As a child, I didn’t know why. But now I realize it was probably nearly impossible to explain to me why she left. He didn’t fully understand it himself. He glanced wistfully over at the carousel I was just riding. I was mindlessly happy, and didn't realize my life was about to change. His face filled with guilt, as if he realized he was about to shatter the glass dome around my perfect world. “Well, you know how some people love the carousel and can ride it dozens of times in a row and not get dizzy? And other people can’t ride it at all without getting sick?”

I nodded.

“Well… Mommy doesn’t like the carousel like you and I do. Mommy gets dizzy with the spinning. She had to get off the carousel, honey.”

At four years old, I couldn’t comprehend what he was trying to explain to me. I cried a little and then just accepted it, as children do. I didn’t realize that “from now on” didn’t mean till dinner time, it meant forever.

We continued to come to the park, and to the carousel, every Saturday morning after that. It was our little tradition, but it became less magical, less innocent. He would pay for three rides and sit on the bench with his newspaper or a case file. I would play and then we would sit together for a while. That lasted my entire childhood and adolescence. As I grew up, we still came to the park, and to our bench, but I didn’t ride the carousel anymore. Sometimes we’d talk about sports, or politics, or how I was doing in school. But never, ever, about her .

When I was in college and home for school breaks, we picked the tradition back up. We would talk about my courses and professors. He would read my papers and offer his opinions or praise. He’d show me plans for his latest home renovation projects. Most of our outings consisted of the routine of everyday conversation—not boring, but comfortable. We kept our conversations at a surface level, avoiding anything deep or emotional. As I was in my master’s program, he sat me down on the bench and told me he was sick. I felt like a child again, unable to fully comprehend what he meant. I kept asking if it was a cold. Something easy that I could fix. I think I always knew what he meant, but I needed him to say the word. The big one. Cancer.

That’s impossible. He’s too young. Has time truly been this harsh on him? Hasn’t he been through enough? Haven’t we both?

I remember feeling, once again, like I’d been blindsided. I thought back to that first time, many years ago, and how my legs swung off the bench as he talked. This time my legs touched the ground, and yet I felt no more grown up or prepared.

At that point, I realized that our tradition, our happy little habit of coming to the park for amusement, was actually something quite different. Mixed amongst the pleasant outings we shared here were moments of loss and pain. He would use my place of joy and escape to deliver the worst news to me throughout my life. I believe he thought he was softening the blow, or perhaps he didn’t even realize he was doing it at all. But internally, it meant that I couldn’t trust anything, even a good thing. Maybe especially a good thing. Something will always pull the rug out from underneath me.

Life is a lot like a carousel. Round and round we go, circling to nowhere in particular. The horses go up and down, like the way life moves through peaks and valleys. We can rise to the top, but something will certainly always bring you back down.

There’s no way to get off. No matter what, the world keeps moving.

We love people; we lose people, but the carousel continues to turn. It never stops.