Last Chance

I hear the Wurlitzer before I see it. The tinny treble carries across the parking lot.

Seconds later, Ella’s tugging my hand. “Auntie Liz! Auntie Liz! Can we ride the carousel?”

She opens her green eyes wide, trying to influence me in the way only children can. It’s a superpower Ella uses far too often, and it's kryptonite on the receiving end. I hope she never grows out of it.

“Why don’t you go play on the swings? That play structure looks like a castle, see? Oh, and there’s a creek just over the bike path. We can throw rocks and splash around.” I wrack my brain for anything to distract her. What did I want to do at her age?

Ella crosses her arms, misdirecting the sequined bow on her t-shirt. “The carousel. Please.” She juts out her hip for effect.

“It’s no problem,” I told my brother this morning when he called. “I’d be happy to watch Ella for the afternoon. I’m the coolest Aunt she has.”

I heard his eye roll through the receiver. “You’re the only Aunt she has, Elizabeth. She wants to go to the regional park.”

“Sounds good.” I force my voice into the casual tone reserved for cool Aunts. “Anything for my namesake niece," I said, as if saying it enough would make it true. There’s no way she’d want anything to do with the decaying carousel—an antique even when my brother and I used to play at the park.

But I’m here, eating my words when I tell Ella: “Okay, let’s get you a ticket.”

We stand in line. Ella chatters excitedly while the mirrors lining the carousel’s canopy reflect a very different me from the last time I stood here.

I feel the ghost of a flowery dress's scratchy tulle against my legs. My mother scolded me to pull up my ruffled socks, perpetually slinking toward my white patent-leather shoes. Footwear unsuitable for the sandbox or the creek.

 I smile at my niece to shake off the sensation. She’s sensibly attired for a day of play: purple bike shorts and high-top sneakers. I couldn’t tell you why they used to dress little girls like dolls for a day at the park.

We inch toward the ticket booth. “You sure you don’t want to dig in the sand?” I’ll be damned if my niece doesn’t get to be her glorious, messy self.

“Later, Auntie Liz. I wanna ride Golden Gallop.” She points to a noticeboard above the stanchions.

The portraits of forty-five horses are on display, each with a short description bearing their name and the donor sponsoring their refurbishment. I don’t remember their names, but it's a solid business model.

It’s our turn at the counter. “One child ticket, please.” I fumble for a few dollar bills.

“Children under ten must be accompanied by an adult,” the teen employee drones.

“How old are you?” I ask Ella with a grand wink.

“Seven,” she says proudly, missing the ruse entirely. I need to teach her to commit to the bit.

I hand over five more dollars and collect two tickets. 

“Which one are you going to ride, Auntie Liz?”

“I’m going to sit there and watch you. Get some pictures for your Dad.” I point to the bench in the corner, where my parents used to wait poised with their camera. In those days, parental supervision was more laissez-faire. 

“You should ride Phoenix Flame,” she says.

Phoenix Flame’s fiery mane whirls past in a blur of red and white. I take a slow inhale through my mouth to minimize the rank stench of oil and quell the looming nausea. Blessedly, a shrill bell rings and the ride slows to a stop. The crush of parents and their charges swell behind us, shoving. I lurch toward the entry gate. What are they feeding these kids? Is there protein in funnel cake?

The another teenage park employee collects our tickets. I shuffle across the aisle toward the exit but Ella keeps a firm grip on my sleeve.

“Hurry, Auntie Liz! We gotta be fast or somebody else will get Golden Gallop!”

“All ticketed passengers must ride,” the teenager says, dropping the pin on the exit gate.

A boy around Ella’s age wearing a neon Minecraft t-shirt makes a move toward the pony with the glittering gold saddle. Against my better judgement, I fireman’s carry Ella across the platform and perch her atop her carousel horse. The boy stops in his tracks, dumbfounded, then shrugs and mounts the pony next to her.

Any triumph I feel at besting this third-grader fades when the attendant approaches.

“All ticketed passengers must ride,” he reminds me more forcefully.

I look around for the nearest available steed. There’s a black one, two rows ahead of Ella. Carved wood is visible under the paint chipping behind its ears. Clearly, this one hasn’t been sponsored for refurbishment. I check the saddle for its name. Last Chance.

The bell rings and I swing my leg over.

My stomach contracts as I secure the thin leather belt around my waist. Instinctively, I turn to the bench and hold still, balancing phantom pigtails beribboned with barrettes thirty years later.

Somewhere in the bowels of my parents’ house, there’s a photo album filled with pictures of me on this carousel. At first glance, I look like a doll on her painted horse. That’s all anyone saw, anyway. No one noticed my ashen face, my forced smile. But I kept riding with each revolution, held the pose for the photo year after year. That’s what they wanted. And I’ll ride again for my niece, if that’s what she wants.

Ella whoops as Golden Gallop rises and falls. I look behind me, defying motion sickness.

There’s bliss in her smile and her every fiber, glowing under the multi-colored bulbs. Her joy is kinetic; moved by the carousel’s mechanics and her own volition— rattling the reins, swinging her sneakered feet, her hair blowing loose from her ponytail.

Thickness congeals in my throat, but it’s not my stomach contents making their appearance. It’s envy at a seven-year-old kid; a child I adore.

Nausea would be less petty.

I turn forward. Nobody is watching me. Not even Ella, enraptured by Golden Gallop. The centrifugal force pushes moisture from the corners of my eyes. Last Chance’s pommel digs into my hip and I sit straighter. I breathe deeply under the canopy for the first time. The smell of oil is still there, but so is the smell of freshly cut grass and the eucalyptus trees lining the creek. The Wurlitzer plays an unlikely cover of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" and I fight the urge to sing along.

We turn, tracing the past and present.

That’s the thing about Last Chances. They have a way of coming around again.