We're talking about boats. About how they float and what happens when they sink, what if they could fit down the drain and disappear. Like what happened to Slippy, our son says with a grave nod. Slippy the goldfish, Rest in Peace. Alistair sees the world as having grave consequences, for fish, for boats.
I tell him that the plastic boats in our tub are safe and cannot slide down the drain or turn belly side up as he sleeps. What about boats in the ocean? He asks, and fishes too?
Through the wall, I hear you clicking through channels and I don't know what to tell our son about watery graves or how fish carcasses smell when they wash up on shore.
Don't worry about it baby, is the best I can do.
He's four and from his throne of bubbles he raises his brow at me, and I know that he knows I'm full of it.
We eat dinner after Alistair goes to bed. On folding tray tables, I set our places with purple fiesta ware and paper napkins and then wait for our Chinese food to arrive.
I know we shouldn't be ordering take out, that we're on a budget, but it's our anniversary, I tell you. You haven't combed your hair today, but I kiss your cheek and tell you that you're handsome when I stand to answer the doorbell.
We eat lo mien and Kung Pow Chicken and I throw our fortunes away with packets of duck sauce and plastic utensils.
There were things left behind that I would like to have – the soft cardigan I wore in front of the fire, the leather journal I left on the nightstand or the paperback I wasn't finished reading, the ribbon trimmed blanket from the back bedroom.
But I won't go without you, and most days you won't even shower or put forth the pretense of effort.
We haven't been back there since Alistair was born. I sometimes wonder if it even still exists or if it has been overrun by mold or dust or if seagulls have broken in and made it their home. It's hard to imagine that it could still be there, without us to open the door and give it purpose.
I'm thinking of getting Alistair a new fish, I tell you in the morning. Alistair grins from above his bowl of Cheerio's, milk dribbling down his chin. I know you don't care one way or the other, but it makes me feel normal to talk to you like you might.
And then you surprise me with a nod.
As I load our coffee cups into the dishwasher, you ask Alistair what type of fish he'd like to get and I have to face the cabinets for a minute so that our son won't see me starting to cry.
You proposed to me at the beach, down by the rocks. At a card table covered in a red and white checkered cloth, we drank champagne from plastic cups and watched the tide pull away. We walked down to the wet sand and plucked shells from their watery burials. I brought them back to the cottage with us and placed them on the sill above the sink.
At the pet store, you linger behind Alistair and I. The wall of fish tanks is as tall as the ceiling. Our reflections wobble on the glass and I reach back to hold your hand. I want you to know that you are here, with us, standing in a mall pet shop beneath florescent lights.
He falls in love with an iridescent Beta and we bring it home in a clear plastic bag.
I remember waving to you both from the screen door. She was wearing jelly sandals that had turned brown from the sand and a bathing suit the color of mango. After nearly five years, the memory of her turning to smile and wave is starting to fade and some days I wonder if she ever looked back at all.
You're the one who last held her hand, and I know that the memory of her palm sliding away from yours is one you can't escape. Though at the time, it was only a sand castle, and she was only letting go of you to reach for her pail.
You've told me about the man, down by the rocks where you sat and watched her fill her pail with wet sand. You told me about his skinny tattooed arms and that white t-shirt with the giant parrot head on it. The shirt they found her wearing three days later when they dragged her body from the seaweed. Her name was Madelyn and she had just turned five.
I kiss our sons forehead. He has hair the color of wheat and a creamy complexion. His eyes are hazel and he looks nothing like the strawberry blonde sister he doesn't even know he had.
It was late July and we had just learned that I was expecting him, when it happened.
At three in the morning, as I lay awake beside your still body, I have to stop myself from wondering, what if I hadn't been pregnant? What if I had felt up for the walk down to the rocks with you? Could I have saved her? Could I have saved any of us?
You've told me that the man in the parrot shirt offered you a beer. The scratchy quality of his voice, the black design of thorns twisting over his forearm, his calloused hand, his stubby nails, chewed to the quick. These are the last things you remember and your brain loops back to them, like a skipping record.
I kiss Alistair again on the forehead and he asks for a song to fall asleep. I can't think of a lullaby, so we sing the ABC's over and over. I stay until even after he has fallen asleep and it's only my voice humming in the dark.
Today was a good day, I tell you after I do our dinner dishes.
You're staring at the fish bowl and I bend down to see your eyes through the glass. I see you. You see me. We are disproportionate and wavering – and in the slippery flash of a fish tail you're drawn away again. But for that small moment, we were together in the wobbling space between. My knees crack as I stand back upright.
Be careful with this one, I say and touch your shoulder as I go.
About the author:
Melanie Haney holds her MFA from Lesley University. She has been the winner of the Family Circle Magazine Fiction Award and the Ann Arbor Book Festival Short Story Competition. She has been nominated for a pushcart prize and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Family Circle Magazine, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Blue Earth Review, Eureka Literary Magazine, Relief Journal, The Summerset Review, Quality Fiction, JMWW, elimae and other venues. Melanie lives in Southern NH with her husband and three children under the age of five. She writes to maintain her sanity. Her first collection of stories, The Simplest of Acts is available on Amazon. http://melaniehaney.blogspot.com
© 2009 Word Riot
