Apart From Love (33 page)

I glance at dad and somehow, he understands the question before it is asked; he smiles at me saying, Tomorrow, son. I will get them tomorrow. It is no good adding fish to the tank the same day you fill it with water. And I look away thinking, How did he do that? How did he get me? Did it happen because I let him?
 

And in a snap, my mind goes back to that night, the night which I am trying to stop remembering, when grandma lost her balance. And I wonder: when dad found me there, holding up her head, was he surprised? Was he curious to know how I appeared, at that very instant, by her side, just as she tumbled over?
 

Since then, he has never asked me about it, not even once.
 

Did he figure it out? Does he know I was waiting there, listening, just about to rush in and save mom, save her from something, perhaps even from him? Does he know that I know that he knows?
 

I wonder: can I make myself transparent, like those fish? And on the flip side, can I make myself obscure, so that no one—not even dad—can see through me?
 

That evening he helps me layer the sand, set the rocks and fill the tank with water. I turn on the fluorescent fixture at the top of the aquarium, and leave it turned on, so it glows through the night; and I imagine live plants rising from the gravel, and lots of fish, fish flicking their tail, shooting in and out of their hiding places between the silvery corals.

The call from the hospital comes in after midnight, and I know that the next day I will see grandma again, this time for the last, really last time. A time comes when even a giant crumbles.
 

I lay there in bed feeling cheated, somehow; cheated by myself, mostly, because I never gave her a chance to hug me, never took the risk to come in, come closer and say, Goodbye, grandma. And now all I can remember about her is that moment, from a distance, just before the door clicked shut. I go back to that place and I see her papery lips, and I know she is asking, That is how you want him to remember me?

Back home after the funeral I cannot find a moment alone. The place is buzzing with neighbors and distant relatives, including my three aunts, each of whom has eyebrows painted in, in place of the real ones. At first they talk in low voices, afraid, perhaps, that grandma might hear what they say, or come out to scold them for their manners. They bend over me and pinch my cheeks so hard that instantly, I forget all about the pain in my foot inside the bandages.
 

So I am forced to hide from attention. I stand there, very quietly, in the corner behind the tank, and feed the new fish, which dad got for me earlier that morning; just a smidgen between the fingers, like he told me... And then maybe one more smidgen, or two, because I hate learning lessons, and because I am bored and lonely here, in this crowd, and also because of the fish, because they look so hungry for these little specks. You can see them flocking up in a big haste, competing to reach the surface.
 

Then I go into grandma’s room. It does not smell like her anymore. The bedspread is fresh, and tightly stretched. There is not a dent in the pillow.
 

The cup is still there—but her teeth have vanished; they are nowhere in sight. I try to imagine that I can hear them clattering. Then I peek into the closet.

It is tightly packed with her dresses, all of which been altered around the shoulders and back, to fit grandma. Most of them are brown. One dress has muddy, vertical patterns, just like the fish, the Kuhli Loaches. By the end of the evening all the dresses would be whisked away, right off the hangers; and my aunts—arms heavily loaded—would find it cumbersome to reach my cheeks again.
 

I am not stupid; I know that grandma would not need her dresses, ever again. She is not coming back, and so, there is no reason to keep them. Still, I feel that her things are hers—at least for a little while longer—and what do my aunts need with her stuff? Can’t they wait? She was buried only a few hours ago, and her dresses are not going anywhere; they are not even the right size for them, and besides, it would be impossible to undo what was done, I mean, that alteration for the hump in the back.

That night, all is still. There is no crying, no moaning anywhere.
 

I get up and pace back and forth, hobbling between my room and the hall, which is lit by the reflections from the aquarium. I draw closer. A Black Neon comes toward me, turns tail, comes back aiming, it seems, directly at me. I focus at it. Magnified by the water, it is tapping, tapping into the glass until my eyes cross over.
 

Meanwhile in the back, suspended under the surface like a ghost, is another fish. I forget what it is called. It is white. It has red eyes. And right now, you can tell it is not moving.
 

I watch it for a while, and the longer I watch it, the more I realize that—quite strangely—the body is starting to tilt. By now it is nearly on its side; and the tail, which is so fine, so tender that it looks like it is made out of pure light, responds to little ripples coming from the other fish—but makes no motions of its own.
 

Before I know it my hand cuts into the water; it comes out dripping, with the fish lying there, helpless, between my fingers.
 

It seems to be gulping for air. Maybe it forgot how to breathe. I know I can fix it. First I rub the mouth, delicately, with my finger. Then I try to massage the entire body. I am doing my best, my very best to be gentle—but in the end, some scales tear off the body, and a tiny fin flakes away.
 

At this point, I must do something, and fast. Just like dad: he did what he could for grandma, and blew his breath into her; and his breath was magical, because it lasted in her, somehow, for the next two weeks. I can do better than that for this little body, even with a few scales or a fin missing. So, I take a deep breath, put my lips to the fish—but then the smell, the touch... It makes me pause for a minute.
 

Still, I cannot give up: I must be brave, just like dad—or else, the spell may be broken. So again I gasp, and with frantic hope, I give a full-blown puff. The red eyes seem to be looking at me, and the tail is hanging over my finger, and it looks limp, and a bit crumpled.
 

I cannot allow myself to weep. No, not now. So I wipe the corner of my eye. Now if you watch closely, right here, you can see that the tail is still crinkling. I gasp, and blow again. I blow and blow, and with a last-gasp effort I go on blowing until all is lost, until I don’t care anymore, I mean it, I don’t care but the tears, the tears come, they are starting to flow, and there is nothing, nothing more I can do—
 

Then I feel mom, the smell of her skin. Here she is, wrapping her arms around mine. Softly, gently, she releases the fish, and takes me to their bed, and dad says nothing but makes room for me, and I curl myself in the dent between them, and it feels so warm here and so sweet that at last, I can lose myself, and I cry myself to sleep.
 

Lighter and faster than anything here I come, soaring again through the air as if there is no gravity. From time to time you can see a school of fish flying dreamily overhead, rising to reach the little specks up there at the surface. Something with muddy, vertical marks comes ruffling towards me in the stream of things. At first I cannot tell what it is.
 

It scrambles over my foot, spreading fine, transparent ripples all around me. And it is at the very last moment—a heartbeat before it flutters away—that I can see it was nothing, only an empty dress.

As Told by Anita

S
ince the bleeding began, I’ve been missing my ma more and more. If she was here I could ask her, like, How come I feel so alone. How come I can see, all of a sudden I can now see how my youth is wasting away in this place. Like, I have no air, I’m wilting here. And Lenny, he don’t even pay no attention, ‘cause he’s back to his usual thing, which is: comb his thinning, gray hair—sleek it back, real slow and careful—and then work all day, write all night, either out or away.
 

Me, I thought getting married was meant to change things—but then, if things are changing it’s not for the better.
 

It’s funny how now—when she’s out of my reach forever—I feel so close, so terribly close to her. At least now, ma don’t push me back no more. She can’t say, like, Enough, girl! Snap out of it! And she don’t get in the way, I mean, in the way of me doing what I’ve been wishing for so long I could do, which is just cling, cling real close to her. I so miss the smell of her face: a mix of sweat, cheap eau de cologne and cigarette smoke. I try to dream up that smell, which gags me, and stings my eyes, and brings me close to tears.
 

If she was here I could ask her, like, when did she have the hunch, the first clear hunch that pa was gonna leave us, and how long after that did it happen.
 

At this point I don’t know how much longer I can go on relying on Lenny, ‘cause even when he’s here, even when he fixes his eyes on me, there’s something in them lately, something hard, even furious, which I swear, I don’t really get.
 

Last night I was so worried—worried to the point of getting mad—because for some reason, Lenny didn’t come home at all, even though I got all ready for him, all prettied up with my little black dress, which for the first time I had trouble zipping up, ‘cause my belly had just started to grow, and to get rounder than it used to be.

He wasn’t there—but to me, it felt like he could watch me through them walls. I felt choked. I even cussed him in my heart. I told myself it was just a dumb, crazy feeling, and to stop fighting for a breath. Still, it felt like Lenny could spot, somehow, the sudden blush that—in spite of myself—started flaming on my skin, the moment I passed by kitchen and laid eyes on his son.
 

In a blink, the air felt steaming hot all around me.
 

This was something new to me, ‘cause up to this moment I didn’t exactly care for Ben—even though from this angle, the slant of his shoulders looked just the same as his pa’s. Suddenly my heart went pit-a-pat, which—I swear—didn’t happen never before. If my husband was here tonight, if he hadn’t left me, it won’t have happened now. No matter how much I tried to cool it, here I was, blushing, on account of the fact that I’ve just blushed.
 

And Ben, he was leaning back, lost in his dreams in the corner. His pale face and his mussed up hair fell just outside the light, the dim, fuzzy light which had no border, no clear border anywhere on the kitchen table, ‘cause there wasn’t no lampshade over the bulb, on account of the fact it had been broken and removed, like, ages ago, and never replaced.
 

I bet you would have me turn away, which was the right thing to do—but it was already too late, so I didn’t. Anyway, I could already tell that Ben could tell, by the swish of my hair, that there I was, just about to cross the threshold. His nostrils flared up, like, to breathe in the scent, the faint scent of my shampoo, mingled with a dab of perfume.
 

I could’ve walked past that door—but then, this I knew: whatever happened, in your eyes it would always be my fault. The boy wants me. He wants me real bad, and for that, I pity him. He would soon kill himself if he can’t have me—but any which way, you would blame it on me. In your eyes, the boy can’t be nothing else than naive. So of course, it must’ve been me, me who seduced him.
 

You would call me a bad girl—so then, why shouldn’t I be?
 

For ten years I tried, as best I could, to be squeaky clean. It’s too damn hard, and you don’t never trust me anyway. So instead I could really go wild, and take my revenge on my husband, by giving him a reason—a
real
reason this time—to be jealous, so he don’t need to go searching for one.
 

I beg you, Lenny, I whispered. Come back to me, or else... From this point on, things won’t be the same, never again. I swear, I’m gonna do something bad, gonna hurt you, dear, so you won’t never leave me like this, without even saying one word.
 

After a while I dried my eyes. Hell, what’s the point praying, or hoping, or threatening, when anyhow, you ain’t even here to listen.