A Silver Fish

by Anthony Schneider

Issue 45,  June 15th

 

He kneeled at the edge of a tidepool. The water sparkled. He liked the shallow pools and barnacled-rocks, away from the swimmers and sunbathers. Here there were sea anemones, iridescent shells, darting fish.

He cupped his hands just beneath the surface and enclosed a tiny silver fish. When he lifted his hands, water dripped through his fingers and the fish’s opalescent body quivered gently in his palm. He felt it beating in his hand, pulsing against his skin. He rose, entranced by the creature in his palm, watching its little mouth flutter and the pale pink slits of its tiny gills.

Moving carefully, he picked his way back through the knot of rocks and tidepools. The fish was still in his hand as he clambered onto the sand and hurried back to his parents to show them his discovery. He’d heard people talking about shad, a silver fish.

Maybe that’s what it was. His father would know. But his father wasn’t there, only his mother and older sister, both standing, hands shielding their eyes from the sun. They were looking for something. And then he realized: they were looking for him.

I’m coming, he shouted, and ran towards them.

Look. He proffered the hand wrapped around the fish, but neither of them listened to him or noticed his outstretched arm. They both began talking at once.

 

Where’ve you been—Daddy’s sick—Your father—

His mother bent down to speak to him, lowering her voice and touching his shoulder. Your father is sick. Come, we have to leave.

What do you mean sick? The little fish fluttered in his hand.

Someone called an ambulance, his sister said. They’ve taken him to the hospital. Quickly kids.

He stood there for a moment. While his mother shoved towels and beach bats and sandy buckets into her big canvas bag. His big strong father, sick?

When he opened his fist, the fish was still. He rotated his hand and it slid silently onto the beach. A silver smudge, flat on the hot dry sand.

They took a taxi to the hospital, their mother in her sunflower wrap skirt, the boy and his sister with beach towels around their necks, struggling with beach chairs and their mother’s bag.

A doctor led their mother to the corner of the brightly lit room. He had a mostly bald head and round glasses, and he talked to their mother for a while. Then she appeared to punch herself in the mouth. She doubled over, righted herself, shaking her head violently. Then the doctor left, his shoes squeaking across the linoleum floor.

Their mother sat down and pulled the boy and his sister close.

Daddy had a heart attack. On the beach. They tried to make him better. But. They. Couldn’t.

He gazed into his mother’s wet eyes, and pictured his little fish, still as a leaf on the sand. He felt a hand touch his wrist; fingers sought out his hands.