I swam a lot, covered in millimeters of waterproof sunscreen. Mom and Dad stayed under a thatched umbrella and gave the bar waiter bigger tips every time he came back, which kept him coming. I was only allowed in the water up to my chest and that was fine because I could lean back and float there. I floated a lot.
I remember floating, closing my eyes against the baking Mexican sun and talking to the sea god. I was ten. I didn’t have a name for the sea god. It was just the sea god. I remember asking the sea god to help me draw better pictures. I remember promising the sea god that if he let me draw better pictures, then I would really do something in the world. I’d be famous. Like Picasso or Rembrandt. I didn’t know about women artists back then because in school you only learn about the men. If I knew better, I might have hoped to be Georgia O’Keeffe or Aleksandra Ekster.
I didn’t notice the fish until the second day. The first school surrounded me and if I stood as still as I could among the calm waves, they inched closer to me and brushed by my hands and I said, “Hello, fish,” and I imagined they said, “Hello, Sarah,” but fish don’t talk so that’s probably not what happened, but I wanted them to say hello, so I decided that’s what they were saying. I was the only one in the water. They were my fish.
Over the week, I saw twenty more schools of fish. Sometimes it was the same family as the first—a white angelfish sort of breed. After that it was little blue fish, some fatter yellow fish. Over by the rock jetty, there were bigger gray fish. Each time I saw new fish I did the same thing. I said, “Hello, fish,” and I decided they said, “Hello, Sarah.” Mom and Dad got drunker, but it was okay because the empties never accumulated. They always seemed to be drinking from that same first, perfect glass.
We went to a buffet restaurant at the hotel for dinner a lot. A few times Mom and Dad went to another restaurant at the resort, but Bruce and I ate buffet every night in Mexico. When we did all eat together, Mom, Dad, and I ate Mexican food but Bruce got pasta and a Caesar salad. Every night, that’s what Bruce ate.
I told them each night what I’d seen in the water and they seemed delighted that I was having a good time. Dad told me that when we got home, we’d look up the fish and find out what kind they were. On the second night Mom said that she was so proud of me for being independent and going out into the water by myself. “We waited years to go on a real vacation—until you were old enough to take care of yourself,” she said.
This was a compliment and I took it as one, but the comment made Bruce click his teeth and shake his head. The week went downhill from there.
On the last night, Bruce said, after my telling them about saying hello to my fish friends and about them saying hello back, “They aren’t your friends. All the people here see them.”
Mom and Dad told Bruce to shut up. I said, “Yeah. Shut up, Bruce.”
Bruce said, “Fish don’t like humans, Sarah. Not even you.”
“I think they like me,” I said.
“You’re delusional,” he said.
“She’s ten,” my mother said. “Can’t you just pretend to have a good time?”
“Why pretend? Aren’t we doing enough pretending as it is?”
That was when Dad’s pi?a colada good mood wore off. Last dinner in Mexico.
“Jesus Christ, son. We brought you here. We paid for the whole week. Why are you such a pain in the ass?”
Bruce got up from the table and went back to the room.
I had my last Mexican dessert—a three-cream cake that was so good it made me cry as I ate it. Dad couldn’t drink enough to get his good mood back. Mom said that she’d had a great vacation and thanked Dad ten times for it. They held hands right there on top of the table.
That was the night Bruce said what he said.
He said, “You can always come stay with me, no matter where I am.”
Art Museum
Ten-year-old Sarah has been here five times already. I remember her loving the suits of armor and the big Picasso—Three Musicians. Ten-year-old Sarah wanted to be an artist. Mom and Dad encouraged this. Now sixteen-year-old Sarah can’t understand why they’d encourage something so impossible.
I ask her, “You want to go in?”
She rolls her eyes like I’ve asked a stupid question and walks up the famous Rocky steps without talking to me. From behind, I can see me in her. The skinny matchstick legs. The no-hips build that makes it impossible for me to buy jeans that fit. When she gets to the top of the steps she waits for me. She says, “One day we’re going to be in this museum. One day, we’re going to be famous.”
I want to tell her to stop saying we. I want to tell her that presently we can’t even draw a single pear or our own fucking hand.