There’s something peaceful about the tunnel acoustics of a car when the engine’s turned off. It’s what I imagine we hear before we die. Or perhaps it’s those same acoustics capped by what I can only describe as the swift suction of a penny being vacuumed. Yes, that’s it. That’s the sound.
Anyway, my father insisted we all—including me is what he meant—try to catch one fish. It didn’t matter how small. Few things bring him joy the way cooking fish does. He’ll say it’s because he’s Bengali, but I know it’s also because he derives great pleasure from what demands method. Where there is a system and where he can pride himself in not just using but owning the right tools: the right knife with a curved blade, the right pan, the exact spices, enough lemon. Even the act of eating fish requires care: Look out for the bones, he’ll warn between bites.
While I complained, Mark remained cheery, because what’s there to do with a family in a mood—a family that’s not yours. He must have made a joke, because I remember letting slip the slightest grin that betrayed the frown I was so focused on wearing. Normally, I was fairly committed to my tantrums. I could stare down a brick wall. I must have thought Mark was handsome.
Despite wanting to leave, I grabbed my fishing rod and stood on a bed of raised rocks and began to count, because what else was there to do? I counted seagulls flying. Children in the distance, older than me. I counted the teeth in my mouth with my tongue. I counted how many days until Christmas. Until my birthday. And how old I would be in the year 2000. I counted down from one hundred and wondered about my best friend, Ali. She was probably not fishing, but instead eating sugary cereal and watching a movie with her German shepherd, Pêche. Or maybe then it was Hobo. Pêche came after Hobo. Ali’s the friend whose phone number, parents’ names—Andrew and Patricia—her pets’ names, street address, color of her second-grade backpack, and Halloween costumes are all foundational. She was my first Diana Barry, even though as a little girl, oddly enough, I connected to Matthew Cuthbert more so than Anne.
As I stood on the rocks wishing I was elsewhere, imagining what fourteen would feel like in the year 2000, I felt a yank! Isn’t that how it goes? When you’ve become a brat and cursed the day’s activity, when you’re bored and cold, and your boots are too big, that’s when you feel the most violent yank! All of a sudden my line began to shake. The rod bowed and lowered in what looked like pain. I’d never felt tension so strong before. It was as though I’d hooked a magnet the size of a baby elephant. Or woken up a monster. I must have screamed, because Mark came running and took over.
I felt special. I stood back and watched as he wrestled with the line, leaning back and keeping the slack out. This went on for some time, and now my father had joined us. My brother too. I remember Mark focusing hard, talking to himself and to us, and enjoying the fish’s fight. Water splashed; I saw a tail. Some wriggle. I thought about where I’d look if Mark lost the fish—probably the sky. Maybe my boots. I still don’t know where to look.
Abruptly, as if he’d been pretending the whole time, Mark quietly reeled the fish in with plain ease. Like it was nothing at all. Thrilled, the four of us agreed to stay out longer. But first, Mark took a picture of my brother and me holding our catch. It was gooey and slippery and, to my surprise, very, very heavy. I smiled my lunatic smile, and a few months later, that same picture ended up in the pages of a Canadian fishing magazine.
To preserve the fish for dinner, we found a quiet area off to the side of the river and built a miniature fort with rocks surrounding a pool of water. A custom basin. In my memory, the rocks are bluish. Like if gray had a cold. My father expressed some concern because my lips had turned purple. But I was too focused on building a sturdy wall and playing too with these plastic, wormy baits that flopped and bobbed in colors like neon pink, yellow, pylon-orange. One worm was transparent and speckled with glitter. In a few years I’d wear a retainer with a similar coat of glitter that I’d eventually lose on a soccer field. My mother would make me walk the length of the field back and forth, but we’d never find it.
Once the fort was safely built, Mark gently slid the fish inside its temporary home. “Good catch,” he said. “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”
We left the fish in its basin, walked away, grabbed our poles, and hooked new bait. For the rest of the day, whatever we caught was to be set free.
A couple hours later, we returned to the tiny stronghold we had built. It took us a minute to find it, but when we did, the fish was gone. Someone had stolen it. “What?” my father said. “Impossible.”
I was devastated. Mark wondered if we’d perhaps walked to the wrong spot. My brother didn’t seem bothered in the least. The wind picked up as it does when no one is in possession of an appropriate response. It was time to pack up and head home.
As we hiked back to where our car was parked, I put my hand in the vest’s side pocket and accidentally pricked my finger on a lure’s hook. There was no blood, though it hurt enough for there to be blood. I turned around and arched my neck to mark the spot where we’d left the fish. Even from far I could see our fort, and just beyond that, in the distance, I noticed a couple wearing matching turquoise windbreakers. They seemed nice enough—I mean, really, there’s no telling. I was seven and missing my two front teeth, and slightly suspicious of the world, especially now. But something about those matching turquoise windbreakers. They provoked me, and if anything, they’ve stayed with me. No billowing, no sag. Those turquoise windbreakers fit perfect. They ticked me off. They tipped me off, and in that second, I decided: It was them.
5
The Girl
THE girl you want does not exist. Despite agreeing to split two entrées and seeming, in your eyes, charmingly frazzled by the menu’s options, her favorite time of day is not dinner with you. Her favorite time of day is when the waiter starts coming around with his tray of votive candles.
She picked this place for its big booths because they make her feel like she’s sinking into a giant baseball mitt. Sinking into a hug. She only accepts hugs from furniture. From the throw cushion she places on her stomach and holds tight, like a soft fender for her gut. From the way her mother doesn’t look up from the paper, doesn’t say Good morning, but instead, “I thought I’d let you sleep in.”
She accepts hugs too from the weight of a dentist’s X-ray apron. From a rack of checked coats like a curtain she can fold herself into. From going to the movies alone in the day. From resting her face against cold marble surfaces. From listening to her dog sigh. From Stevie Wonder singing low, That I’ll be loving you always. From stepping into a patch of sun and closing her eyes.