My companions are my rainbowfish. Their name suits them, not because of their vivid colors, not because of the way the light reflects on their scales when it refracts through the glass, but because of the color they add to my life. I adopted them six months ago, the day I moved in with my dad. I didn’t know until then that I could grieve the existence of one parent while grieving the absence of the other. I’m still grieving.
“Dad,” I begin one Sunday afternoon, as he types away on his laptop, “Did you sign the biology field trip form?”
He lets out a sigh. “Can’t you see I’m busy right now?”
Guilt washes over me, but I hesitantly press on, “I know, but my teacher says a lot of students get internships from this field trip. It could help me get my foot in the door.”
“Why is everything always about you?” he asks, the angry words coated in a calm timbre, “Can you not consider others every now and then? Besides, why bother going? You get your intelligence from your mother’s side of the family, and I wouldn’t want you embarrassing yourself.”
“Mom was smart,” I mumble. He ignores me. I know better than to ask again.
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Next Thursday evening, I’m working on homework when my dad enters the living room, a smile plastered on his face.
“I have a surprise for you,” he announces.
My heart is torn between excitement and apprehension. “What?” I ask.
“I ordered your favorite pizza,” he states.
Foolishly, I still sometimes get my hopes up that these surprises mean he’s starting to care about me. But less than a minute after the pizza arrives, the doorbell rings. Soon the house is brimming with his friends he knows I don’t feel comfortable with. The pizza is gone in seconds. They talk and laugh loudly.
“I wonder if they know who he really is,” I remark to my fish.
One of the smallest ones stops in front of the glass and opens and shuts his mouth. He doesn’t know either.
The next Monday I come home from school to find my dad standing in the foyer, arms crossed. “You were supposed to fill up the gas and get my car washed,” he accuses, his eyes livid, chinks in his even-tempered façade.
My gut turns with a dull ache of guilt as I rack my brain to find the conversation where I agreed to this. “You never said I needed to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” he asserts. Is my memory broken? “I had to deal with it and got to work late today. Now my colleagues think I’m a slacker.”
The guilt expands, consumes me. “I’m sorry,” I choke out, suddenly on the verge of breaking down.
He leaves me without another word.
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“Why weren’t you in school yesterday?” a classmate asks in the cafeteria. I think we were friends once when Mom was living and I lived with her.
“I had a rough Monday with my dad,” I answer. “I went swimming in the river. It numbs the pain.”
Their face takes on a concerned expression. “Oh.”
“Does he hurt you?” another classmate chimes in with a hushed tone.
“Not physically,” I admit reluctantly.
“Oh, it could be worse,” they note, the pity gone from their voice, “My mom had a friend whose dad hit them and their siblings so much, they would have bruises for days.” I look away, stay silent. This is not the first time my invisible pain is made inferior to a physical one. Why do people think my scars don’t run as deep? Are they right?
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Two weeks later, I wait at school for my dad to pick me up. The car I usually drive is at the mechanic. It is unusually chilly for March, and I can’t keep my teeth from chattering. Two hours elapse before his silver SUV rolls into the parking lot.
My relief is quickly replaced with irritation as I march to the car and throw the passenger door open. “I’ve been here for two hours.”
“You know I have work,” he replies as he turns onto the main road.
“But you knew I was waiting for you,” I remind him. “I can’t even feel my feet anymore.”
“I had work” is his only reply.
My heart feels like it’s being suffocated. “Why do you care about work more than me? Mom would never do this. She actually loved me. I don’t know why I call you ‘Dad.’ You don’t act like a dad is supposed to.”
“That’s hurtful,” he states, tears suddenly in his eyes.
Shame pricks at my heart. “I’m…sorry,” I say.
He goes quiet, and so do I. If I’m the one apologizing, why do I feel hurt?
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Soon it is spring break, and I’m packing to go to my grandma’s house. Our relationship is even more distant than my dad’s and mine. But at least I get a change of scene. “I’m going away for a week,” I inform my fish in a soft voice. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.”
I raise my voice. “Dad, you promise you’ll take care of them?”
“They’ll be fine. Your grandma is waiting.” And somehow I believe him.
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Seven days later, I fly through the front door, anxious to greet my companions. A choked gasp escapes my lips when I approach the fish tank. My fish are hovering at the top of the tank. “No!” I cry, tears immediately streaming down my face, and I press my hands against the cool glass. Not a single fish is alive. “Dad, how could you?” I call.
His placid face appears in the reflection of the tank. “Oh, I guess I forgot to feed them.” I watch as my own reflection shifts from distraught to furious, my eyes ablaze. “You ‘forgot’?!” I accuse his reflection.
“Why are you making such a big deal of this?” He remarks coolly, but I can feel his simmering anger, “They were just fish.”
The glass becomes warm as anger courses through my veins. “They were my fish! They were living beings!”
“Then you should have taken better care of them,” he states with a cold tone and turns to leave. My anger diffuses. I am left speechless. As dead as the fish I once called my friends.
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I forget what day it is. Maybe Sunday. It could be Wednesday. I don’t remember when I last attended school. I called in sick some number of days ago. Maybe the school has called. But they don’t really care about me. Maybe classmates have messaged me. But they don’t understand. Every day I go to the living room and watch my empty fish tank. There is no living here anymore.
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My dad comes back from work late one day.
“Why isn’t the main floor clean?” he asks. “You know we have guests coming.” I stare at him with empty eyes. I don’t know anymore if I should remember the things he says I should remember. He starts to make his way upstairs.
“Better hurry, you only have an hour before they arrive.”
I don’t care about the guests. I don’t care about anything. I rise from the couch. Take one long look at the abandoned tank. And leave the living room.
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I don’t remember getting into my dad’s car. Somehow, I’m on the road. Driving toward Mom’s home, my home. I arrive at the street, pull over, get out. Expect to be greeted by the sight of the old, canary-toned ranch. But it’s gone. Replaced by a construction company’s dull, blue banner. Our evergreen has been chopped down. Algae overtakes the pond we built. Nothing is the same. A haziness creeps into the edges of my vision. I fall to the sidewalk, breathless. Dizzy. The tension in my chest feels like a looming sob. But I’m too numb to cry.
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I’m driving back to my dad’s house. My body screams to stay away. From him. From his friends. The long bridge is approaching. It crosses the river. My mind feels the deep water rushing. The frogs singing. The sand shifting. I see my fish, where I buried them in the water. Resurrecting. Begging me to swim with them. Stay with them. Where the water is clear. Where my mind will be clear. I will be free. I will be alive. The river comes into view. So close. There’s a gap. Between the bridge’s right side and the trees along the water. Just a car’s width. My dad’s words come rushing back in waves. They were just fish. I’m one second away from the bridge. My hands turn the wheel to the right.
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