Goldfish
Kendall Tackett
"I know everyone wins a goldfish at the County Fair, but I won two, so I think that makes me better than everyone." Rainy nods with the resolution of the cocky teenager she is. I try not to let her see my grimace.
She sits, untied dirty white Converse on my freshly detailed dash, in the front seat of my hatchback, the trunk full to bursting with the spoils of the day: the Le Creuset Dutch oven in eggshell, the larger-than-life canvas that Rainy painted, and the first-place ribbon stapled to its corner.
She burps and blows into my face. Rotten fried catfish tacos.
“That’s nice,” I say.
We’re going eighty-plus on the highway but I roll the windows down anyway.
“I’m going to name them Fetus and Big Mac,” she says over grainy wind. I feel her beady little eyeballs on my face, that suffocating expectation. I see her golden curls flapping in the wind in my peripherals. I force deadpan and nod.
“That’s nice,” I say again. “What lovely names for lovely little fishes.” Lovely like vomit in the backseat of the car. Lovely like a perineal tear.
“Thanks, Mom!”
Sarcasm drips from her like that stubborn leak in the ceiling.
It’s the tail end of summer. I want to appreciate the ocean breeze coming in through the open window, but I only focus on sweat dripping down my back and soaking my T-shirt. I unpack the trunk; she carries the two plastic tanks to the front door, sloshing water all over the welcome mat, pausing to pluck the last plumeria from the tree.
In the morning, she stands over the toilet, a hood covering her unkempt hair. “Was it the cat?” I ask, peering into the bowl at the tiny floating orange bulb.
“Yep,” Rainy says, shrugging. “My Fetus died so I’m flushing him down the toilet.”
I turn my head and meet her eyes. She cackles and bends over, hands on knees, breathless of laughter. I roll my eyes and laugh to myself. She might not be so flippant if she knew. My hand briefly brushes that mound of flesh beneath my belly button that never quite went back.
I daydream of a quiet home, a flat stomach. All day I daydream of dead goldfish.
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