The Goldfish

by Malinda McCollum

My daughter exits the school bus carrying a goldfish in a pickle jar.

“Rest died,” she announces, sliding into the backseat.

“All of them?”

“Except this guy.”

A few days ago, her class made biospheres from plastic soda bottles, following the steps their teacher prescribed:

1.       Decapitate bottle, right below shoulder.
2.       Cover base with stratum of rock.
3.       Inundate rock (a deluge of water).
4.       Add goldfish—only one!!!
5.       Flip lid and line with coffee filter.
6.       Force twine through filter and down bottle’s throat.
7.       Set lid on base (so twine hangs in water).
8.       Shove plant into lid’s shallow cove. 

“Terrible,” I say.

My daughter shrugs. “Ms. Wood was surprised.”

“Really?” I ask. “You’re sixth graders. How could she not have known?”

“Ms. Wood says experience is the lone path to insight.”

“Stupid,” I scoff. “I know about lots of things I’ve never done.”

We’re parked in front of the barber shop. Inside, a man lathers another man’s face, foam rich and stiff as whipped cream. The thing is, I’ve never liked Ms. Wood. At Open House, when I asked about volunteering, she regarded me coldly. “If I need you,” she said, “I’ll let you know.”

My daughter sighs. “It was an experiment. Ms. Wood says it’s not our fault.”

“It’s somebody’s fault.” I grip the wheel. “All the fish, dead.”

“Not all,” my daughter corrects me. “Mine’s alive!”

 *

Back at the apartment, I transfer the goldfish to an apothecary jar from my daughter’s last birthday. He seems distressed. His gills feather rapidly, and when I look closer, I see a film veiling one eye.

My daughter’s in the other room. 

“The life of a goldfish—” I begin.

She interrupts me. “Ms. Wood already said it’s just a matter of time.”

*

After my husband picks her up—my daughter meets him at the curb—I inspect the goldfish again. The cloudy eye is bulging, while the other eye appears to have shrunk. I circle the jar, checking from different angles. It’s strange. The gaze from the big eye seems more connected, more heartfelt, than the look from the eye that’s clear and small.

Online, I search giant gauzy eye. I compile a list of chemical treatments and realize my current setup sucks. The goldfish needs a larger tank, with a heater. He needs a filter to protect him from his own waste. The problem? No money. My husband and I are in a trial separation, struggling to keep two households afloat.

For distraction, I click on random clips the algorithm suggests. One features a lake invaded by pet goldfish whose owners released them into the wild. Goldfish, grown as big as bread loaves, scales dulled to a mean yellow-brown.

Did you know there’s a strain of goldfish with skin so translucent you can watch their hearts beat inside? It eliminates the need for dissection. You learn your lesson—AND NO ONE GETS HURT.

This is the message I send to Ms. Wood, along with a link.

She replies immediately: Does the goldfish need help? What were you thinking? I write back.

It was an experiment, she answers. I’ll be there ASAP.

Fine. But when I return to the jar, the goldfish’s sockets are empty. Both eyeballs, totally gone. No blood in the water. No nothing. I search animals eat themselves??? Then a knock on the door.

Ms. Wood’s hair is chlorine green. Her bangs are dry, but the rest is dripping.

“Show me,” she says.

In the jar, the goldfish drifts, a rusty circle around each absent eye.

Ms. Wood sighs. I fetch my computer. We search how to kill without pain.

Flushing is not recommended. Better to numb the goldfish in an ice slurry, then finish him off in the freezer. Or wrap his head in a towel, to quiet him, then flood his gills with liquor until he ODs. 

“It’s not fair,” I say.

“Life,” says Ms. Wood.

I frown. “He shouldn’t go through this by himself.”

So I run a cold bath. Dump in ice. Add lavender body wash, to calm us all down. Set a bottle of tequila on the floor, by the tub. Remove my pants but leave my shirt on.

My breath catches as I lower myself in the water, cupping the goldfish like an alm. Ms. Wood takes off everything. She arches her back to keep her nipples above the bubble line.

Her eyes are the strangest blue.

“Your eyes are arresting,” I say. “Like, literally, you have the eyes of a cop.”

Ms. Wood blinks. “I’m a teacher.”

“Me too,” I say. “Believe it or not.” I drizzle tequila over the goldfish, who floats in my palm. Then I take my own shot.

“It must be difficult to be a good teacher and a good mother at the same time,” Ms. Wood says.

“A delicate balance,” I agree. “One should feed the other, ideally. But I’m also trying to write. So, three things.”

“Perhaps you’d be a better mother if you devoted more time to your own needs.”

I swallow. “A better what?”

“In any case,” Ms. Wood continues,  “I’m sure it’s easier to manage everything now that you’re mostly alone.”

“This is your fault,” I remind her. “You’re the one who did a bad job.”

With her thumb, Ms. Wood stirs the water. “Why doesn’t your daughter live with you?”

“I am a college professor,” I say, loudly. “You teach fucking middle school.”

“Ah,” Ms. Wood murmurs. “A big fish.”

Not for the first time in my life, I’m ashamed of myself.  A swamp, my swamp, of shame.

“I’m not a professor,” I confess. “Only adjunct. All I write are letters of rec. My daughter stays with my husband because I’m erratic. I don’t know what to do with myself. I’m a mess.”

Ms. Wood scoots closer, arms propelling her like a crab. For a moment, her toe presses my thigh. “Poor little fish,” Ms. Wood says.

“Tell me,” I say. “Please. What was your experiment trying to prove?”

“Forget proof.” She flicks soap from her knee. “Proof’s an illusion. The experiment is a dialogue. It’s about give and take.”

“But what does the goldfish get,” I ask, “besides suffering? Isn’t the goldfish doomed from the start?”

“The goldfish,” Ms. Wood echoes.

The goldfish! When I check, my hands are empty. I paw at the water but can’t see anything through the waves.

“It’s OK,” Ms. Wood says. “I’ll find it. Relax.” Her fingers dip beneath the bath’s skin.

For once, I follow instructions. Shut my eyes. Breathe. Imagine the goldfish, blinded, driven by senses other than sight. He swims through the drain, to a pipe, to a tunnel, path opening wide, wider still. Tunnel to tank to river, pulse rapid, body swelling in size. River to harbor, the drowned mouth of the Ashley, sea beckoning, warm and saline. Push past the edge to the ocean—the Ocean! Alive! In this fathomless world!

Malinda McCollum is the author of The Surprising Place, winner of the Juniper Prize for Fiction. Her stories have appeared in The Paris Review—which awarded her the Plimpton Prize—McSweeney’s, Zyzzyva, Epoch, Wigleaf, and elsewhere.