Aquarium

by David Vann

  She walked past his open window to the front of the car and kicked at one of his headlights, but it didn’t break.

  Fuck, she said. Steel-toed boots. They should be enough.

  She kicked again and still it didn’t break.

  Fuck this. She went to her open door, and I thought we were leaving, that it was over, but she popped the trunk, walked back to open it, lit up by his headlights, and pulled out the tire iron.

  Please, Sheri, he said.

  Good, she said. You do care.

  I only watched her, same as my grandfather did. Some agreement that this was her right, or at least unstoppable. She swung the iron at his headlight and it exploded and she screamed, no words, just a primal yell, and she shattered the other headlight, also, then swung with that iron against the body of his car, going down the passenger side, and smashed the passenger window. He put up a hand to shield himself from flying glass, but otherwise he didn’t move. He only waited as she caved in the next window, a great crash in that twilight and no neighbors interested, no security from the school, only the three of us left alone in the snow as she moved on to his rear window and smashed into it from both sides.

  She was breathing hard, rested for a moment against his car, her arms and the tire iron on the roof.

  I’m so sorry, Sheri, he said. If I could go back in time, I would. But I can help you now. I have a little bit of money, I have a house. I can be there for Caitlin and you, both of you. You can move in if you want, stop paying rent. I can watch Caitlin in the evenings so you have your freedom.

  My mother stepped back and stood there with the tire iron hanging. I thought she was going to swing at him, but she smiled. That’s what you think? That we’ll form a happy family now? You trade the dying wife for the granddaughter and all is made well, just in time for Christmas?

  She swung fast, and he lunged to his side just in time. The iron smashed the part of his window not rolled down. And you think you can use my daughter against me?

  I’m sorry, he said. He was crying now, the most awful lonely sobs.

  Mom, I begged.

  No. You don’t get to do this. She swung at his windshield, yelling with the effort, pocking holes in it, the surface jeweled in the streetlights, caving in. She yelled until the glass was destroyed and she was hitting the dashboard and steering wheel. My grandfather lying across the bench seat, invisible to me, sound only of his voice, utterly lost.

  Let me tell you what’s going to happen, my mother said, breathing hard. You’re going to leave us alone or I will hurt you. You don’t see Caitlin ever again. I will hurt you. And you live in your house with your money and you die alone. No one will be there and no one will care. You will rot in that house until the smell brings your neighbors, and then they stick you in a hole and no one is there and no one ever visits. And that’s it. That’s all you get.

  She bashed his side mirror until it broke off and hit the pavement. Have a nice drive home.

  My mother tossed her tire iron in the trunk then and slammed it shut. Caitlin, she said. Get in now.

  I walked past but he didn’t see me, still lying across the seat. Dash lights making an aquarium of the interior of his car, pieces of safety glass hanging in bright pebbled waves, light blue, an ocean made brittle somehow and broken, shockwave of sound or something more, sudden and devastating. And what could he do but lie on the bottom and hide?

  My mother drove too quickly in the snow and slush. The temperatures low, and there could have been ice already.

  It’s not enough, my mother said. Even ripping off his arms would not be enough. Reaching in through his ribs to tear out his heart, that might do it. Or crushing his skull slowly in a vise so he could feel what the pressure was like. All those years, just pressure, endless pressure. You’ll never know. You’ll have no fucking idea, and so you’ll think I’m a monster and he’s a saint. But that’s fine. I don’t give a shit what you think. You have six more years of room and board, and then you can leave and tell me to fuck off, tell me what a crap mother I was, how you hate me and all the rest of it. I don’t care.

  I leaned in close to my door and looked at the houses flying by, too fast down this hill, the feel of the tires loose and sliding. Clinging to the door handle and my seat belt.

  The problem is, you can’t believe anything that happened before. It’s just a story to you. It isn’t real. You think the world began with you. But it didn’t. It began with me.

  My grandfather would be driving home in the snow and cold without windows. Just the cold wind, freezing, and pebbles of safety glass everywhere. Wearing his sport coat and collared shirt, this was what made it unbearably sad, I see now. An old mechanic trying to look like a gentleman. Trying to have dignity, trying to put his life in order, driving that night in the waste of a car, exposed. No headlights or taillights, and he could easily have had a collision. I was so worried I could hardly think. A dark shape drifting, waiting for impact.

  If he made it home, he’d be leaving the car out to fill with snow, going inside alone. He had invited us to live with him.

  You’re not giving me the silent treatment, my mother said. You’re going to talk with me.

  She was looking over at me while she drove. On the highway now, safer than sliding down that hill.

  Answer me.

  Okay.

  You tell me what happened. You tell me what he did when I was fourteen.

  He left.

  That’s right. Tell me more.

  He left while your mother was dying, and you had to take care of her.

  That’s right, but far too fast. This went on for years. Do you understand years? Every day?

  It went on for years.

  What was one day like? Tell me about one day.

  I hated my mother then. I wanted to leave her and live with my grandfather. I wouldn’t have to get up so early, I said.

  What?

  If we lived with him, he could take me to school later.

  My mother slapped me, hit me with her open hand as I hid against the door and covered my head. You will not fucking do that to me! she yelled. Slapping at me and trying to stay in her lane, swerving.

  I’d have a family! I screamed.

  My mother stretched like an octopus, arms everywhere, able to slap my face and arm and leg all at the same time she held the wheel, unfurling herself in darkness, a frightening rush I couldn’t escape.

  We were swerving across lanes, other drivers on their horns. My face pressed against glass as I tried to get away, and we fishtailed toward the guardrail, straightened out, and slid to a stop on the shoulder.

  My mother on me then as if I were prey. Grabbing my wrists and smashing me into the corner. Her leg over me, holding me down. You will tell me, she said. You will tell me what it was like. One day. I wake up in darkness, early, and what happens?

  Your mother is sick.

  That’s right. She’s been sick all night. I’ve been up all night. I slept an hour or two.

  You have to clean up things.

  That’s right. What things?

  Everything awful.

  Yes. Everything awful. And what is my mother doing?

  I don’t know.

  My mother shook me. Think, Caitlin. What do people do when they’re dying?

  I don’t know.

  Moaning. A lot of moaning and twisting back and forth. Screaming sometimes. Crying and self-pity. Vomiting and shitting and pissing and bleeding. Tell me what that was like.

  It was too much, I said. You wanted it all to stop.

  That’s right. And then later in the day it might be quiet for a long time, and she was gone. I’d say her name and it was as if she didn’t even hear me. What was that like?

  Like being a ghost.

  See? You’re not so bad at this. All you have to do is give a shit and think for a moment
. This was my real life, not a story. These were days I lived, as real as your days now. And tell me about my friends. Who did I see? Who were my friends and family for those years?

  No one.

  And who made sure I got to have my childhood? Who made sure I went to school and had decent clothes and went to birthday parties and finished my homework?

  No one.

  No one. And who is my father now?

  My grandpa.

  I expected her to hit me, but she didn’t. She let go of my arms and retreated back across the seat to her place behind the wheel. She put on her seat belt and pulled out carefully into the slow lane and drove without speaking to me. Sound of the wipers, sound of wet roads, slush thrown by the wake of trucks as they passed, covering our windshield, blotting out everything and then clear again. Our turnoff to the industrial section, almost no one else living here, narrow strip of houses and apartments between an airfield and parking lots.

  We walked upstairs, and at the door my mother stopped. I’m going to give you one last chance, she said. Over the next day or two, you’ll live what I lived then, and that will be your chance to see.

  What does that mean?

  That’s what you’ll be learning.

  My mother dropped all her clothes just inside our door, in the kitchen. She stripped naked. Cold white with splotches of red on her back. A strong back, and she let out her ponytail and sat down on the cold tiles of the floor.

  It’s all you, she said. Run me a bath, and then drag me over and get me on the toilet seat and then in the tub. Then fix dinner, but don’t forget to check on me in case I might be drowning or dying in some other way.

  What?

  You heard me. Start working. It’s going to be a long night for you, and then a long day, and then a long night, and after a while, you won’t care whether it’s day or night. You’ll only want to sleep.

  My mother lay down on the floor. I’m getting cold, she said. Better hurry with that bath. And don’t let my skin rub when you drag me. She always said it felt like her skin could rip off. I always had to be so careful with her skin.

  I hurried to the bathroom, put in the drain plug and ran the water, not too hot. I didn’t believe this game would go on long. I would put her in the bath and fix dinner, and then we’d watch TV and I could go to bed.

  I grabbed her wrists to drag, but she had gone limp, head lolling, and was so heavy and stuck to the floor.

  I pulled again and she screamed and I dropped her wrists, which slapped hard against the tiles.

  She screamed if I pulled like that, my mother said. You can’t yank anything, or rub anything. Cancer spreads everywhere. It might begin in one place, but it travels inside and new places become sore. You never know what part of her might hurt next. I used to think if I pulled an arm too hard it might come off, rotten at the joint. All her joints were sore, and bruises everywhere.

  I can’t do this.

  My mother smiled. That’s right. That’s what I said, though not so early. You’re being a baby. You don’t get to say I can’t do this until a few months have gone by. That’s when you say it and mean it.

  I took one of the towels from the bathroom and laid it on the floor beside her. How do I get you on the towel?

  There were no instructions, my mother said. No one ever told me how to do anything.

  I knelt on the floor and tried to push the towel in along her back, lifted her shoulder blade with one hand. But I wasn’t strong enough from this angle. I had to kneel on the other side and lean over and pull her toward me, my face in close to her armpit, strong smell of sweat from a day of work. Skin clammy and not soft like Shalini’s. My naked mother. I held her close and pulled the towel under, then moved down lower to her hips, all the dark hair down there, and rolled her toward me. She was so much bigger than I was, stronger and taller.

  I crossed her arms over her chest, knelt in close behind her head, and pulled on the towel beneath to slide her along the floor. She could have been a dead body. We hit carpet and stopped. I pulled and could not drag her. I can’t do this, I said.

  You will. You will or you no longer have a mother. I will leave, just leave, like my father did, and you will never hear from me again.

  My eyes wet as soon as she said that, and I hated being such a baby. I pulled harder and dragged her across the carpet down the small hallway to the bathroom tile, where she slid easily again.

  The water in the tub was already too high, so I turned it off. I struggled to lift her onto the toilet seat. Sideways a bit, and she was not helping, just limp, but finally she was settled there and peed while I waited. Smell of her pee thick in the air, sound of the tub overflow drain sucking.

  Wipe me, she said, so I wrapped toilet paper on my hand and reached between her legs to wipe. Something I could never have imagined doing.

  Now the tub.

  I put my arms around and locked my hands and dragged. I eased her carefully into the water, her feet at the faucet end. She was so tall her knees were bent.

  Now bathe me, and don’t forget dinner.

  Which do I do first?

  Both at the same time. Everything always at the same time.

  I’ll be right back, I said. I went to the kitchen and put a pot of water on the stove to boil, found a box of pasta. No spaghetti sauce in the fridge or cupboard, but I knew she’d tell me I had to figure it out myself, so I found a can of tomato soup, and there were some mushrooms I could add.

  I hurried back to the tub and grabbed a bar of soap.

  You have to wash my hair, too.

  I looked at her long hair, and how tall she was in the tub. I went back to the kitchen for a small pot.

  Lean forward, I said, and I scooped bathwater in the pot and poured it carefully over her head.

  That’s right, she said. I’m too hot, though. I can’t breathe, Sheri. That’s what she’d say. I can’t breathe.

  I ran the cold tap and swirled the water around.

  There’s no air in here.

  I looked around. We didn’t have a bathroom window or fan. There was never any way to air out the bathroom.

  Air! she yelled. I need air! I’m dying!

  I ran out and opened our front door and living room window, let the icy air billow in low. Like steam pouring over the windowsill, as if temperature had been reversed. The air we breathed really a liquid, but we saw it only in rare moments like this. Fog born suddenly from nothing, flooding from nowhere, no fog bank outside, no ocean or mountains at the edge. And it wasn’t summer. Fog was usually in summer.

  Sheri! she yelled.

  When I ran back to the tub, she slapped me. I could have died. I could have drowned. Leaving me like that, with my head bent forward into the water. Do you want to kill me? And I’m cold now. It’s freezing in here.

  I opened the hot water tap and hurried out to the door and window, clouds forming at the margins and then gone. They rushed in and vanished somehow. I closed the gates to them, cut them off, and my mother yelled again.

  I’m burning! You stupid little shit. Goddamn it, Sheri. You left the hot water on.

  I panicked and went for the hot water tap, turned it off, and then swirled the water around with my hand.

  My feet are burned.

  Even her voice was different, my mother gone. I could not believe my grandmother had been this way, cruel and bitter.

  Please, I said. I understand. We can stop.

  You don’t understand anything yet. You don’t believe. You’re not going to school tomorrow, and I’m not going to work. Where’s my dinner, Sheri?

  Don’t call me Sheri.

  My mother grabbed my hair and shoved my face down into the tub water. It was so fast I hadn’t taken a breath. I had no air, panicking. I couldn’t pull my head up. She was so strong. I fought. I punched at her and yanked my whole body, but she had th
e weight of oceans, pressing down, and then she released me.

  You will hate me, she said. I know you will hate me. But my mother did all of these things and I loved her. And I am going to make you see. You will know what it was like, and that’s all I care about.

  I don’t care about your stupid life! I screamed.

  That’s the problem. We’re going to end that. Now fix dinner.

  I was gasping and dripping, and I wanted to run, just run away. She did not even look like my mother, not caring at all that I was hurt. She looked at me coldly, as if I were a stranger.

  Fix my dinner, Sheri.

  So I did it. I put the pasta in the water that was at a full boil. It looked like rage, bubbles forming sourceless and ripped away and burst. Perfect form of rage. The yellow dried pasta sinking in and calming. I punctured the tomato soup with the can opener when my mother called out again.

  Get me out of this bath, Sheri!

  She was angry I hadn’t made her clean. You know I can’t be in the water for long. I’ll get sick. I can’t breathe. But I’m still filthy.

  I knelt beside her with the bar of soap and tried to wash her, but soap doesn’t work underwater. It feels too rough, doesn’t slide or lather.

  Don’t tear my skin off, she said.

  I ran the soap along her belly and breasts and thighs and followed with my other hand, my chest braced on the edge of the tub. I washed between her legs, tried to reach under along her back, reaching down beneath the surface into a distortion of texture and size and shape, my mother become only a body and not even that, more rubbery than that.

  Stop, she said. You have to get me out of here.

  I could hear the pasta scum boiling over onto the burner, but I had to lift her from the tub, dead weight. Water all over the floor, and I was afraid of slipping. I couldn’t hold her up, so I sat her down on the tile leaning back against the tub.

  No! she yelled. I’m freezing. This floor and the outside of the tub. Do you want me to die?

  I don’t know where to put you.

  Don’t whine. Move me onto the bed and dry me there.