THE GOLD FISH: Broken (3.10)

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Sunday breakfast congealed on the dining room table, forgotten in the aftermath of Shay’s call.

Joan and Don sat at the kitchenette working their way through a pack of cigarettes and bitter dregs from the stovetop percolator.

The news of Wesley’s death had broken them both, albeit in different ways.

For Joan, what had broken -- shattered actually -- was that thin veneer of assumed safety that all mothers have when contemplating the well-being of their children. The delusion that has made it possible for mothers throughout history to let their children wander out of their sight and into a cold, dangerous world without losing their damned minds.

For godssake, Joan thought, what had she been thinking? Or not thinking? To have taken so much for granted. To have operated so carelessly and with such benign (or so she thought) neglect. She had let her guard down, and in her own foolish self-involvement, had failed to ward off the evil that lurked just out of sight, that always lurked just out of sight. Ready to pounce.

Because -- and this honestly came as a total shock to Joan -- kids could actually DIE. They could not come home. Wesley was not coming home. Ever again. The thought of it had literally knocked her off her feet.

Barbie had ridden in a car with that beautiful young man less than ten days ago! And at the time, Joan had barely given it a thought. Despite the fact that her 12-year-old daughter had been picked up alone along a dangerous boulevard upon which, no doubt, scores of murderers and perverts regularly cruised.

Joan had been so caught up in her anger at Don, she hadn’t considered Barbie’s safety at all. Hadn’t considered the loneliness and fear she must have felt. Thinking back on it, it was a miracle Barbie hadn’t been kidnapped or killed. But no, through sheer random luck, she’d been spared. Thanks to the grace and kindness of a boy who no longer had a future in front of him.

Of course, Joan knew it was a total fiction to imagine that anyone could protect their children at all hours of the night or day. Whether one was constantly vigilant or not. Or had some other proven method for warding off the evil eye. But it didn’t matter. Joan knew she had been asleep at the wheel and couldn’t help but think that the cosmic bullet that had come for Wesley could, or should, have just as easily come for one of her own.

But it hadn’t. The bullet had come for Wesley, and by extension, poor Ellen Sullivan across the street. And even though the bullet hadn’t hit Joan directly, she’d been psychically grazed. Because clearly, she needed to be taught a lesson. To make her snap to attention and stop self-indulgently focusing on her own pain and bitter disappointments, rather than on her children!

Joan, of course, didn’t share any of these thoughts with Don as they sat at the table, their heads encircled by a cloud of smoke. He wouldn’t have understood her. Would have thought she was out of her mind. Nuts. Morbid.

Maybe, Joan thought, you had to have been raised in the Catholic Church to understand how she felt, had to have been indoctrinated from childhood with that particular brand of grim fatalism, that belief -- or more accurately -- the fear, of punitive cosmic retribution. But Joan understood it down to her marrow. It was as much a part of her as freckled shoulders and tiny feet. She had learned since toddler-hood that if she so much as stubbed a toe, it was because she’d had an evil thought, wasn’t careful enough, or had committed a petty sin, accidental OR intentional. In other words, if anything bad happened, it was ALL HER FAULT.

Which, Joan now realized, were the exact words Barbie had used before throwing her fish in the trash. Clearly, at only 12, Barbie was already steeped in this grand Catholic tradition of guilt and punishment. She seemed to believe that by catching that silly fish and failing to stuff it or whatever, she had somehow sentenced poor Wesley to death. It was crazy. But Joan got it. Oh, how she got it.

As hot tears for Wesley and the rest of the Sullivans dried on her cheeks, these were the thoughts that ricocheted around Joan’s brain, preventing her from fully processing what Don was saying, for he had not stopped talking since they’d sat down.

For some reason, Barbie’s claim that he didn’t DO ANYTHING had shattered him. Which Joan found incomprehensible, and if it wasn’t so tragic, might even have been funny. How could he not have self awareness of his lack of, well, action?

Or maybe he did, but it was just too far buried under the mountain of other things that were going on inside him. Because apparently, to Joan’s great surprise, there was a lot.

Don told Joan all about Uncle Henry’s voice in his head, and the feelings of inadequacy and failure it raised in him. He told her about his back pain and how drinking dulled it, even though he paid dearly for that relief every morning after. He told her about his Ankylosing Spondylitis diagnosis and his fears for the future. He told her about his various gambling schemes and his recent losses. He even told her about taking Barbie’s money to pay the mortgage.

Naturally, Joan felt bad for him. For his condition and pain, of course. Not for his monetary losses. But she was furious about his stupidity and secrecy. For godssake, why hadn’t he told her all this before? It was all Joan could do not to grab the coffee percolator off the stovetop and whack him upside the head with it. But she kept her hands on the table and held her tongue. She was trying to hold onto the lesson this tragedy was trying to teach her, and had no interest in tempting God’s wrath further.

Instead, she stood up, embraced her husband, and told him everything was going to be okay.

What the hell else was she supposed to do?

:::

Barbie’s mind was a blank. Wesley’s death was just too big, too horrible, too sickening to comprehend. The minute she tried to grok it, her brain caught fire.

She tried instead -- for a while anyway -- to think about Bridge and what she and the rest of the Sullivans must be going through. But that too led to a fiery end. If she hadn’t betrayed Bridge, hadn’t been such a horrible friend in the first place, she could have run over there with Karen and offered Bridge, well… she didn’t really know what she could have offered Bridge. Probably nothing at all, but she would have been there. For her friend. Instead, Bridge hated her, and rightly so. Barbie hated herself.

So after a time, Barbie’s brain had just shut off. Now, she laid in bed staring at the bedroom ceiling, tracing a crack that started over her bed and reached its splintered finger towards the center of the room where a light fixture was mounted. Over and over again, Barbie’s eyes followed the crack, wondering how it started and why it had stopped. And wishing she could force back, force it to retreat and leave nothing but smooth plaster in its place. But of course, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t change it. It remained, resolute, thwarting her.

After a time, she closed her eyes, welcoming darkness and sleep.

:::

Hours later, Barbie was dimly aware of the bedroom door opening, the sound of snuffling, and a brief shock of air as her blankets were lifted off the bed. With infinite tenderness, Karen crawled into the bed beside her and wordlessly searched for, and found, Barbie’s hand. Then gave it a squeeze.

Barbie had thought she was out of tears, but apparently she wasn’t. As Karen snuggled closer, they flowed anew. Never in her life had she been so glad for her sister’s presence than at this moment. It was everything.

:::

The next morning, Joan eased open the girls’ bedroom door, and stood in the threshold, taking in the scene. Barbie and Karen, along with Gigi, the dog, were huddled together in Barbie’s bed, fast asleep.

“Girls,” Joan said finally, although not unkindly. “Time to get up now. You gotta get ready for school.”

The girls roused and looked at their mother dumbly. Karen spoke first.

“We’re not going to school today.”

Joan pursed her lips. Old habits die hard. “Of course, you’re going to school.”

Barbie sat up in bed and glared at her mother. “WE ARE NOT going to school.”

Joan debated laying down the law, but just didn’t have it in her to fight this particular fight. “Fine,” she said finally. “Just this once.”

She turned to go, but stopped, remembering the vow she had made to herself the day before. She knew it was silly, but she had to prove to God and herself that she would never again take her daughters’ well being for granted. Starting now.

She approached the bed, leaned down and kissed each daughter on the forehead, doing her best to ignore their startled expressions.

For godssake, she thought to herself, was it really so shocking that she should kiss her own daughters?! Surely, she did it all the time. Right? Right?

She took a breath to say something more, but couldn’t seem to find any relevant words.

Finally, she patted the bed and muttered, “Come on down in a minute, kay? You’re probably starving. I’ll make you both some breakfast. Eggs. Whatever way you want them.”

Both girls nodded, stupefied.

Once Joan’s footsteps had receded down the stairs, Karen poked Barbie in the side. “Let’s do fried eggs. But don’t be a sap and eat my rejects, ‘kay?”

Almost against her will, the hint of a smile crossed Barbie’s face. “Okaaay,” she agreed.

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