Fish

Fish

22 January-12 February 1991

20 years old

Mireille sighed and pushed the plate away from her. She hated fish. Every time her father had gone fishing, he always brought some back for her, filleted and deboned. She never had the heart to remind him that she had always hated fish; she had never, ever liked it. So, she always accepted the gift gracefully as Papa held the stinking package out to her proudly.

“An eight-pounder, this time, Sweetie,” he would say, a beaming grin lighting up his broad, lined face.

“Thanks, Papa,” Mireille would say, taking the newspaper-wrapped burden (and that’s exactly what it was to Mireille, a burden) from his hands. But Papa’s grin was infectious, and she frequently found herself smiling with him as she accepted his offering.

Often, after Papa had left her apartment to return home, Mireille threw out the fillets of fish, never even bothering to unwrap them. Granted, her conscience had never failed to haunt her for the next few days, after Papa would inevitably call.

“How’d you like that fish, honey? Good, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, Papa! It was great! I don’t know how you catch such wonderful fish. You know,” she would continue conspiratorially, “yours is the only kind I’ll eat. It must be the water. Tell me, what’s your secret?” Mireille, of course, was lying through her teeth, the litany memorized and perfected long ago.

“It’s no secret, sweetie. Everyone knows that I catch the best fish when I’m thinking of my girl!”

But when Papa had stopped by the week before to drop off his latest token of affection, Mireille had been busy and never got around to tossing it in the garbage. The package of fish had lain in the freezer, forgotten, until tonight.

Unable to force herself to eat any more, Mireille rose and walked to the sink with the plate of fish and her drink in her hands. She put her drink down on the kitchen counter, sloshing some of the amber liquid over the sides of the glass. Then, she scraped the remains of her dinner down the disposal and flipped the switch, listening to the grinding whir of the blades and motor. Picking up her drink again, she appeared to be studying it, lost in thought, lost in memory.

Whisky and Coke, her father’s favourite drink aside from wine. Papa never drank much, only socially and at dinner. Only once did Mireille see him drunk. It was at a New Year’s Eve party her parents had gone to when she was only four or five years old. She was allowed to go with them because Mama was unable to find a girl to babysit Mireille.

She remembered how, at the party, Papa had made a virgin Grasshopper for her, and how grown-up it had made her feel that her drink was the same—at least in appearance—as everyone else’s. She had tried her best to lead everyone to believe that nothing essential had been omitted from the ingredients list. They oohed and smiled, patting her head and saying, “My, what a big girl you’re getting to be, drinking with the grown-ups! What is that you have there? It looks very good; maybe I’ll try one of those, next.”

For year after, Mireille had been convinced that she had fooled everyone before she was able to understand what it was to humour a child.

She then remembered how later, after everyone had shouted “Happy New Year!” and was acting very funny and foolishly and began to leave the party, Mama and Papa had argued over who would drive home. She remembered this very distinctly, and how pleased she had felt when Papa finally relinquished the keys to Mama. This meant that Mireille could sit on Papa’s lap during the drive home.

“Mama?” she had asked, watching the overhead lights pass by, hypnotised by the moving shadows they cast over the interior of the car and played with the features of her mother’s face. “Why isn’t Papa driving us home?”

“You’re father’s sick. Her mother’s voice had sounded cold, hard and somewhat annoyed. “Try to go to sleep. You’re tired.”

Little Mireille had then rested her head on her father’s shoulder and sighed contentedly as he stroked her long brown hair. Funny, she had thought. Papa didn’t look very sick.

Remembering this made Mireille a little sadder, and a tear welled in her eye. Swiping at the wetness there, and determined not to cry, she lifted the drink to her lips and grimaced. It was a little strong, but she was sure that soon she wouldn’t notice it anymore.

Mireille then gathered the near-full bottles of Canadian Club and Coca Cola in her arms and walked a little unsteadily to her bedroom, taking another long draught from the glass. After setting the empty glass on the nightstand, she began to take off her clothes with what seemed to be reluctance. She closed the door behind her, although there was no one from whom to shield her nakedness. She let her clothes fall careless to the floor. It was her navy blue pinstripe suit—the one she reserved expressly for funerals. Taking it off seemed to be the acceptance of her father’s death, and Mireille was not sure she was ready to do that yet.

The next day, Mireille awoke with a start. She looked at the clock.

“Oh my God. I’m late for work.” As this fact echoed around in her sleep- and drink-sodden mind, panic began to sink in. Then, suddenly filled with momentary relief, she remembered that she had the week off due to “life crisis.”

As the room began to spin, she sprinted for the bathroom. It was time to say her prayers to the porcelain god. She wasn’t used to drinking in excess and was now paying her dues. Normally, she was a social drinker, like her father, and had a glass of wine or beer with dinner. Nevertheless, after brushing her teeth, Mireille poured herself another stiff drink, warm and sans ice, to start the day. There was still another half-bottle of Coke, but the whisky was nearly gone. She made a mental note to get more on her way out.

Just then, the phone rang, startling her.

“Hello?” she croaked.

“Mireille, honey? Is that you?” It was Mama.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Sweetheart, I know you feel awful, but I need to know when you’ll be at the house.”

Mireille looked at the clock and drank. It was twelve twenty-three. “I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Around two.”

“All right, then. I won’t be here, just so you know. Do you still have your key? I’ll swing by and make sure the door is unlocked for you, just in case.”

“That’s fine, Mama.”

“Are you all right? Do you think you can make it? I know how hard this must be for you, but we have to get this out of the way as soon as possible.”

“I’m fine, Mama. I’ll be okay. I’ll be there around two. When do you think you’ll be home?”

Her mother’s voice went cold, like it had the night of the New Year’s Eve party, now centuries ago, it seemed to Mireille. “That’s not my home anymore, and it hasn’t been for years. You know that.” Her voice softened. “I won’t be there till late. I’ll just be stopping by to check up on you. I’m staying at a hotel.”

“Okay, Mama. I’ll see you later tonight.” She was having difficulty speaking. Her words didn’t seem to want to come out very clearly.

“Are you okay, honey? You don’t need a ride or anything?” Very little ever got past Mama.

“No, Mama. I’ll take a cab.”

“All right, then. I’ll see you later tonight. “

“Bye, Mama.”

Mireille sighed and hung up the phone, downing the remainder of her whisky and Coke. Soon after, she was showered and dressed, and half-way out the door before she remembered to call a cab. But, resting her hand on the telephone, Mireille thought twice about it and decided that she didn’t want to wait for a cab. Besides, she wasn’t that drunk—yet—and she still had to stop at the liquor store. Grabbing her keys and her purse, she headed for the garage and started the car.

Mireille nearly back through the garage door before she realised that it first had to be opened before she could go anywhere. Slamming her foot on the brake, she stopped the car just in time and managed to stall it. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves, and pressed the electric door opener. As she did so, she noticed her hands were shaking uncontrollably, and that the door hadn’t budged an inch.

“Come on. Open, damn you,” she muttered. As if doing her a great favour, the door groaned mournfully and opened, stopping little more than halfway up with a tired sigh. Last week, Papa had said the he would fix it for her. Recalling this, Mireille started the care again and pulled it out of the garage, easing beneath the garage door without incident. She coasted down the driveway with tears in her eyes, but none dared to spill down her weary face.

An hour later, Mireille arrived at her father’s house. It was the house she’d grown up in, and it was here that he had been the happiest, and also the saddest. She didn’t believe that anything was dearer to her than this house, aside from Papa, of course. Ever since the day she was born, Papa had proven over and over that he always was and always would be her best friend. Papa was the one who had taken care of her, not Mama.

Mama had always been busy with her own life, her clubs and meetings, playing bridge with her single, childless friends. Mireille grew up believing that Mama would have been happier if Mireille had never been born, if Mama had never married. She learned later that Mama had only married Papa because she was pregnant, and wasn’t even sure at the time if Papa was the father. But Papa proved to be the nicest, kindest and sweetest of the lot, so Mama chose to hell him that he was the lucky donor. Papa never found out, but Mireille did.

Mama had told her everything the day Mireille graduated from college. She told Mireille about all the boyfriends she had had, before and during her marriage, and how unhappy she had been “tied down all these years.” It was time for her to get away and move on, just as it was for Mireille; to graduate, as it were, now that her job was done.

“And just what job was that, Mama?” Mireille had asked, infuriated.

“Why, taking care of you, of course, dear,” Mama had responded indelicately.

That night, after dinner, Mama broke the news to Papa. He had taken them to a fancy restaurant for a celebration dinner, and Mama was so cheerful that Papa hadn’t noticed Mireille’s uncharacteristic silence. Seeing Mama so obviously happy for the first time in quite a while had made Papa deliriously happy himself. Mireille had known that he thought things would be different now. What he hadn’t realised was just how different they would be from now on. It was a time for changes and he believed that all changes on this day could only be good. When Mama had told him that she was leaving, he was absolutely devastated. Papa had never been the same, and Mireille had never felt such intense and long-lived hatred in her life.

 To this day, Mireille could not make herself forgive Mama completely and always felt a little impatient with her when they spoke. When Mama had called on the phone that morning, Mireille was disgusted by the lack of concern in her mother’s voice. It was obvious that Mama didn’t really care about what had happened to Papa, and had to force herself to behave even distantly concerned before those who did care. She made Mireille want to spit.

Thinking of this, Mireille juggled the bottles of Coca Cola and Bacardi Dark (the liquor store was out of Canadian Club), and pushed her key into the lock and opened the door. She sighed. Mama was full of empty promises; the door was still locked. The only promise that Mama had ever made good on was the one she had made to Papa six years ago. The promise that she was going to leave him. Mireille walked into the dark foyer and closed the door behind her.

Everything looked the same. Nothing had changed since the day she had graduated from college. Mama’s touch was still evident throughout the house even after all these years. Papa had never fallen out of love with her. Poor Papa. Trying not to look at the memories of her mother surrounding her, Mireille walked into the kitchen and lay her keys and the bottles on the counter.

After rummaging through the cabinet for a minute, Mireille finally chose a large beer stein that Papa had brought back from Germany when he was stationed there in the Army before she was born. She then prepared herself a good, strong rum and Coke, and proceeded up the stairs to face and disclose the memories of her father.

Walking through the upstairs hallway, Mireille passed her own room. She only glanced in it because she knew that it would look the same since she had redecorated it when she was sixteen years old. The floors were still the original hardwood, and there was a large picture window in the far wall. Her bed was just beneath it. Mireille had loved to sit on her bed and read, occasionally looking up to gaze out the window to daydream, or watch the neighbour children roam through the yards in the midst of their own fantasies. The walls were pale pink with white trim, covered with posters of The Cure, Dead Kennedys, Echo and the Bunnymen, Bauhaus, and Pink Floyd. The curtains, tied back with wide white lace, and the bedspread were white. She had designed and sewn them herself. The throw rug beside the bed was pale pink. The colour scheme had to be approved by Mama, of course, before Mireille could do anything. She smiled at the memory. Papa nearly had to pull Mama’s teeth before she had finally allowed Mireille to redecorate the room.

Later, of course, Mireille had added a personal touch to the innocent sterility that Mama had ruthlessly imposed upon her. This was done behind Mama’s back, with Papa’s help. One afternoon while Mama was at a bridge game, Mireille and her father, each armed with a large paintbrush and a bucket of pain, proceeded to spatter the pale pink walls, the frilly white curtains, and even the pale pink throw rug, with black and grey paint. It added a new dimension and a certain, unexpected warmth to the room.

When Mama came home later that evening and had seen what Mireille and her father had done, she was livid. While Mama ranted and raved, Papa stood back and smiled at Mireille, silently sharing their secret.

It was during this time that Mireille had discovered a love of colour and style. If it weren’t for Papa’s insistence then, Mireille was sure she wouldn’t be where she was now. She had a successful interior decorating business located downtown in the Loop, and was currently making plans for expansion. She had too many clients and not enough people or space to accommodate her business.

Mireille moved on. She avoided her mother’s reading room. She had no desire to remember the hours of seclusion her mother had spent there. Mireille had not been allowed in that room; it was Mama’s strict order that no one desecrate that holy space she so righteously occupied so very frequently.

Once, believing that Mama was gone for the day, eight-year-old Mireille sneaked into that mysterious and compelling room. What she saw had horrified her. Mama was in the bed with someone who was not Papa, doing things that she could not even begin to describe or understand at that age. All little Mireille could comprehend at the time was an innate knowledge that the stranger was not Papa, and therefore what Mama was doing with the stranger was wrong. No wonder Mama had told Mireille to stay in her room and not to come out until Mama had “come back.” Papa, of course, had been at work.

Mireille had never told Papa what she had seen that day, and she never told Mama, either, even after Mama had left. Mireille was positive that Mama had no clue that Mireille had seen what she did; Mama was too busy, it seemed, to have noticed.

Shaking that dreadful memory away from her, Mireille walked on to the last and final room. This was Papa’s room. He and Mama had shared it, off and on, for twenty-two years before it had become exclusively his own. Even this room had not changed in the years that Mama had been gone. A large walk-in closet was located just behind the door, and the bathroom, where Papa was found, just beside it. The dresser was across the room between the two large windows that faced the bed.

Mireille deliberated for a minute before finally deciding to begin with the closet. She opened the closet doors and stepped inside. Immediately, she was filled with an overwhelming sense of Papa. She reached out and gathered his hanging suits and sweaters and flannel shirts in her arms and buried her face into the varied fabrics. She took a deep breath through her nose and smelled Papa very distinctly. It was his own unique scent. A scent that she associated with cold winter mornings and days spent in the garage while Papa fixed the car, and the cologne he wore on special occasions. It was a scent that brought her back to her childhood when she was still small enough for Papa to carry her in his arms and she would bury her face in his neck when he introduced her to his friends at work, embarrassed and shy. Forever after, the feature she loved the most about the men she loved was their own unique scent.

Slowly, Mireille gathered Papa’s clothes and set them on the bed, stopping only occasionally to gaze lovingly at a shirt or an ancient pair of shoes, recalling sweet memories about them. When she was done, Mireille rummaged through the hall closet until she found enough boxes to accommodate the clothing and shoes, and the personal articles she had yet to go through. One good thing about Mama was that, just as other moms saved paper grocery bags, Mireille’s mother saved all the boxes she ever got, including the great big ones from the mail order warehouses that she kept in business. Sifting through them now, it almost seemed to Mireille as if Mama had been anticipating Papa’s death and wanted to make sure that there were enough boxes to fit everything that had ever been Papa into them.

After packing all of Papa’s clothes and shoes from the closet and into the boxes, Mireille moved on to the dresser, taking the stein of rum and Coke with her. It was a tall bureau with five long drawers down its length. Slugging down a quarter of her drink, she opened the top drawer of the bureau and began pulling out socks and underwear (thermal and cotton), and an old dried-up house-bug or two.

The next two drawers contained sweaters and colourful tee shirts collected from the many camping and fishing trips her father, and sometimes Mireille in tow, had gone on. These Mireille put aside. She would keep the tee shirts.

The last two drawers in the dresser her father had always kept for the storage of odds and ends. The first held an old walkie-talkie, shoe polishes of colours ranging from white to mahogany to black, broken fishing reels he had always meant to fix, a CB that Mireille had loved to play with, medals from various sporting tournaments, and other male miscellany, including an old Playboy dating back to 1974.

After packing these, Mireille kicked back and drank deeply from the beer stein. Flipping through the Playboy, she was sure that every heterosexual male in the Western hemisphere had at least one magazine of its kind hidden somewhere within the depths of his belongings. Mireille sighed. Papa had been no exception.

Now, officially declaring herself drunk and able to continue with business, Mireille attacked the final drawer. What she saw surprised her, because its contents had been replaced, since Mama had left, with relics of Mireille. She pulled out report cards from high school, and other that dated all the way back to kindergarten. A picture had been saved from each of her school years, marking her growth and progress from infant to young adult. She found birthday cards, and Father’s Day cards, and general everyday I-love-you cards, and other tokens of affection, most of which had been crafted by her very own hands.

Finally, after pulling out all of this priceless memorabilia and placing them lovingly into the box of shirts which she intended to bring back with her, Mireille found at the bottom of the drawer a manila envelope. She took it out and opened it. Inside was a picture of a man and a little girl huddled together in fading light and cooling temperature. They sat on the narrow shore of a lake. The man had a fishing pole in his hand. Their backs were to the camera and were unaware of being photographed.

The picture was of Mireille and her father.

The picture had been taken from her grandparents’ backyard just before Halloween, when Mireille was seven years old. She and Papa had climbed a high fence to fish there, because it was prohibited. After what had seemed to Mireille to be ages, she and Papa caught a big, largemouth bass. Proud of their catch, they climbed the fence and ran into the kitchen so Mama could take a picture of the three of them together, Papa, Mireille, and the bass.

Papa went into Grandpa’s garage and filled the utility sink with water. Then he did something that surprised Mireille utterly. He kissed the fish before placing it gently in the water.

“We’re going to see if we can keep it alive,” he said. Mireille didn’t understand why, but decided that it was a good idea, anyway.

“Papa, why did you kiss the fish?” she asked, slightly disgusted, her nose wrinkling with distaste.

“For good luck,” he said. “When you kiss the first catch of the day, it’s good luck.” This sounded like a good idea, so Mireille asked if she could kiss it.

“Of course you can, sweetheart.” Papa lifted the bass out of the water held it out to her. Mireille stepped forward and kissed it.

“Good girl,” he said, and put the fish back in the water. Then he held out his arms and Mireille ran into them, sharing their special “bear hug” and “butterfly kiss”. When they turned to go back into the house, Mireille saw Mama’s feet turn down the darkened hallways, walking away from them.

The next morning when she awoke, Mireille ran to the garage to check on the bass. When she got there, Papa was looking into the sink. Joining him there, she saw the fish was dead.

“Why did he die, Papa?”

“He was lonely, I guess. He couldn’t be with his family anymore, and so died of loneliness.” He looked sad.

“I guess nobody can live without their family, can they, Papa?”

“No, sweetheart. I guess not.”

To Mireille remembering this, though unrealised at the time by her and Papa, it was a premonition. An intimation that when Mama’s feet retreated down the darkened hallway at Grandma’s house that sooner or later, she would leave them. An intimation that when she did, and Mireille was no longer living in his house, Papa would be alone, and therefore lose the will to live and finally die of loneliness, like the fish did.

Realising all this, that Papa had killed himself because he felt that he had lost his family, Mireille forced herself up from Papa’s bed and staggered to the bathroom (the bathroom in which he had killed himself) in an attempt to regain control of herself.

Flipping on the light, she looked at herself in the mirror, through the tears that threatened to fall, and glimpsed something taped behind the door. She closed the door and tore an overlooked piece of paper from it.

“Dear Mireille,” it read. “I hope that you can forgive me for what I’ve done, but it was meant to be. There’s nothing left for me here. Please, remain strong, and remember that I have always loved you, and that soon we’ll be together again. Take care, and forgive your mother. I know it’s hard, but try. For me. She loves you, but has never been able to show it. She has always needed to live her own life, but she never stopped loving you. Keep me in your thoughts.

I love you,

Papa.”

Mireille read the note. She wasn’t sure that Mama had ever started loving her, but in Papa’s memory, Mireille would try to forgive her, anyway.

Just then, she heard footsteps on the tile flooring downstairs in the foyer.

“Mireille, sweetheart, are you here? For heaven’s sake! Why doesn’t anyone turn on the lights in here?”

It was Mama.

“I’m upstairs, Mama!” she shouted. Soon, the sound of her mother stumbling up the stairs reached Mireille’s ears and she went to greet Mama at the top.

“Good Lord. The light in this damn stairwell is out. Didn’t that man ever fix anything?”

“You were always too hard on him,” Mireille replied as she stepped forward and hugged her mother. “Mama,” she began, and faltered.

“Yes, dear. What is it?”

“I, uh... I love you.” It was the first time she’d said it since she and Mama had both “graduated” six years ago.

Mama froze for an instant, stiffening almost imperceptibly, and then spoke. “Mireille, you’re drunk, aren’t you? Come on. Let’s finish up here, and then I’ll drive you home.”

An hour later, Mireille and her mother walked down the stairs, Mireille burdened with the box she had filled with the things of Papa’s that she couldn’t bear to part with. The manila envelope with the picture of Mireille and her father lay on the top.

“What’s this?” Mama asked, reaching for it.

“It’s nothing,” Mireille replied, moving to block her mother’s hand.

As they reached the front door, something caught Mireille’s eye. Turning, she looked at the largemouth bass she and Papa had caught that day at Grandma and Grandpa’s house, mounted and hung above the fireplace in the living room.

“Take this to the car for me, Mama, please?” she said, handing the box to Mama. “I’ll be right out.”

Mama threw her a puzzled glance, but didn’t question her daughter, and walked out to the car.

Turning around again, Mireille found herself at the fireplace, standing on the elevated hearth. Using the mantle for support, she reached up, standing on her toes, and took down the dusty trophy. She cradled it gently in her arms, as if holding a baby, and walked out to meet her mother at the car, locking the front door of the house behind her, and saying a silent farewell.

When Mireille climbed into the car and shut the door, Mama threw her another puzzled look. “Why on earth would you want that old thing? I could never understand why your father loved that fish so much. He’d never take it down no matter how much I argued with him about it. I think that’s what finally made me leave him. I just couldn’t stand to look at it. It’s repulsive, that’s what it is.”

Mireille said nothing. Instead, she looked away from her mother and found herself staring into the glass eye of the fish, which, in turn, stared up at her. She barely noticed it when a solitary tear escaped her right eyes and slowly rolled down her cheek.

Then, bending forward, she kissed the fish.