Fish out of Water

by Natalie Whipple

  I smile wide as the image of Dylan’s mantrum flits into my head. He was totally out of line, and though he ruined my mood it was nice to put him in his place. I laugh to myself like a dork. This poor fish will forever be tied to that memory. “I’ll have to call you Dill, sorry. Hopefully you won’t be as sour as your namesake.”

  The doorbell rings, and I shoot up from my bed in surprise. Not that we don’t have visitors, but my best friends—Shreya and Olivia—are either working or on vacation. Everyone knows my parents wouldn’t be home. I creep to the door and peek through the peephole, expecting a salesperson.

  All I see is a fluff of gray hair and the beginning of an old woman’s forehead. Our only elderly neighbor is Mr. Choi across the street, so I’m not sure what to expect when I unlock the door and turn the knob.

  “Hello, is this the Arlington residence?” she asks, looking me up and down in a way that makes me uncomfortable.

  “Yes?” For a second I wonder if she could be a reporter interested in my parents’ grant, but she seems a little too old and her clothes are more like pajamas than business attire. She can’t be here for an interview.

  “Are you the daughter?” I don’t have a clue who she is, but it feels as if she’s picking apart every inch of my face, clothing, and frame. “There are so many Orientals around here it’s hard to tell. You all look the same.”

  My eyebrows shoot up, and my tongue goes dry. Not that I’ve never heard a racial slur before, but most people at least try to be respectful.

  “Well?” she says when I stay mute. “Do you speak English? Or did your mother only teach you Japanese?”

  “Um … ” I force myself to swallow the shock. “Who are you again?”

  She sighs. “You don’t recognize me at all?”

  I try to look past her words, try to focus on not letting my anger boil over. I don’t know how old she is, but she looks at least as old as my Obaachan in Japan, who we video chat with every couple weeks. Her lips are completely gone, she’s heavy, and she sports a fairly visible mustache. Her eyes are a pretty hazel, even though she scowls at me. I can’t recall ever meeting her in my life. “I’m sorry, I don’t. Maybe you got the wrong Arlington?”

  Her frown deepens as she scratches her head, then her face goes oddly blank. Finally, she nods. “I could have. Sorry for taking up your time.”

  As awful as her comments were before, her apology is so sincere it takes me off guard. “Don’t worry about it. Hope you find who you’re looking for.”

  “Me, too.” She heads back down the path, makes a left onto the sidewalk, and I watch her as she reads house addresses. For a moment, I wonder if I should take her in. She didn’t seem dangerous. Maybe she’s really lost—majorly lost—and needs to call the police for help. Not that I have much to go on, but something felt off about her.

  Then I’m closing the door, and I’m back on the couch in front of my laptop, looking at Instagram and getting super jealous over Olivia’s pictures of some beach in Tahiti. Her mom has been saving up for years, but still. I want to be in Tahiti, not alone in my bedroom on a perfectly nice day. I remind myself I’ll soon be out on the bay, studying with my parents—that makes me feel much better.

  The home phone rings, and I pick it up even though no one important ever calls on it. “Hello?”

  “Uh, hi. Is this Mika, I’m guessing?”

  “Yes?” I swear I know the voice but can’t quite place it, so I decide not to hang up.

  “Great—I figured, since it’s summer and all. This is your Uncle Greg. Do you remember me?”

  “Yeah, of course!” That’s why he sounded familiar. Uncle Greg is Dad’s younger brother who lives in Seattle. We used to visit him every fall break when I was a kid, but it’s been years now. Dad’s not very close to his family, for some reasons I know and some I don’t. “How are you?”

  His laugh is a lot like Dad’s. “Okay. I was just wondering if your dad’s cell number changed, because the one I have isn’t working.”

  “Well, he got a new phone a couple years ago … ”

  “What’s the number?”

  I rattle it off, trying not to think about Uncle Greg having a cell number that’s over two years outdated. I may not have siblings, but I hope I’d talk to them more often than that if I did.

  “Great, thanks, Mika.” He hangs up without a goodbye, which makes me wonder what would be so urgent that he needs to talk to Dad right now.

  As I set the phone on its charger, the doorbell rings yet again, and the peephole reveals the same fluffy hair. When I answer, the woman examines me just like before and says, “Is this the Arlington residence?”

  I sigh. This woman is obviously lost and a little off her rocker. If I don’t help her, who will? “Come in, ma’am. I think it’s time to call the police.”

  Her eyes bug out. “Oh no, I’m just looking for the Arlingtons. Please don’t call the police.”

  I look at the clock in the living room. It’s ten to five. An hour at least before my parents get home, but I hate to think of this poor woman wandering the streets more than she already has. She seems harmless enough. “My parents aren’t home just yet, so how about dinner? Are you hungry?”

  Her eyes glisten with tears. “That would be lovely.”

  “I’m Mika.” I hold out my hand, and she takes it. “What’s your name?”

  “Betty Arlington.”

  Without thinking, I pull my hand from hers, too shocked to speak. It can’t be a coincidence, and now that she’s said her name I can see traces of Dad in her features even though I’ve never seen so much as a picture of my grandmother. Dad hasn’t spoken to her in decades, and I can’t imagine he’ll be excited to see her now.

  Chapter 3

  I only know a few things about my dad’s mom, and none of them are good. When I was old enough to realize I was missing a grandma, I asked about her. All my dad said was, “Mi-chan, Grandma Arlington wasn’t happy that I married Mommy, so we can’t talk to her until she gets over that.”

  I didn’t quite get it back then, but I took his word for it. As time passed I’ve learned to read through his carefully constructed statement. Because there are only a couple reasons why someone would disapprove of my intelligent, beautiful, kind mother, and those would fall into the racist category.

  From the few words I’ve exchanged with my grandmother today, it’s clear I haven’t been wrong about her prejudices all these years. But now that she’s in front of me I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do about it.

  “So … ” I manage to get out. “Betty, I take it you’re my dad’s mother?”

  “Is your dad named Stanley?”

  I nod.

  She sighs, like this is more disappointing than exciting, the first face-to-face with her granddaughter. “Told him his kids would look nothing like him.”

  I want to tell her she’s wrong, that I got things from my dad that are super obvious, like my stubby fingers instead of Mom’s skinny, long ones. I have a bigger bridge in my nose like him, too. And my hair is wavy, not my mom’s never-gonna-curl-ever hair. But I don’t tell her. I just stare, trying to figure out if I should make good on my dinner offer or not.

  “Aren’t you gonna let me in?” she asks.

  I jump out of the way before I can find the courage to say no. It won’t be long. At least I hope it won’t, because I already don’t want to be around her. She inspects our entryway with the same hard glare, and I head for the kitchen to find something decent to cook. It’s not as if my parents are champs in that field. They usually grab take-out on the way home.

  “You can sit here,” I say, pointing to the kitchen table. “Is there anything you don’t like or are allergic to?”

  “Nothing ethnic or spicy, please.” She sits, looking exhausted. “There are a lot of fish in this house.”

  “Marine biologists and fish go together, right?” I open the fridge and inspect the boxes of restaurant leftovers, wondering what exactly she means by “nothing et
hnic or spicy.” Does that include pizza? Because that’s Italian and pepperoni is spicy to some people. What about the enchiladas? And would Dad’s beloved Polska kielbasa also be ethnic? Or is it just the non-European stuff?

  I shouldn’t have offered to feed her.

  “I thought the fish would be a phase,” she says, smiling at the nearest tank with a dreamy, far off look. “If I’d known that book on marine life would have sparked all this … ”

  “You don’t like Dad’s job?” I settle on a can of chicken soup. Surely she can’t complain about chicken soup being anything but standard.

  She purses her lips. “His job is fine, except that he had to go away to college, and then on that internship to Japan, and work all the way across the country. Why he couldn’t just stay in Vermont … ”

  I didn’t know she lived that far away. “Isn’t Vermont landlocked?”

  “So?”

  I turn to the soup, deciding it’s better not to point out that a person who studies marine life might want to live by the ocean. If she understood these sorts of things, there wouldn’t have been problems to begin with. As I stir with one hand, I pull out my phone with the other. Even from the first ten minutes with this woman, I can tell Mom and Dad need a warning text.

  Did Uncle Greg get hold of you? I figure that’s why he called—he somehow found out that Betty was on her way here.

  Yes. Is everything all right? Dad sends back.

  We have an interesting visitor.

  We’re on our way.

  I breathe a sigh of relief. There is no way I’m capable of handling this situation, and honestly, I don’t want to. Betty doesn’t hide her displeasure with pretty much everything around her. Why did she even come? She’s obviously not here to make nice.

  “So your name’s Mika?” she says, but it sounds like my-kuh.

  “Mee-ka,” I say as I set the soup in front of her. No complaints, which I feel bad for expecting, but they do seem to spill out of her.

  “Have a middle name?”

  “Grace.”

  She nods. “Do you know why you got that name?”

  “Dad said he liked it.”

  She slurps down a spoonful of soup. “Of course he does. Grace was my stuck-up, free-thinking sister who thought everything he did deserved a trophy.”

  “Was?” I can’t bring myself to eat my soup, so I keep stirring it around and around. “Did she die?”

  “Twenty-five years ago.” Her spoon splashes soup onto the table when she sets it down. “And good riddance.”

  It’s kind of funny that my grandmother’s name is Betty, because all I can think when I look at her is bitter. She reeks of bitterness. I have no connection to this woman, even if I share her genes. It seems like I should have some positive emotions about meeting my grandmother, but I can’t feel anything but annoyance. An image of Dylan pops in my head, and I try not to laugh at how similar they are. He should be related to her, not me.

  We eat in silence for a while, and then I hear Mom and Dad’s car pull up in the driveway. Their footsteps are hurried, and when they reach the kitchen it looks as if they’re expecting to walk in on a scene from a horror movie. Dad in particular, his curls wild and mad-professorish. He even has his lab coat on still.

  “My, Stanley, you’ve gotten old,” Betty says.

  Mom looks to him, as if everything hangs on what he will say. I suppose it does.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  “Is that any way to greet your mother?”

  Dad clenches his jaw and it looks like he has a lot pent up, though nothing comes out. Finally, he takes a deep breath and attempts to tame his hair. “Yumi, Mika, if you wouldn’t mind I’d like to talk to my mother in private.”

  “Of course, honey, take your time,” Mom says.

  I open my mouth to protest, but Mom already has me by the wrist and half way out of the kitchen. I manage to get free by the time we reach the hall. “I want to know why she’s here! I’m the one who got to spend all this time dealing with her.”

  Mom puts her finger to her mouth. “He’s just trying to protect us. We’ll find out more listening to them from here, anyway.”

  Trying not to smile, I lean next to her on the wall. Sure enough, Betty makes no attempt to be quiet, her voice carrying through the house. “Looks like you’re pretty comfortable here, Stan. Gotta admit I hoped to find you divorced and eating humble pie.”

  I imagine Dad pinching the bridge of his nose, which is what he does when I talk back. “What do you want?”

  “Who said I wanted anything?”

  “You wouldn’t be here otherwise!” Dad’s voice is almost a yell. I have never heard him yell. “What do you need money for this time? Did you lose the trailer? Because I was shocked when Greg said you flew here.”

  “Jenny’s got the trailer. She kicked me out.” Betty says this as if it’s no big deal, but Jenny is Dad’s older sister. My aunt. Never met her, either.

  Dad scoffs. “And you thought I’d be more sympathetic?”

  “No.” The spoon and bowl clatter in the sink. “Just figured you’d have more money than your tree-hugger brother. What is it with you two and nature?”

  “I told you ten years ago I wasn’t giving you any more money.” Dad’s voice is so cold it’s hard to believe he’s speaking to his mother. He doesn’t talk like that to anyone.

  “I don’t need money. I need a place to stay.”

  “Even worse.”

  “Well, you ain’t got much choice, son, because I have Alzheimer’s and nowhere to go and no money to get there anyway. Spent the last of it flying here.”

  Dad doesn’t answer, and suddenly his footsteps are approaching. Mom and I scramble for my bedroom, shutting the door just in time to hear Dad stomp past and lock himself in his room.

  Chapter 4

  I sneak out of the house early next morning, deciding not to attempt breaking the angry silence that has fallen over my place. Last night my mom coaxed Betty into the guest room. I’m not sure how Mom ignored all the comments about ruining the family and the importance of staying loyal to one’s country and race, but she did. And then we all took to our rooms like the cast of some soap opera.

  “We clean the more populated tanks every day,” I say, though Dylan makes no attempt to listen to me. Instead, he tosses a pen, higher and higher each time. I try to take it from him, but he dodges. “Do I need to call your uncle?”

  “You’re the kid who used to tattle on people at recess, aren’t you?” He holds the pen up, way out of my reach.

  “No.” I give up, going back to the tank I’m cleaning. I so don’t have the patience for this today. “But this is work. We’re being paid to do a job, not to mess around.”

  He snorts. “Yeah, babysitting fish is majorly important.”

  “It is important. Every job is important.” I have a strong urge to grab the mop so I can scrub out my aggravation. Between Dylan and Betty showing up, my summer has turned into a disaster overnight. Think of the grant and the bay and the potentially hot college interns … it’s not all bad.

  There’s a long pause, but finally he says, “Why take such good care of an animal that can’t remember you for more than a few seconds?”

  I stop scrubbing, and for some reason Betty flashes through my mind. I don’t know much about Alzheimer’s, but I do know it makes you forget until your brain shuts down entirely. Maybe I don’t like her, but I do feel sorry for her. Even so, I hope Dad won’t let her stay with us. “Even if that were true—which it isn’t—shouldn’t we make every moment they remember a good one?”

  Dylan’s face does that same thing it did yesterday when I took my new fish home. If I knew him better, I might understand what it meant. It’s a mystery, and it remains one, since he walks away after that. I go back to work, happy not to have to deal with him more than absolutely necessary.

  Right before lunch, Clark shows up at the Aquatics island. He’s still brushing hair off himself, probabl
y having just fed the cats or dogs. “Hey, Mika, how goes the training?”

  I wince.

  “Say no more. Dylan is a pain, but try not to judge him too badly.”

  “Yeah, he’s making it hard.”

  Clark gives a tired sigh. “Let’s just say this summer isn’t turning out how he expected. I think we can win him over, though.”

  “With what? The catnip?”

  He laughs. “Maybe. Hey, so I know you’re about to clock out, but Tanya called in sick. You mentioned your parents’ study in the bay has been delayed—would you mind covering a couple more hours for a few days?”

  As much as I don’t want to be around Dylan more this afternoon, I figure it’s just as bad as going home to Betty. The idea that she’s still in my house at all makes me uncomfortable. “I guess I can do that.”

  “Thanks, Mika.

  “I’ll be back after lunch then.” I hate going out in public in my AnimalZone uniform, but I need some saag paneer just as much as I need Shreya. So I bike over to her family’s Indian restaurant, Shades of Bombay, where the noon rush is just slowing down as people head back to work. The tiny eatery is crammed between a nail salon and a tanning place, almost invisible in the non-descript strip mall, but all the locals know it’s the place to get curry.

  The front door dings as I walk in, and Shreya smiles when she sees me. “Mika! We’re still a bit packed but I’ll sneak you in back.”

  “Thanks.” As I head towards her, I try to ignore the angry glares of a few people waiting. My mouth waters at the smell of this place—the richness of the spices comforts me. Shades of Bombay is practically in my blood, what with my best friend owning it and my parents’ insatiable appetite for anything not cooked at home.

  Shreya gives me a warm hug when I get to her, and I sigh. “You have no idea how bad I need saag right now.”