The low, blue light from the tanks is relaxing, meditative, even, and though the aquarium is loud with the sounds of small children rushing about and pointing out fish to one another, it’s still peaceful. Maybe it’s womb-like, I don’t know.
We stare at the turtles for ages and laugh about the description plaque, stating that all of these turtles were donated by families who no longer wanted them as pets when the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle craze passed.
“They’re a bit like me,” Jen says, “my parents kinda donated me to Michelle’s family when the novelty wore off.”
I don't know if she wants me to laugh, but I don't think it's funny. The smile slips off my face and suddenly these turtles are tragic figures, metaphors for the cruel, shallow nature of humanity. We just toss living creatures aside and flush them down toilets as soon as they are no longer trendy. Usually Jen would be impressed that I had such a liberal thought without first seeing it somewhere on the internet and adopting it as my own opinion, but I can sense it’s not really the right time to start a discussion about consumerism, or whatever.
“I’m sorry about your mam today,” I say, “I would have expected she’d at least have the decency to say hello.”
Jen pauses for a long moment. I let the silence go on, and am beginning to think she won’t answer at all when she says, “I don’t know what I expected, to be honest.”
“It’s probably normal to expect your own mother to acknowledge you in public.”
“I just wonder if she’s missed me at all in the last two years.”
I don’t know what to say, “...I’m sure she has.”
“I doubt it, to be honest,” She stares dejectedly into the tank, “She’s had a lot of chances to reach out and make up, I just feel like she won’t do it if she hasn’t done it by now. I think that part of me thought she’d care more, I suppose, but then again I’m not really surprised that she doesn’t. She only had kids because people would have thought it was weird if she didn't.”
“Yeah but if she didn't then I wouldn't have a best friend.”
“You'd be best friends with some other loser if I didn’t exist.”
“Well, I'm glad it's you, is all.”
“I just think it’s a pity when… when love is supposed to be, like, unconditional, but it isn’t. You’re meant to love your kids no matter what, so I just think that if you’re going to give up on them as soon as they do, or… or are something that you don’t approve of then why would you have them?”
“I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“Ugh,” she shoves me lightly and turns to sit on a nearby bench facing another tank of fish, “Obviously I know, I was just saying.”
I join her, “I know, I feel the same way about my parents, sort of.”
“Well, I mean, it’s different too, isn’t it? Because Chris and Colette actually do love you.”
I hesitate, “I think they love what I do for them and all, how convenient it is for me to be around and helping with things at home, but I don't know if that's proper love.”
“That’s probably not everything you are to them, like, yeah, you help your mom out with the parenting thing when your dad refuses to be involved with it and that’s hard, but I don’t think they’d ever kick you out of the house and try to forget you were ever born. They brought you with them, didn’t they? When they moved to Ireland, and they didn't have to do that.”
I wish they didn’t. Sometimes I wish they’d just abandoned me at aunt Maureen’s house and let me grow up like the normal American kid I was on track to be, doing normal American kid things like blissfully finger painting awful, shit butterfly pictures in elementary school and going to summer camps with campfires and raft building activities.
Memories of the desert are lit up in technicolour for me now, so clear that I swear I can still taste the air. It was drier, sweeter than the air here. It smelled different too, carrying some indescribable scent that only snapped back into my consciousness when I visited again two years ago and I've had a hard time not yearning for it since. Everything was beautiful. At the house that I used to call my home I would carry my breakfast out to the terrace, hopping on flagstone scorching already from the sun, and just look at the distant mountains, jagged blue, for ages, while the Rio Grande shimmered like a mirage in the dust land below.
It's because of Ivy that we left, though I still don’t know why my parents thought that bringing another child into the world, on purpose this time, would somehow fix all of the tears in the fabric of their marriage. And what about me? What kind of real, genuine good was lifting me out of the place that was making me so happy? But I know it's too late to waste time wondering, and if I ask them they'll just repeat what they've always said about how raising children would be better in Europe, as if they would even know.
“Yeah,” I say to Jen, “I guess that proves they love me.”
“I know what your problem is,” she says, and I’m curious enough about hearing it summed up that I look at her, the tanks throwing moving shapes and colours across her face, “You’ve just forgotten how to talk to them, like, how to really talk about how you feel, and they’ve forgotten how to do the same with you.”
“Hm.”
“You and I are good at talking, I think. We can talk about anything, even really hard things, even when we get upset about it, so I know you have it in you to do the same with your parents, you just won’t. You’re just too awkward now because you’re used to the way that it is, but I think if you just tried to change your habits then you’d probably find that they’d do the same with you.”
I nod. I don’t really know what she’s saying, but it sounds wise in that oh-so-very Jen way.
“Maybe your parents want to be close to you too,” she continues, “you really don’t know. Maybe they’re just scared that you’ll push them away, and I know you’re scared of the same thing so you’re all just walking around on eggshells trying very hard not to get hurt.”
“Do you think so?”
“Well, they could have just not had you, but they did. They got married because of you, and they wanted to bring you here with them. They still take you on holidays and buy you school supplies and nice clothes and fancy gifts, and even though you are the worst behaved boy of all time you don't get punished half as harshly as you should. Mine learned I was gay and changed the bloody locks,” she sighs, “You’re a lucky boy, actually, like it or not.”
It's always hard to talk about her parents, not just because they were awful, but the casual way that Jen speaks of the event, like she's just repeating some bland school gossip she heard in the locker room. I know it hurts her. It must. The destruction they have done to her is immeasurable, and Jen has become so good at covering it all up, but I know her better than anybody. She’s vulnerable, sensitive and easily hurt, and even when her face doesn’t show it her eyes do. She knows I can tell, which is probably why she refuses to look at me for several moments and turns her face towards the shark tank to her left.
As for my parents, maybe she’s right, maybe I don’t know how good I really have it, and if I tried to talk to them more I’d be pleasantly surprised by the things they have to say. There are worse parents than mine, evidently.
We don’t speak again. I just sit close to her in silence while we watch the fish swim and weave between the rising bubbles in their tanks, fluid, free, mindless, until it is time to catch the DART home again.
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