Our goldfish, Melon, died last night.
Our 6-year-old had “earned” this goldfish for not crying when she had to switch schools last year. We moved from New York City to Connecticut in May of last year, and so she had to finish out kindergarten at a new school with children who’d been together for months. I knew it would be difficult. She is a notorious crier.
Our move was stressful, and coming as it did on the heels of the sudden deaths of both my mother-in-law and my father, I knew I couldn’t handle two weeks of prying the fingers of my sobbing child off my pants leg. So, I did what all desperate parents do in times of crisis: I bribed her.
If she didn’t cry, I promised, she’d get a goldfish.
My daughter used every ounce of the 36 pounds on her teeny-tiny frame to ward off tears. She faked smiles with pools in her eyes. She gave herself red splotches on the face and quivered with determination. But she didn’t – didn’t! – cry.
As it happened, it took us 8 months to follow through on the promise of the goldfish. A few Sundays ago, my husband took her to the new fish store in town. In a sea of goldfish, she chose the ostentatiously HUGE one. I thought (knew?) this was a bad sign.
Our daughter arrived home, saturated with joy, carrying her plastic bag like it was a new baby.
A few names were tossed about. I rejected “Rainbow” and “Goldie” outright. Too girly. Too clichéd. She then wanted to name her “Mary,” since she’d recently mastered the “Hail Mary” prayer. I was a little reluctant – would that have been blasphemous? – but okayed it. My daughter changed it to “Melon” after seeing a Honeydew melon, cut open, on our kitchen table.
Melon struggled from the get-go. We didn’t have a filter. We got suckered into buying fluorescent gravel for the bottom of the tank. Long story short, Melon (we think) got ammonia poisoning and then went into shock. Her final hours were brutal.
She swam backward. Eyed us pleadingly. Waved her fins listlessly. Then, at about noon yesterday, she lay on the bottom of the tank on her side. My husband and I had surreptitious and panicked chats in the kitchen. We searched obsessively on the Internet, changing tabs quickly to avoid our children seeing photos of cancerous goldfish.
Melon’s breathing became labored.
“We have to get rid of her!” I whispered. “This is too hard to watch!”
“Do you want me to EXECUTE her?” my husband asked incredulously.
Well, no. But we had to get out of the house. I took the 6-year-old to get the car serviced. My husband texted me: “Melon’s struggling. I don’t think she’s going to make it.”
“Can’t she even hang on until we get home? DO SOMETHING!” I typed back, angling the cell phone away from my daughter.
All through dinner, Melon lay on the bottom of the tank. Her gills lurched in erratic gasps; bubbles collected on her fins.
“What’s wrong with Melon?” our daughter asked, eyebrows furrowed.
The lies flowed forth. They were scattershot:
She’s resting.
She was probably sick when we got her.
She’s happy to be here instead of in an impersonal pet store. She’s spending her final hours with her favorite people (!).
Maybe God wants Melon.
Clara cried and cried. We all knew the end was near. Her shoulders slumped. She stood up on the stool and waved goodbye before going upstairs to brush her teeth. She held her plastic rosary beads tight at bedtime.
At about 8 p.m., shortly after our daughter fell asleep, Melon’s body sort of … arched upward. The gill-gasps no longer came. She was gone.
My husband and I discussed end-of-life plans. Burial? The backyard is covered in snow. The sewer? I think, bless her heart, Melon qualifies as waste. Wouldn’t want to get a fine.
So, my husband, brave fellow that he is, did a ceremonial flush.
This morning was filled with more lies.
“Daddy took her to the pond across the street and put her in there.”
This afternoon, walking along the pond, Clara stared longingly into the pond. “Bye, Melon,” she said plaintively. Then, while hanging over the bridge and inspecting the water closely, “Where, exactly, did you put her?”
I felt God’s wrath.
Any theologians out there? I’m sorry for my lies, on principle. But they worked out exactly as I wanted them to, so I guess that doesn’t qualify as real sorry.
Aren’t “gold” lies better than white lies?