In this short memoir, ninth-grader Cindy N. recalls a mistake with a nostalgic smile at her younger self.
Artwork by Adam E., Grade 9
Curiosity Killed the Fish
The
large front doors of the house were swung open to the rest of Vietnam. The
bright sunlight from outside flooded the house, illuminating the white tiles of
the floor that jolted my body awake when my bare feet would run on top of the
dirt and dust gliding into the house from motorcycles and the other vehicles
speeding past.
Like
a crow among a group of doves, despite the bright atmosphere of the room, my
grandfather's fish tank stuck out like a sore thumb. The dark, murky background
of the tank made the water look like a translucent green and the long, flat,
sliver fish that had a face of a bully with two whiskers hanging from the sides
glided along peacefully inside. My grandparents already warned me that the
angry strip of sliver was a carnivorous beast and would try to eat any piece of
meat it laid its eyes on. I pressed my tiny finger against the glass and felt
the soft vibrations of the water whirring underneath my skin. As soon as its
flat, iridescent eye caught sight of the warm, chunk of human meat sitting on
top of the glass, it flicked its head at my direction in one swift movement. I
flinched at its sudden sense of hunger and felt my breathing stop as the fish
lunged at my finger with its mouth open in a famished frenzy.
A
plunk echoed in my head as the glass collided with its face. My body propelled
itself backwards as I drew my hand back to make sure my finger was still there.
I looked around and let out a sigh of relief that no one had seen me in my mini
state of panic.
"Cindy!"
I heard my grandfather call me from his spot on the couch in the living room. I
scanned myself, so no question would be asked about what I was doing and
scampered over to where he was sitting. I hopped over the massive step that led
into the living room and forced myself not to look at the brown and yellow
pinky toe he injured during the Vietnam War.
"Yes?" I regarded him
politely.
He placed a dirty gold colored coin
in my small hand.
"Go buy some food for the fish," he
told me. I rubbed the coin in my hand, feeling its oldness and nodded my head
as a sign of acceptance of his mission and that I'd be leaving.
With
a smile on my face, I turned myself around and dashed through the specks of
dust to find my open-toed sandals that were beginning to look beat up from my
growing feet. I felt excited that I was sent to the store two houses down,
filled with all kinds of fish swimming around in the tank and different types
of nets with fishes flipping and flopping itself around, gasping for water.
Even if I wasn't sent there with a coin in my hand, sometimes I would bring my
younger sister and cousins over to stand and stare until the shop owner would
give me a questioning look. But it was always a proud moment for myself to
enter the store every morning with money in hand to complete my daily job.
I
jumped over bumps and cracks in the sides of the road, holding down the skirt
of my favorite red dress and waited to find the stream of water trickling down
the side of the road from the employees cleaning out the tanks and dumping
dirty water filled with fish germs onto the pavement outside the store. Now, I walked
slower with more caution, hoping that a stream of liquid wouldn't flood my
shoes. People scuttled in and out the doors with bags of fish worriedly
swimming back and forth. I squeezed past the legs of a man and woman exiting
and stopped to look at the many fish the store had to offer. The store's red
tiled floor was stained with blotches of water and wet footprints. And against
the walls, large fish tanks desperately tried to look appealing in the dark,
dingy place.
The
slender, tanned store owner didn't give me "the look" and I muttered
the phrase of Vietnamese my grandfather told me to repeat to him, which I only
half understood. The man smiled under his sweat from the warm climate, laughing
to himself at every mistake I made saying that one sentence. He walked over to
one of the fish tanks and I waddled along behind him, unsure if he wanted me to
stay where I was. He scooped some water
into a plastic bag and I watched as a waterfall of small fish plopped into the
bag one by one. I could see the shock in their eyes as they fell into the bag,
but quickly adapting to their temporary, plastic home. I took the bag of fish
from the man's bony hand and dropped the coin into his palm, hoping Grandfather
gave me enough money to pay. When I noticed the satisfied look in the man's
eyes, I turned around and shuffled back home while talking to my new friends
silently.
Stumbling
over the bumps and cracks I was attentively avoiding before, I found my way
back home where I handed over my friends to my grandfather who was waiting for
me at the door. My eyes observed his large, brown hands easily undo the rubber
band wrapped around the bag and let the fish relive the shock of being poured
into a new home again. The shock soon changed into fear when the colossal,
silver fish vacuumed one fish after another into its mouth. Once it ate enough
fins and scales, it glided around the tank with a full belly, gazing at its
leftovers it saved for lunch.
I
plopped myself onto the ground resting my arms, on the khaki, metal table that
the tank rested upon. I let the frigid feeling from the metal seep into my skin
and stared up at the different colors of fish, fascinated by creatures that
could breathe underwater. A heavy hand tapped my head a few times and I heard
my grandfather ask me, "You like to look at the fish?"
I
looked at him in the eyes, "Yes," I said quietly, slightly afraid of
this old man whom I've never really spoken to before. He smiled at me and gave
my head one last pat before leaving to his room for an afternoon nap. I watched
his back as he headed for his room, his belly jiggled up and down through the
white tank top he wore every day, matching the rhythm of the ripples that
flowed across his loose, grey shorts. I didn't know why I was scared of him,
but his raspy voice combined with the seriousness of his face, freaked me out
at times when he walked into the room.
The
fish continued to swim in circles, occasionally changing directions if something
suddenly scared them. But as they continued to swim, I gradually got bored. I
stood back up, and tried to shake the pins and needles out of my feet. My
clumsy hand had a mind of its own during the process of waking up my feet;
several "bwonks" traveled through the air after my palm slapped a
bottle out of its resting place. I glanced down at the item that could possibly
earn me a scolding and laughed at myself for getting worked up over a tiny
bottle of soap. It was at that moment that something in my mind clicked.
I
scooped the smooth, sleek bottle Into my hand
and grinned as I was transported into a world where fish could do more
than swim and eat each other. As the fish monotonously open and close their
lips on the hinges of their mouths, bubbles popped out of their bodies with
every breath they took. Giggling at the idea, my curiosity had to know if such
a brilliant idea would work. My eyes surveyed the room and made sure the coast
was clear before attempting my scientific experiment. If someone walked in on
me, the excitement of making such a discovery would diminish and I would have
to share my fame with another person. I allowed my eyes to scan the area once
again, taking note that my mom was in the living room with her attention affixed
to the television, my grandparents still in their room, and my aunts watching
multiple babies stuffed in one room while my uncles worked.
The
step stool was too heavy for me to lift, and made a deafening screech when I
pushed it to the side of the tank. I cringed at the ear-splitting noise and
winced when I heard my mom.
"Cindy!"
She called. It was loud enough for me to hear, yet soft enough so my
grandparents could sleep.
I
paused. Should I reply? Is she going to come in if I don't? Mom didn't
wait for a reply, in a distracted tone she hollered, "What are you doing
in there?"
I
paused again. What do I say? "Just playing with the fish!"
There
was no reply. That meant I was safe. It meant my mom went back to enjoying her
relationship with the TV.
Getting
back to my experiment, I climbed up the black rubber steps of the mini ladder,
making me feel like I was tall enough to pat my parents on the head rather than
vice versa. I gawked at the fish tank below me. What if I fall in?
Alarmed, I backed down to a height where I wouldn't topple into the tank and
observed the silver fish I hated so much from above. He was still swimming and
frightening the scales off the other fish when he got near.
"The
scary fish won't seem as scary when he's blowing bubbles every time he opens
his mouth," I coaxed the smaller fish. With one hand, I coolly flicked
opened the soap bottle and squeezed a couple of drops into the gurgling water.
I
hopped off the step stool and looked into the tank. Nothing happened. The fish
continued to swim and no bubbles were visible. I spilled some more soap into
the water and clenched my fists in frustration. The water still looked the same
murky, green and the silver bully was still scaring the other fish. As a final
attempt at my experiment, I poured the entire bottle of the translucent, liquid
soap into the tank and waited. Nothing.
It
was more fun having the fish try to bite off my finger,
I thought. And at the thought, I placed
my finger on the glass, mocking the silver fish to come after the delightful
meal my finger would make. Like I predicted, he hit his head on the glass in
attempt to eat my finger. For what felt like a century, I continued playing my
sick joke on the fish until I noticed he was slowing down and coming to a stop.
Finally
bored out of my mind, I sat next to my mom on the sofa and became the third
wheel in her love life with her favorite television series. I sat there,
listening to people blabbering Vietnamese back and forth to each other
dramatically and decided that I've had enough of all the crying, shouting, and
annoying kisses of the show. I bounced off the couch and dashed back to the
fish tank to see if they were blowing bubbles yet. I thrust my face in front of
the tank to make observations and smiled to myself with the pleasant thought that
I've discovered something that no one else has.
I
found the fish sleeping.
Excitement
ran through my veins and I scurried back to my mom with the great news.
"Mom! Mom!" She nodded her head to show she was
listening, when she really wasn't. I lowered my voice, "I found the fish
sleeping!"
It took her a while to pretend to process what I was telling
her, "Good for you sweetie."
I was irked that she wasn't as excited as I was about my amazing
discovery and tugged at her, "Come look!"
"Let me finish my show!" She said, brushing me off.
Luckily, at that moment, the commercial break began and I knew my mom wasn't
interested in watching desperate salespeople interrupt her show. After a few
more moments of consistent pulling, my mom gave in and I pushed her from her
rear end towards the tank.
I stood proudly in front of the tank, gesturing my hands at it
as if I were showing off a very gloomy first place trophy. She glanced at the
tank, irritated that I was wasting her TV time.
"The fish..." I paused to build suspense, "are
sleeping." The sun shone on my back and I stood there, waiting for my
mom's reaction. But the reaction she gave me was not what I expected.
She paused and squinted at the tank, and after several seconds,
broke into hysterics. I felt the ends of my eyebrows shoot up in confusion and
took another look at the tank. Every single fish had floated to the top of the
water, bobbing on their sides, napping their worries away as the current pushed
them in a circle. It was just how I left my sensational breakthrough, so why
was she laughing?
"Cindy," my mom managed to say between wheezes of cackling.
"They aren't sleeping. You killed them."
Her relentless laughing continued as my cheeks became bright, red
tomatoes and salty water engulfed my eyes. What am I going to do when
Grandfather finds out? I was already afraid of him when he wasn't mad at me
and I didn't want to have to face him when he truly was angry. He cherished
that fish and I knew that malicious fish costs more money than I could lay my
hands on. Now I've killed him and my beloved fish friends. And my grandfather
was going to wake up from his daily afternoon nap very soon.
I froze in fear thinking over what I was going to do, but my mind was a
blank page. I didn't know what to do or what to say once my grandfather woke
up. I looked at my mom laughing infinitely and didn't know what to think of the
situation until I heard the distinct squeak of my grandfather 's bedroom door.
One word appeared on my page of thoughts: Run.
My legs looked for the closest exit out of the room. I wouldn't
know where to go if I left the house and I couldn't risk heading in the
direction of my grandfather's room. The stairwell that connected the living
room to the second floor was close enough for me to reach before my grandfather
came out. I dashed up it as fast as I could of all the upstairs rooms I
could've chosen to hide in, I chose the bathroom.
My feet splashed
through puddles of water in the very blue, spacious bathroom, leaving wet,
brown footprints behind from walking in dirt and dust all day. I found a dry
spot besides the toilet and crouched behind it, hoping my grandfather wouldn't
find me here.
I prayed that no one
had used the toilet yet and no stinky smell would enter my nose any time soon.
I stared at the bathroom door through tears from behind my knees, wishing I had
never conducted my experiment. I was clueless about what to do to make things
right again. I cowered besides the pungent toilet, sobbing about my possible
punishments.
"Cindy!" I
heard one of my aunts call my name from the hallway. "It's okay. You can
come out!"
I was progressively
getting tired of sitting next to a toilet and having my feet soaked in bathroom
water. This is probably enough punishment already, I thought and pulled
myself up, shaking the pins and needles of my feet from sitting there for so
long. I grasped the metal doorknob of the door and pulled it open, expecting
someone to be standing there and drag me to face my grandfather. But the
hallway was empty.
I really didn't want
to spend any more quality time with the toilet and decided to go downstairs to
get it over with. I peered into the living room below and saw my entire family
gathered in one spot, questioning my mom about what happened. Finally, my mom
caught sight of me and beckoned me to come downstairs. Slowly, but steadily, I
crept my way down the marble steps and made my dramatic entrance as a convict
into the living room filled with smiles and laughter. As soon as I walked in, I
made eye contact with my grandfather and was pushed down the long line of
people until I was standing directly in front of him.
He held both of his
hands out with his palms facing upward in front of me. At first, I thought it
meant that he wanted me to do the same, so he could smack his large, meaty
hands against my palms to show that my hands have done a bad thing. But
instead, he pulled me into a hug and placed me on his lap to kiss me on the
forehead.
"It's okay,"
he told me. "I'm not mad."
***
Almost ten years
passed after I committed my crime when I was five and now I'm visiting my
family in Vietnam again. I still feel guilty for taking away the lives of
innocent creatures, even though the silver fish could be considered a murderer
for eating other fish, but that would be like saying every human is a murderer
for eating hamburgers or pepperoni pizza. Looking back at the time when I was
really bold and didn't care about how I looked, I realize I didn't like my
grandfather at the time because of his appearance. But after my mom told me
that one of my aunts were afraid of me because I didn't smile as often, I
understand how my grandfather must've felt when he figured out why I was so
fearful of him back then.
One night, my mom
called me into her room and placed the home phone into my now much bigger hand,
before I could say anything. I felt my mom's warmth transfer to my ear as I
placed it against the side of my phone and said, "Hello?"
A deep, raspy voice
replied, "Hello. Cindy?"
"Grandfather?"
I asked, even though I already knew it was him. As I asked about how he was and
if anything new was going on, my mom told me about how he's been drinking
lately and didn't feel so good. A pang of sadness hit me and I had no idea what
to say to him besides the cliché, "I hope you feel better."
"Tell him to stop
drinking," my mom whispered to me.
"Grandfather,
stop drinking," I repeated into the phone. With help from my mom, I was
able to develop a conversation with him that had all the aspects of "feel better soon" and "I love
you. I can't wait to see you soon."
"I will," my
grandfather replied.
"You need to stay
healthy, so we can hang out when I come home this summer. If you're sick, we
won't be able to do anything."
"I will," he
repeated again.
"Promise
me?"
"I promise."
After another
conversation of a different topic with many awkward pauses in between, I hung
up and carelessly tossed the phone onto the bed and climbed in besides my mom,
making the bed squeak and creak on the way.
"You know,"
my mom said after I made myself comfortable, "he only listens to
you."
"Oh," I
blankly said, unsure what to say.
"This problem has
been going for a while now, but your grandfather won't listen to me and the
rest of your aunts and uncles."
I wasn't sure if I'd
be the solution to this, but I didn't want to argue with my mom this late at
night. "Do you think he'll get better?" I asked.
"You're special
to him," she said. "He really cares about the first-born child of our
family."
A smile spread across
my face in the darkness of the room, "I wish I was closer to him,
Mom."
"I think you're
already closer to him than anyone else." With those words, thoughts of my
grandfather filled my head, rocking me to sleep. I fell asleep that night,
hoping my mom's words were true.
About two weeks later,
my mom reported to me that Grandfather gave up his excessive drinking and his
health was gradually getting better. Normally, you'll rarely find my family
saying "I love you," since we're people of expressions rather than people
of words. But I was terrible at both and didn't know how to tell my grandfather
that I was proud of him, that I missed him, or that I loved him, so I didn't
say or do anything. Instead, I let my feelings transfer through my mom to reach
my grandfather since her words and expressions were far better than mine.
"Remember to stay
healthy, so I can see you again," were the words I said to my grandfather
the next time we spoke on the phone. I
just hoped that he could see through the layers of my words.
I don't talk to my
grandfather often, and I think that's the only full-length conversation we've
ever had that I can remember. But while I was talking, the thoughts I had about
him as a five-year old were completely different than the thoughts I had when I
spoke to him on the phone. I now look at the scary, old man as my grandfather
who has to take of me and in return, I have to take care of him. I don't see
him often and I don't speak to him often even in person, but between the two of
us, there's a relationship we share that can't exactly be described in just
words.
Instead of my
grandfather owning silver fish, the hobby has moved onto my new uncle who
recently married my aunt. The new family bully swims around luxuriously in his
glass tank, waiting for his meals to fall into his possession. I occasionally
find little replicas of my murder weapon sitting beside his tank after my uncle
cleans his tank with the soap. And I still make fun of the little guy by
mocking him with the delicious finger of mine whenever I get bored or want to
entertain my younger cousins.
I stare at the fish
flick its tail in the new tank, daring me to put my finger in the water.
"Don't do
it," I hear, flinching at the fact that I wasn't alone. I turn around to
see my youngest uncle, who was the one responsible of cleaning up the crime
scene ten years ago.
"I won't," I
say, thinking he thought I was going to dip my finger into the home of a
ferocious monster.
"I don't want to
have to empty another tank of carcasses because of those murderous hands of
yours," he jokingly told me.
I laughed at his
humorous take on my misdeed. After several chuckles, I smiled to myself,
knowing that eventually someone else's curiosity will end up killing the fish.
-- Cindy Nguyen, Grade 9
