Fish Out of Water (3 page)

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 ethnic 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, probably 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 toward 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.”

“Uh oh.” Her warm brown eyes fill with concern. It’s funny how the color is about the same as mine, and yet I always see hers as warm and mine as cold. Maybe it’s the difference in skin tone—I’m paler, like my dad. “I have a break in ten. I’ll meet you then, ’kay?”

I nod.

“Mom! Mika’s coming back!” she yells.

“Okay!” I hear from behind the kitchen door, and then Shreya is off to tend tables.

The kitchen air is hot and thick with curry. Her father and three older brothers work the line, and her mother stands at the pass making sure all the food goes out perfectly. She analyzes me when I sit at the table in the corner. Her long hair fights to escape the scarf she uses to cover it. “Let me guess…
saag paneer.
”

I smile. “How did you know?”

She holds up her hands. “It’s a gift. Or I’ve taken your curry order for years.”

I laugh. She probably has my family’s favorites memorized.

Shreya comes in just as her mom sets down my food. I grab the
naan,
warm and soft and the best of breads, and stuff my face. I’ve learned if I go for the curry first, I’ll burn my tongue and ruin the meal. As I spoon
saag
and rice onto my plate, everything feels better. It may look like green mush with white bits in it, but it’s magic. I take a bite, and the spice with the silky
paneer
cheese makes all the bad feelings go away.

“Do I need to get you a room?” Shreya asks, one of her thick eyebrows arched.

“Yes.” The food garbles the word, but I don’t care. “And
The Princess Bride
.”

She laughs. “Did you break up with a secret boyfriend? It’s been a while since you had one.”

“You speak as if I’m never single.”

“I just thought you’d have found someone else by now. You broke up with Cyrus, what, two months ago?”

I nod. It was right before Prom, since I didn’t want to complicate things with him going off to college anyway. “It wasn’t
that
long ago, though I gotta admit I really miss the kissing and—”