The Goldfish in Her Pocket

You know that thing about goldfish having three-second memories? That's a lie. El was a marine biologist before the accident; she told me goldfish remember for months. They recognize faces. They form attachments. They remember who feeds them.

I've been running — not the therapeutic kind, the fleeing kind. Three cities in six months. Every time I slow down, I see the way she looked at me in that hospital room, the tubes, the machines, her voice rasping out promises we both knew she couldn't keep. Take care of Barnaby. He's more resilient than he looks.

Barnaby is her goldfish. A comet-tailed monstrosity the color of burnt orange, currently swimming in inadequate circles in a mason jar on the nightstand of my sixth Airbnb. I should upgrade his tank. I should stop moving. I should call my mother.

I should have been there.

The friend who introduced us, Sarah, keeps texting. Come home, she writes. It's been eight months. You can't run forever. But she's wrong. I can. I'm good at it now. I've learned to pack my life in a carry-on, to leave without saying goodbye, to exist in the spaces between destinations.

Barnaby rises to the surface, mouth opening and closing in that silent, perpetual gasp. El's last act was entrusting me with a creature who can survive anything. Sometimes I think it's a test. Other times, I think it's punishment.

Tonight, watching the streetlights flicker through cheap blinds, I realize: I'm not running from the pain. I'm running from the moment I stop feeling it. Because if Barnaby can remember for months, then what does that make me? The goldfish has more loyalty than I do. She's dead, and I'm still leaving.

I set the mason jar on the passenger seat, start the engine. One more city. Just one more. Then I'll stop.

I promise.