Three Second Memory

The goldfish circled its bowl, orange scales catching the fluorescent light of the hospice room. Marcus had brought it three days ago, claiming his mother needed something alive in here, something that didn't smell like antiseptic and impending death. Evelyn watched the fish make its endless loop, its mouth opening and closing in silent observation.

"It's peaceful," she said, though Marcus knew she wasn't talking about the fish.

He smoothed the blanket across her legs, his fingers trembling. "I thought you might like it."

"I liked the cat better."

The cat—a stray that had wandered in from the garden—sat curled on the windowsill, golden eyes watching them with that particular feline indifference to human suffering. It had taken to visiting Evelyn every afternoon, as if on a schedule. Marcus had tried to shoo it out twice. The third time, Evelyn had grabbed his wrist with surprising strength.

"Let him stay," she'd said. "He doesn't look at me like I'm already dead."

Now, he reached into his pocket and produced the vitamin bottle. The pills rattled against the plastic—prescription strength D, calcium, magnesium, a whole cocktail of supplements the doctor had recommended when they'd first gotten the diagnosis. Six months of daily doses, and here they were anyway.

"Time for your vitamins, Mom."

She turned away from the fish to face him, and for a moment, she was sharp and present and terrifyingly lucid. "Marcus, sweetheart, stop. Please."

"The doctor said—"

"The doctor said six months. We're at month eight. I think we can stop pretending the vitamins are going to fix what's broken."

He set the bottle on the nightstand. The cat shifted on the sill, its tail flicking against the glass. Outside, an autumn wind rattled the dying leaves.

"I keep thinking," Evelyn said, watching the goldfish complete another circuit, "that fish has a three-second memory. Every lap around that bowl is brand new. No past, no future. Just now. Over and over again."

"That's a myth," Marcus said automatically. "They actually remember things for months."

She smiled, and it was the smile she'd given him when he was six and tried to explain away a broken window with physics. "I know. But don't you wish sometimes?"

He didn't answer. He thought about all the moments he wanted back, all the ones he'd rather forget, and how neither option was available to him. The cat jumped from the sill and padded across the floor to rub against his leg.

"I'm tired," she said. "Close the curtains."

He did, and when he turned back, she was already asleep, her breathing shallow but steady. The goldfish swam its endless loop. The cat curled at the foot of her bed. And the vitamin bottle sat on the nightstand, a small monument to all the things they couldn't fix.