What We Carry

The goldfish died three weeks ago. Marcus had won it for me at that seaside carnival in Brighton, back when we were twenty-three and believed that winning a tiny creature in a plastic bag counted as an accomplishment. We'd named it Fortinbras, kept it in a bowl on the windowsill of our first flat. It lived for seven years, which felt like some kind of miracle then.

Now, watching Marcus push the spinach around his plate, I thought about how much had changed since that carnival. His hair—thick, dark, falling over his eyes in that way I used to find so charming—was gone. Chemo had taken it first, then whatever remained he shaved off himself one Tuesday afternoon while I was at work. When I came home, the bathroom sink was lined with clumps like fallen nests.

"It's just spinach, Elena," he said, noticing me watching him. "I'm not hungry. That's all."

But it wasn't just spinach, and we both knew it. It was the way everything tasted like metal now. It was the way he'd lost kilos he couldn't spare. It was the oncologist's voice on the phone, careful and measured, delivering news that was never quite good enough.

"You need to eat something," I said, hearing how brittle my own voice sounded.

He set down his fork. "I've been thinking about that trip to Yosemite. Remember how we saw the bear?"

"I remember you trying to take a selfie with it."

"I was young and stupid. You grabbed my arm, practically dislocated my shoulder dragging me away." He smiled faintly. "You saved my life."

"Marcus—"

"No, listen. I've been thinking about how we bear things." His fingers found mine on the table. "We bear the weight of them, or we bear witness to them. I don't know which is harder."

The goldfish had lived its whole life in that bowl, swimming in circles, and I wondered now if it had minded. If it had looked through the glass and imagined something beyond. Maybe that's what we were all doing—swimming in whatever container we'd been given, pressing against the walls, waiting for someone to remember we were there.

"I'll make you a smoothie," I said, standing. "I can hide the spinach in it. You won't even taste it."

Marcus squeezed my hand before letting go. "You've always saved me, El. From bears. From myself. From this terrible spinach."

I started the blender, letting it drown out everything else for a while.