What We Keep

The multivitamin sat on her nightstand, a innocent-looking orange oval that had become the centerpiece of our mornings. Maria held it between her thumb and forefinger, examining it like a gemstone she wasn't sure she wanted to swallow anymore.

"Three years," she said, not looking at me. "Three years of these, and the prenatal vitamins, and the CoQ10, and everything else they said would fix what's wrong with us."

I watched her from the doorway, noticed how the **water** from her still-damp hair had left a darkening pattern on the pillowcase. Her hair had started thinning at the temples last month—a side effect she'd laughed off at first, then cried about in the shower where she thought I couldn't hear.

"We can stop," I said. "We don't have to keep—"

"No. I want to." She swallowed the vitamin without water, a defiant little convulsion of her throat. Then she turned to face me, and I saw how carefully she was holding herself together. "But I need you to do something for me."

"Anything."

She walked to the dresser and picked up the small glass bowl. Inside, a single **goldfish**—Carotene, she'd named him ironically—swam in slow, patient circles. We'd bought him on our first anniversary, back when we were young enough to think a pet was practice for something bigger.

"Flush him," she said.

"Maria—"

"Please. I can't keep pretending we're building a life for things that grow." Her voice cracked, just once. "I can't look at him and remember what we thought we'd have by now."

I took the bowl. The fish stared back with those unblinking, terrible eyes that saw everything and nothing. Later that night, after she was finally asleep, I carried it to the bathroom. I watched the water spiral down, taking the last bright thing from the apartment we'd filled with hope we couldn't afford to lose anymore.

In bed, I smoothed the damp hair from her forehead. She didn't wake. In the morning, she took her vitamin without comment, and we pretended not to notice the empty space on the dresser where a bowl used to be. Some losses are too small to name, too large to survive.