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Guppies and Anemones, Blobfish and The Like

A story about love, memories, and all the blue that lives in the ocean.

By Diara Alvarado Published about a year ago Updated about a year ago 9 min read
Top Story - December 2022
16

My name is not Radish, but it's been my nickname since I could remember. Papa is partly responsible for it. I was born with perpetual flushing cheeks, and Papa couldn't help but find them the most adorable thing in the world, kissing them or pinching them. Later we found out the red patches on my skin were caused by rosacea. So, Radish stayed.

Anyway, we are not here to talk about my persistent facial redness or dry, itchy skin.

We are here because I haven't been okay since Papa's diagnosis. My therapist is adamant that I write my feelings down, something about having a better coping mechanism other than pushing them away, burying them deeper and deeper. So, here we are.

It started slowly, then all at once. I was the first to realize that there was something wrong with Papa. In the beginning, it was the simple things, like the fact that he likes his coffee black or that he had to pick up his suits from the dry cleaner every other Saturday.

Then, he began to have more and more slip-ups; he'd forget to eat, forget his phone password and number, his students' names, and important dates. Before we knew it, a year had passed, and it wasn't long before he began to forget the drive back home and Mama's and his own children's names– including his, and it would shatter him just as much as it would us.

Sometimes I'd come home from school and find him crying on the kitchen floor, frustrated, grasping at forgotten memories; the pieces of his heart scattered all over the floor like glass.

"I've got you, Papa," I'd tell him, picking up the pieces and gently gluing them back in place. "I've got you."

However, Papa's memory hasn't failed him regarding marine biology.

You see, during his good, healthy days, Papa was a very well-known marine biologist. He was the second person to win an environmental prize for his work preserving the beluga sturgeon, also known as the caviar fish. Not only did he care for the ocean and its organisms, but he was the highest-rated biology professor at his university. He spoke French and Spanish. He wrote twelve books based on his findings, but only four made it out to the world. Four is still quite the achievement, considering I'm over here struggling to finish a discussion post for my microeconomics class. Papa, of course, was– and still is, despite everything– the most intelligent person I know.

Today, he doesn't seem well. He's up early, eyes filled with confusion as he stares out at the sun playing a hide-and-seek game with the clouds.

"Good morning, Papa. How are you?"

He makes a wounded sound, then grumbles, "today is Tuesday, right?"

"Today is not Tuesday, Papa," I reply, opening the doors to his wardrobe. I go through its contents before finding him a comfortable outfit.

"Yes, it is," he says without turning. "Today is Tuesday. It's a work day. I gotta get to work. Susanna, could you please leave? I'd like to wash up."

My name is not Susanna.

I do the childish birthday candles breathing technique, inhale and exhale softly, and count to ten, just like my therapist taught me. It sort of works. "Papa—"

"Papa?" he interrupts me. I can tell a frown is edging his mouth. "I'm not your Papa. I don't have kids." He sounds disgusted.

No matter how many times it happens, how many times he forgets that I'm his daughter, it still hurts. Hurts like pressing on a fresh bruise.

Closing his bedroom door behind me, I meet Mama in the hallway. She hands me a tray with Papa's breakfast, medications, and multivitamins. She looks away as quickly as she can, but it's too late because I notice the plums under her eyes.

"What happened, Mama? Are you okay?."

"No. He was up all night," she says. "Didn't let me sleep a wink, talking about guppies and anemones and who knows what else. Said something about wanting to write another book.

"I mean, isn't that good? That he wants to go back to writing? That he remembers?"

Annoyed, Mama clicks her tongue and disappears to the kitchen, where she calls out: "Please don't bring him back too late."

In the car, Papa's mood lightens and asks me where we're going.

"To the aquarium," I remind him. "You love the aquarium."

"I do love the aquarium."

It's the only thing that makes Papa smile.

The aquarium paints Papa a pretty blue. He looks happy now and is not complaining about sitting in his wheelchair. He's letting me wheel him around, occasionally tilting his head back to flash a smile at me.

As we pass through a tunnel, the first fish to greet us glitter with many unreal, vibrant colors, and Papa's eyes fill with wonder.

People are milling around, and kids are pressing their noses and hands to the glass, but it's quiet, and, for a second, I let myself feel like I'm underwater. Like I'm a fish. And it feels good. It feels good to pretend I'm small and insignificant under the hectolitres of water, coral reefs, and all the gliding bodies of fish in all the colors of the rainbow that swim in Papa's head.

Papa whispers something to himself that I can't quite understand, then says, "take me closer to the glass, will you, Catherine."

My name is not Catherine. I'm no Empress of Russia, but I do as he says.

"You see those over there, Catherine?" He points at the dark body of sharks swimming overhead. "Those are whale sharks. It's almost impossible to know their true weight because they do not fossilize unless dead."

The water moves across Papa's face as if it's the loveliest thing it has ever touched. It dances in blue and meets with the lighter shade of blue in his eyes, latches onto the slope of his nose, melts down the curve of his cheek, and pools in the hollow space of his collarbone.

He talks about fish, and I listen. I rub his shoulders and make sure he's okay. The taste of the ocean shivers in my mouth, and the very center of my chest flares up like a forgotten lighthouse, surrounded by the vast world of water.

"I want to take your photo. Stay right there."

"My photo for what?"

To remember you, I want to tell him. To remember this day and this moment with you, Papa.

"For safekeeping," I tell him instead. "Say cheese."

I lean in to show him the picture on my phone, but my thumb accidentally swipes left to the previous picture– a picture of Papa and me when I was little, of me sitting on his knee, his arms wrapped around me as we both stare at the sloshing water over us, a blue whale pirouetting, at this very same aquarium.

Papa stares at it in silence.

My heart bounces off my chest and splays on the floor. I scoop it up and swallow it.

I watch him in a daze, and Papa, in a daze, maybe, too, looks back at me. There's a moment when I think my mouth may taste like the ocean. I put the phone back in my purse.

"Blue whales are the loudest creatures on the planet," Papa murmurs.

I smile.

A shadow casts over Papa's face, and a blue-dot stingray swims past him, the very ends of its body grazing the glass. "Ah, last but not least, the famous taeniura lymma, one of the most colorful elasmobranchs inhabiting the coral reefs."

"And it hunts crustaceans and other invertebrates," I add.

"Yes," Papa says. "How did you know?"

"Magic," I tell him.

"Magic," he echoes, in a voice close to a whisper but more profound than the entire world below the water's surface. He gets up from his wheelchair and walks towards the glass. He presses his cheek to it and closes his eyes.

Then, like a light switch:

"I remember," he says. "I remember," he says.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Radish," he says.

I shake my head, everything blue and blurry. I run up to him and embrace him in a hug. "You don't have to be sorry. Please, Papa."

He puts his chin atop my head, and there are many things we can say to each other about life in the ocean and rare species and their cells and bloodstreams, but we don't. We simply let this moment unfold between each other's arms, let ourselves dive into deep water.

"You remember, right?" he asks me.

"Of course I do, Papa."

"You remember when you were little and would request we come here every day after school?"

"Yes, Papa. I remember."

I remember: holding Papa's hand, mazing through the blue of the aquarium, drowning in happiness. Laughter and piggyback rides. Blobfish and clown loaches. Tickles and fingers pinching the red of my cheeks.

I know Papa finds comfort in the past, retelling stories of his childhood and early adulthood and when Rafael, Carlitos, and I were kids. He keeps these memories tucked away inside him, hidden in his veins and the empty spaces in his heart. Very rarely, he remembers tidbits of new information. It is difficult to predict what his subconscious deems necessary enough to retain. But we help him. We do not give up. We care for him just like he took care of us as kids.

My life has been changing as Papa's disease progresses. I feel alone. Mama feels alone, too; I can tell. Sometimes I want Papa to get mad at me for my horrible habits of procrastinating on my homework, barely passing my exams, and skipping classes. Sometimes I want him to be with me when I get my car's oil changed so they don't overcharge. Sometimes I want him to ask me who's the guy I've been seeing and get angry when I tell him that he's got his nose pierced and a skull tattooed on his chest. Sometimes, almost always, I want him to text me good morning, Radish, have a wonderful day, I love you to the moon and back, but instead, I am learning to focus on being there for Papa instead of dwelling on the life we could have if Papa were in perfect health. And it is okay to say it, to admit it. My therapist tells me so, and I like to believe her. I am not okay, and that's okay because this– all of this is not easy.

It is never easy watching a loved one vanish away, little by little, as a disease gnaws at them.

It's not much, but I am content and thankful for the few moments he can recognize me. Moments like right now, where I don't have to pretend it's Tuesday and I can be–

"Your cheeks, Radish, they are red. Do we need to get you home?"

"I'm fine, Papa," I assure him, laughing. "It's probably just a little flare-up, nothing to worry about."

–his daughter.

He laughs along, painted in blue, and presses a half kiss to my hair. "I love you, my Radish."

"And I love you, Papa."

My name is Aurelia, named after the moon jellyfish. But for Papa, even if his memory fails him, I'll always be Radish.

Short Story
16

About the Creator

Diara Alvarado

Lover of animals and classical music. On a moonlit quest to become a writer.

Reader insights

Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

Top insights

  1. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

  2. Heartfelt and relatable

    The story invoked strong personal emotions

  3. Expert insights and opinions

    Arguments were carefully researched and presented

  1. Eye opening

    Niche topic & fresh perspectives

  2. On-point and relevant

    Writing reflected the title & theme

  3. Easy to read and follow

    Well-structured & engaging content

  4. Compelling and original writing

    Creative use of language & vocab

  5. Masterful proofreading

    Zero grammar & spelling mistakes

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Comments (6)

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  • Carol Townendabout a year ago

    Gorgeous, I have no other way to describe this. It's just gorgeous.

  • Melissa Ingoldsbyabout a year ago

    Beautiful

  • Debora Hatfieldabout a year ago

    Halfmoon Tail Guppies; The Halfmoon Tail Guppy has one of the largest guppy tails. The tail is in the shape of a half-moon and fans out in the water. And their no. are reducing slowly for that we have to save them.

  • sleepy draftsabout a year ago

    Oh, my heart. This moved me to tears. Stunningly written. There were so many paragraphs that took my breath away. Thank you so much for writing and sharing this piece. <3

  • Gina B.about a year ago

    Such a sweet ending.

  • Cathy holmesabout a year ago

    wow. This is heartwrenchingly beautiful. Very well done, indeed.

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