Whalefish
I want a Pokémon, Aaron tells me. I’m not really listening. The enemy lays siege, I mutter as the smoke blows over and I shut the bedroom windows which have been open all night. Aaron flips through several Pokémon cards and lines them up so each card is paired with its evolved form: Pikachu and Raichu, Vulpix and Ninetales, Psyduck and Golduck. He places the cards on my desk for me to examine, and I ask him why these. Their evolved forms look cool, he explains as though it’s obvious, and I suppose he’s at the age when looking cool is a reason for anything, which, on second thought, describes any age. Have you looked into the whalefish? Sexual dimorphism and metamorphosis all in one. Aaron doesn’t know what sexual dimorphism means. It means the males and females are different shapes. I draw the curtains closed. The sun glows a bright pink-orange like someone had dumped red food dye into an egg yolk. How is that different from us? Aaron asks. Whalefish are actually the females. Bignose fish are the males. They look like separate species. This is the best explanation I can think of since I don’t want him thinking too deeply into it. Aaron’s workbooks have him circling pictures that don’t belong: the drumstick from a sun, moon and star; the water bottle from a peach, strawberry and lemon; the cow from the lion, elephant and giraffe. His homeroom teacher drills into the students that they shouldn’t treat someone differently based on how they look. I worry about him navigating these mixed messages and prefer him marveling over larvae metamorphosing into a whalefish.
Transformation attracts Aaron, which is why he loves to watch me cook eggs, although he calls it “denaturing protein.” I’ve shown him eggs boiled, scrambled, steamed, whipped. I’ve made him fluffy egg omelets and raw creamed egg custards when we still had sugar. I’m grateful for their versatility since they’ve been the only source of protein we’ve been eating for a month. My feet have begun to swell after eating them. I think it’s the arachidonic acid, but the inflammation goes down soon enough, and I figure it’s not killing me. Are we denaturing protein today? Aaron’s stomach growls. I’m glad he hasn’t started to build an intolerance to eggs because I don’t know what else to fill his stomach with. Dinner is steamed egg and rice today. I serve the egg in mugs so it looks bigger—single-serving savory custards Aaron can spoon or slurp.
I put Aaron to bed as soon as it gets dark outside. It darkens earlier because of the smoke, an excuse for me to rest earlier too; there’s less of a day to confront. Before bed, I tell Aaron a story. I tell him a different story every night, more for me to keep my brain moving than for him to learn. Aaron hates the traditional fairytales and children’s stories because there’s no “depth,” but I think what he really means is the transformations are too sudden, so I construct stories that start like a fairytale and snowball into a vehicle of personal gripes I have with the world (although I try not to vent). I think Aaron doesn’t notice; he’s more fascinated by the karma that comes around at the end, where everyone gets what they deserve. He tries to understand why they deserve it.
Tonight, I tell him about the whalefish that was spotted by a boy. This whalefish, like all whalefish, had no scales and beady eyes and a fiery orange body. The whalefish could not see. Why, Aaron asks. Because whalefish lose their eyes’ lenses and the ability to form images when they grow up. They use pressure-sensing pores running along their body to sense vibrations in the water. That’s why whalefish are so hard to find. My stories often start with facts. I like establishing credibility with Aaron, and introducing stakes later comes intuitively.
The boy wanted to catch the whalefish but all he had was a very large sunflower seed cookie and a broken monitor that was not even his but rather a castaway piece of hardware he thought he could get working and sell for a profit. The cookie had been a charity gesture from a bakery whose cashier saw him loitering around the entrance, eying the multi-tiered cakes and bolo baos. The boy wanted to eat the cookie, but he also wanted to see the whalefish up close. He did not know if the whalefish liked cookies, but figured any living creature must enjoy the taste of butter.
But I don’t like butter. Aaron thinks butter is too rich, but he rarely eats butter so how would he know? I think he’s parroting me when I tell him why I don’t buy butter. I have convinced my stomach that butter is too rich too. The last time I had a small pat on a slice of toast, I threw up, although maybe it had been oil instead of butter—it has been so long; I can’t tell the difference anymore. This is a world where everyone likes butter, I reply.
Anyway, the boy broke off a piece of his cookie and tossed it into the ocean. The piece disappeared quickly into the water, and he watched it sink until the very end when he could only see the murky waters. He waited, watching the waves for signs of orange.
Why does the boy have to wait? Why can’t the whalefish let him know when it comes? Aaron always declares his presence firmly in front of others. It’s why nothing about the school social hierarchy gets to him, and I’m sure the other kids know too so they respect him or at least leave him alone. Because animals don’t like interacting with humans, I say.
After several hours—I would never wait that long—there was a splash and a large, dark creature nearing the surface. The black body gradually became red-orange as it grew closer. Because red light can’t penetrate deep in seawater, I explain. The whalefish’s body skimmed the water and the boy bent down, trying to take a closer look. The boy had never seen a fish so long and wondered if he’d discovered the next closest thing to a mermaid, but cooler.
That is pretty cool, Aaron agrees. He loathes the human-based characters in my stories—the fairies, wizards, goblins, witches, vampires, ghosts, zombies, genies. Anything with a face that resembles ours and capability of human speech—he dismisses as limited in scope because living creatures don’t have to look like humans to be main characters. When I ask him what appears different enough, he points to his Metapod Pokémon card.
The boy dangled his arm and cookie close to the water, hoping to attract the whalefish’s attention. It seemed disoriented, searching for sunflowers from an unidentifiable source. The boy let a few crumbs plop into the water and the fish jolted.
I bet the whalefish would prefer fish to eat. I agree with Aaron, but it has been a long time since we had sunflower seeds or cookies and I can’t help but self-project onto the fish.
The whalefish jumped out of the water towards the boy’s outstretched hand. Its gaping mouth latched onto his arm. The boy stumbled, surprised by the fish’s strength. They struggled against each other: the whalefish flapping and sucking and the boy attempting to pry it off.
How strong is the whalefish? Aaron wonders. I don’t know either, but it’s easier when characters are strong because they can act for themselves. Aaron hates the passive ones who need their environments to instigate change. He ranted for an hour when I first read Cinderella to him. Why would anyone put up with that, he’d complained. Sacrifice can be romantic, I answered, although my answer didn’t make sense to me either. Whenever I read about sacrifices, I dunk my head in a sink full of cold water afterward to shake off this accumulating dread in the pit of my stomach.
***
In the end, the whalefish won and ate both the cookie and the boy. But its stomach was too distended for it to flip back into the ocean, so it suffocated on land. Later, the whalefish and the boy would make the news and scientists would dissect the fish’s body. They’d be unaffected by the discovery of a boy within the fish’s stomach.
And the boy was rescued?
The boy was already dead. Same with the fish. But the research scientists had a field day and shared donuts and bagels.
***
I kiss Aaron good night and turn off his lights. Then I return to the kitchen, grateful school is starting soon because Aaron is better off eating the free tuna sandwiches the cafeteria provides. If he’s like me, he’ll start building an intolerance to eggs and I don’t want him to swell up like I do—waddling with feet squeezed by my loosest sneakers. There’s still a single frozen fillet of tilapia I received months ago from a stranger at the grocery store who threw a fit about receiving an extra piece of fish. I couldn’t understand why, but graciously took the extra piece.
I place the fish on a plate and the plate in the microwave. I close the door. I enter two minutes on high. Outside, ash collects on the windows, and I can’t quite remember if the school called saying they’d stay closed because I can only concentrate on shutting up my stomach. I press the button to pop the door open and throw the fillet back in the freezer. I should save the tilapia for when Aaron gets sick of eggs.
• • •
Lucy Zhang writes, codes and watches anime. Her work has appeared in Quarterly West, The Fourth River, New Orleans Review and elsewhere. Her work has appeared in the anthologies Best Microfiction and Best Small Fictions. She is losing sleep over a novel. Find her at https://kowaretasekai.wordpress.com/ or on Twitter @Dango_Ramen.