I held the net to my chest, struggling to find the words that would calm my grieving five-year-old, who’d been hysterical since she’d awoken and found her pet floating in his bowl like a Cheerio. I was a writer, for crying out loud. I strung words together for a living. This should’ve been easy. But every time I looked at Christopher, all I could picture was my ex-husband’s face. Not because I wanted to kill Steven. I mean, I did, I guess. Some days. Most days. Definitely whenever he opened his mouth. But no matter how contentious our relationship had become since he’d left me for our real estate agent, Steven loved our children, and they loved him. And I would never do anything to hurt Delia or Zach.
Someone wanted Steven dead. And it wasn’t me.
“What can I say about Christopher?” I glanced back at Vero for inspiration. The corner of her mouth twitched as she gestured for me to go on. “He was a good fish. A loyal and steadfast friend to all of us, he…”
There was a forceful tug on my yoga pants. “Tell them about his smile,” Delia said, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her black leotard. “And how he blew the best bubbles.” She crumpled into my side, burying her face in the folds of my sweater. Zach’s tiny forehead creased with concern. I was grateful he was too young to really understand what was happening as I echoed Delia’s sentiments and dipped the net into the water, scooping Christopher out.
She held my leg as we marched solemnly to the bathroom across the hall. Zach perched on Vero’s hip behind us, marking the end of our procession. We stood around the open lid of the toilet, paying our last respects as Christopher fell into the commode with a soft plink.
Delia grabbed my arm as I reached for the handle. “No, Mommy!”
“Sweetie, we have to. He can’t stay in the potty forever.”
“Why not?” she whimpered.
“Because…” I threw Vero a pleading look. This chapter was definitely not in my copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I wanted my money back.
“Because,” Vero supplied helpfully, “he’s going to start to stink—” I stepped hard on her foot.
“But I’ll never see him again,” Delia sobbed.
A bubble swelled from her nose and I wiped it on my sleeve. “We’ll always have his memories.” And the dozens of photos she’d made me post on #goldfishofinstagram.
“Maybe we could go to the pet store and get another one.” The words were out of Vero’s mouth before I could stop her. Delia erupted in a fit of keening wails. Zach’s lower lip began to tremble.
“I don’t want another fish!” Delia shrieked. “There are no other fish like Christopher!”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said, raising my voice as they both began to howl. “There will never be another fish like Christopher. We should honor his memory with a moment of silence.”
Delia’s mouth pinched shut. The bathroom fell quiet except for my children’s shuddering sniffles. I lowered my head, jabbing Vero in the ribs with an elbow until she bowed her head, too. I waited a full minute before reaching for the lever. This time, Delia didn’t try to stop me, and with a swirl of orange scales, Christopher was gone.
Vero gently ruffled the tear-soaked spikes of Delia’s hair. “Come on, Dee. I’ll make you some cookies.”
“Not too many,” I reminded her. My mother was preparing enough turkey and stuffing to feed an army, and she’d murder me if I spoiled the children’s appetites before dinner.
Zach squealed as Vero scooped him up and carried him downstairs. Delia lingered, giving the toilet one last look before following them to the kitchen.
As I reached for the light switch, I paused. Turning back to the toilet, I flushed it again. Because I’m not the luckiest person in the world, and I know better than to assume the dead don’t come back to haunt you.
CHAPTER 2
An hour later, Vero and I buckled Delia and Zach into their car seats. Vero wiped cookie crumb evidence from their cheeks as I hauled two small Rollaboards into the back of my minivan and slammed the hatch closed.
“What’s the luggage for?” Vero asked.
“I got an email from Steven this morning. He’s moved into his new place and he wants to take the kids for the weekend.” He’d attached photos of the restored farmhouse he’d rented in Fauquier County, careful to point out that the children’s bedrooms and toys were already unpacked, and the kitchen was stocked and ready for them. He’d cc’d his attorney, Guy, who had replied to both of us, congratulating Steven on finding such a “great place for the kids,” which was clearly lawyer-speak for you have no grounds to fight this.