Perfect Little World(63)
“Not good or bad,” Dr. Grind said, “simply another way that we can better serve these little children and help them.”
The parents simply nodded, and Izzy wondered what had opened up, what doors in their children’s brains were now unlocked and could not be closed up again.
Nikisha then asked, “You said that the kids moved on fairly easily in most cases. What do you mean? Did some of them not handle it so well?”
Dr. Grind looked at his fellows, paused thoughtfully, and, frowning, looked back at the parents. “Well, some of the children, a very small sample, two of them, were emotionally affected by the deaths in stronger ways. They cried. It took a fair amount of time to calm them.”
“Which kids?” Nikisha asked.
“Well, we can’t say. As you know, we have to keep the results private until we accumulate more data.”
“Why do you think those kids cried?” Paul asked, and Izzy knew that, like her, everyone in the room was wondering if their own child had been distressed by the death of the fish.
“Well,” Dr. Grind said, dragging the word out to worrying lengths. “Well,” he said, trying again. “Those two children understood the irreversibility of death. But they also, through their own questions, mind you, understood the nonfunctionality of death, and . . .” Dr. Grind looked around the room. “They also understood the universality of death. This is, mind you, incredibly mature thinking on the part of these two children. It’s fairly uncommon.”
“So those two kids understand that everyone dies?” Paul asked.
“That’s right,” Dr. Grind replied.
“So they understand that they will die?” Paul continued.
“Yes,” Dr. Grind said.
“That’s really troubling,” Paul said, “really troubling. I feel like maybe we shouldn’t have killed these fish.”
“Okay, again, we didn’t kill the fish. They died a natural death. And, truthfully, your children are in the best place they could be if they’re going to have these kinds of epiphanies. They receive round-the-clock care, top-notch psychological care. We’re moving slowly, in small increments. We adjust as we go on. I can assure you that this will not have adverse effects on their development. If anything, it shows how quickly, with the right care, with all of your help, they are becoming really wonderful children.”
“I’m just saying,” Paul then said, his foot tapping the floor during Dr. Grind’s speech, “that I’m uncomfortable with this.”
“Well, that’s understandable, Paul,” Dr. Grind said.
Izzy thought of her own mother, those months after the funeral when she believed that her own thoughts, her frustrations with her mother’s instability, had caused her mom’s death. She then remembered how she had behaved so poorly for a few weeks in the aftermath, shoplifting, making C’s on assignments out of spite, having sex with boys who didn’t deserve her, hoping that if she misbehaved enough, her mom would come back to this life and straighten her out. And, then, as time passed, she accepted that she had nothing to do with her mother’s death and could not overturn it. That depression, that acceptance, was worse for her than the actual death of her mother. It had taken so long to recover from it, if she had even now fully done so.
After the meeting, she looked through the window at the aquarium, on one of the tables in the children’s room, at the glow of the water, the colors moving in darting passes in and around each other. She hoped that none of the children thought they were at fault for the death of these beautiful, goddamned fish.
The next day, Izzy went to play with the children and sat down with Cap and Eliza and Ally as they rolled a ball back and forth. Izzy, not able to help herself, and her curiosity at what they had done to these kids, pointed to the tank of fish and said, “Aren’t they so pretty?” The children looked and nodded. Eliza said, “I name them.”
“Me, too!” said Cap and then Ally said, “Me, too!”
“What are their names?” Izzy asked, and she then nearly fell back as the three children rattled off the names of the fish, none of them matching up. Boing-boing and Janky and Mutt and Boba and Fishy and Dum-dum, until it seemed that the children had named every single fish in the ocean.
After they all laughed and went back to the ball, Ally now sitting in Izzy’s lap, Izzy asked, “What about the fish that died?”
“No names,” Eliza said.
“Yes names,” Cap said.
“They’re dead,” Ally said.
The kids all fell silent for a few seconds and Izzy could see their brains making tangible things.
“But we don’t die,” Eliza said.
“No,” Cap said. Ally then said, “No.”
They all looked at Izzy and she smiled. She grabbed all three of them, though they squirmed to get away, laughing, having moved on, their immortality assured. Izzy was pleased that they weren’t advanced enough yet, that death had not seeped into their bones. She kissed the children and said, “We don’t die,” not caring one bit if Dr. Grind tried to correct her.
chapter twelve
the infinite family project (year three)
Izzy carefully arranged a series of wooden letters, each one small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, along the floor of the complex’s studio, a thin film of sawdust coating everything around her. As she laid them out, making a sentence, she checked each letter for obvious imperfections. She returned to the band saw, a ridiculous expenditure that Dr. Grind, or a magician or Santa Claus or some other kind of benevolent god, had rented for the complex simply so Izzy could continue working on this project. With a steady hand, a trait that she admired in herself more than almost anything else, she moved the wood around the whirring saw blade, following the deep black lines that served as her guide, until she had a c that was nearly perfect. She placed the letter on the floor and observed her sentence, I want arsenic, before she scooped up all of the letters and dumped them into a blue plastic fifty-five-gallon drum, which was nearly half full of other letters. She took a black marker from the worktable and walked to one of the walls, which was covered in sheets of paper. She found the sentence on the corresponding page and crossed it out with the marker. She looked at the next sentence, The druggist looked down at her, and returned to a fresh piece of wood and a set of stencils to trace the next letters, a chain of words that felt endless to Izzy, though she knew deep down that this was a story and, like all stories, it would eventually end.