Remarkably Bright Creatures(20)

Day 1,308 of My Captivity


THE SEAHORSES ARE AT IT AGAIN.

The humans display shock and excitement, as though this were a surprise. I assure you, it is not. The seahorses spawn at the same time every year. I have witnessed four of their breeding cycles during my captivity here.

There will be hundreds of seahorse larvae. Thousands, perhaps. They begin as a cloud of eggs and, over several days, transform into a clump of wiggling limbs, bearing no resemblance to their parents. In fact, they look like small versions of the sea worms that prowl the sands of the main tank.

It is fascinating how a freshly born creature can be so unlike its creator.

Obviously, this is not the case with humans. I have observed humans at every life stage, and they are, at all times, undeniably human. Even though the human baby is helpless and must be carried by its parent, no one could mistake it for anything else. Humans grow from small to large and then sometimes recede again as they approach the end of their life span, but they always have four limbs, twenty digits, two eyes on the front of their heads.

Their dependence upon their parents is unusually prolonged. Certainly it makes sense that the smallest children require assistance with the most basic of tasks: eating, drinking, urinating, defecating. Their short stature and clumsy limbs make these activities difficult. But as they gain physical independence, oddly, their struggle continues. They summon mother or father at the slightest need: an untied shoelace, a sealed juice box, a minor conflict with another child.

Young humans would fail abysmally in the sea.

I do not know how a giant Pacific octopus spawns. How might my larvae look? Are we shape-shifters like seahorses, or humdrum, like humans? I suppose I shall never know.

Tomorrow, there will be crowds. Terry may even allow the main doors to stay open late to accommodate additional humans who wish to see the seahorses spawn. These rule benders will scurry past my tank, most of them uninterested in anything else.

Every so often, one will pause here. With these, I always play a game. I unfurl my arms and let them waft in the artificial current of the pump. One by one I sucker my tentacles to the glass, and the human draws nearer. Then I pull my mantle to the front of the tank and stare into its eyes. The human calls its companions to come look. As soon as I hear their footsteps around the bend, I jet back behind my rock, leaving nothing but a whoosh of water.

How predictable you humans are!

With one exception. The elderly female who mops the floors does not play my games. Instead, she speaks to me. We . . . converse.





Happy Endings


For the umpteenth time, Ethan’s thoughts circle back to the Knit-Wits. Any of those ladies could’ve given Tova a lift to Bellingham. Surely they’re aware of her reluctance to drive on the freeway. But she asked him.

This morning, he awoke an hour early so he’d have time to shower and trim up his beard, get himself sharp and tidy. Everyone knows how much Tova likes things neat and clean. Because he was up at the crack of dawn, he consumed an extra mug of tea, and maybe that’s why he can’t stop his fingers from thrumming on the steering wheel like he’s jamming on a piano.

“Are you all right?” Tova asks, again, from the passenger seat. She drops her crossword pencil onto the newspaper resting on her lap and brushes a speck of lint from the upholstered seat. He should’ve hauled his arse out of bed at five this morning instead of six. Then he would’ve had time to tidy up his truck as well as himself.

“Aye, I’m all right. Why do you ask?”

A pretty smile spreads over her face. “Honeybee hands.”

“Honeybee what?

“Honeybee hands. You know . . . busy. That’s what I used to say when Erik couldn’t keep his fingers still.”

Startled at the mention of that name, Ethan takes a deep breath and wills the jitters out of his limbs. “Honeybee hands. Clever.” In his mind, he assembles an explanation about too much caffeine this morning, but when he glances over a moment later, she’s reabsorbed in her puzzle, tapping the eraser on her chin as she studies the fold of newspaper.

Scrap that one, then. He scans for any of the other conversation starters he’d spent half the night rehearsing, but he somehow comes up blank. The only topics that surface are off-limits: dead brother, dead husband, dead son. Sheesh. He’s still in shock she brought Erik up a moment ago, but clearly that moment has passed.

Instead, what comes out is: “What’s that you’re working on?” Which is a ridiculous question. Anyone can see it’s a crossword.

She frowns. “Yesterday’s puzzle. I’m afraid I’ve fallen behind.”

“Behind?” He chuckles. “You mean you do that thing every day?”

“Of course. It’s the daily crossword. I complete it daily.”

“And if you miss a day? You . . . catch up?”

Her pencil scratches as she fills in a set of boxes. “Naturally.”

THE CHARTER VILLAGE Long-Term Care Center is tucked into a series of rolling green hills sliced through by a long winding driveway. As they motor through the campus, smaller parkways splinter off the main one, each with a signpost. MEMORY CENTER. TENNIS COMPLEX. ACUTE CARE. CLUBHOUSE. This place has it all. Finally, a signpost points toward RECEPTION and Ethan leans on the accelerator. He lets out a low whistle as he pulls around the circular drive, past a pair of maroon-brick columns dressed in ivy. Downright posh. It looks like a fancy prep school or university, not a wretched place where old folks come to play tennis before eventually withering away.