The Fish Tank

They realized one night that the baby would come with problems. They sensed it when it started kicking in a way that didn’t seem normal. Unable to put suspicion into words—prenatal examinations had not detected anything unusual, and there were no apparent reasons to justify the disturbing hunch—they chose not to be needlessly alarmed. They had just finished making love, the way the obstetrician advised, lying side-by-side, with a pillow under the belly for support, allowing for shallower penetration. An uncomfortable position that prevented her from achieving orgasm. Even so, she was willing to put up with it, happy not to give up desire during pregnancy. Seconds after pulling away from each other came the baby’s first kicks, which they welcomed with excited surprise: the pregnancy had progressed in the utmost silence and those movements carried with them a sudden confirmation of life. Given the circumstances, the child would know pleasure from the outset, they said in between laughs. But they also noted the strange rhythm of the kicking: far from suggesting the frantic movements of self-preservation, it resembled the slow pace of asphyxiation, as if the baby’s legs were weighed down by an age-old fatigue. The kicks became more sporadic until they stopped completely, but from that night on they began to recur. Monotonous and unexpected. At times they seemed to respond to the most ordinary situations of daily life, such as the vibration of a moving bus, an extra sip of coffee during the afternoon, or the crunch of a cockroach under a shoe. Specifically planned stimuli, on the other hand, such as classical music through headphones placed over the belly or a few loving words upon waking and going to bed, were received with complete indifference. It was no use consulting with the obstetrician, who was intent on interpreting the feeble kicking as an omen of the child’s good nature. “Every pregnancy is an unprecedented adventure,” she told them. “Relax and enjoy the miracle of life.” The kicks diminished as the date of delivery approached and then with two weeks to go did not recur. That return to silence worsened the anxiety of the couple, who chose to do the only thing left to them: have a little faith. They were in the final stages of the pregnancy. Whatever was going to happen would happen.

The day arrived and they were all set. They made it to the hospital in good time, were attended to without delay, and the delivery happened normally, just as the doctors had said it would. What no one predicted was that the child would be born with a grotesque expression on its face. An almost bestial look that, once the baby had been carefully cleaned by the nurses, formed part of a long narrow head and a rickety little body. It was not merely a matter of ugliness: the child seemed to have been born incomplete. Its rigid, weirdly shaped little body—a cross between several species—had taken on an indistinct form at a certain stage in its development. At no time did it cry or produce any sound other than a deep snore, of such a low frequency that it was necessary to be quite close to it in order to hear. After barely making sure that it was alive, the doctors transferred it to an incubator where they could conduct their initial examinations, leaving the parents empty-handed in the delivery room. We waited all that time for this? the father’s stricken face seemed to say. His tongue, on the other hand, expressed quite different sentiments:

“We’ll deal with it, whatever it is. We’ll get through it.”

The mother was too exhausted to respond.

The hospital stay did not make things any easier. The doctors offered few explanations, using euphemisms to refer to the baby, putting it down to a random mistake at conception: “These things happen,” “Nature is unpredictable,” “It’s too early for a reliable diagnosis.” The child was just born like that. They promised to perform more tests and examinations, without offering too much hope, and then shifted the focus instead to the mother’s body. Nurses came and went from her room, inserting IVs, giving injections, handing out meds, checking vital signs, at a pace matched by the couple’s growing unease, in which neither of them stopped talking. They criticized the hospital service, calculated the cost of the accumulated debt or checked the number of calls made and received, avoiding at all costs the subject of the baby. But there were unavoidable and telling pauses. In one such moment, she interrupted herself with a wave of her hand and asked him why they hadn’t chosen a name for the baby.

“The truth is I haven’t thought about it,” he replied, looking up at the TV. “What about you?”

“Me?” Her face puckered, as if about to cry. “I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl.”

“Of course,” he said, just to hear himself speak.



*

That night she slept restlessly, tossing and turning the whole time, and eventually waking with a start. Meanwhile he flicked through the TV channels, as though viewing them from the window of a speeding train, occasionally nodding off, unable to enter into deep sleep. He switched the channel to a children’s program about jungles, hosted by a frog in diapers that struck him as distasteful from the start. Click. A chef cooking eels. Click. A report on diabetes. He skipped from one channel to another, but restlessness had taken hold of his body, an alternating current that roused him and finally made him get up. He left the room and the ward, and walked around until he found himself in front of the incubators in the neonatal ICU. Warm and very bright, it was a kind of greenhouse in which the constant hum of monitors filled the air: a cross between a spaceship and a museum display cabinet. He had no trouble finding the one he was looking for: lying on a pink blanket with cute little animals on it was the thing that his wife had brought into the world the previous afternoon. He could see it fully now, naked, in its extreme and overwhelming oddity. There was not a single hair on its pointy head and for eyes it had just a fold of skin, a small bulge without an obvious opening. There was no likeness, no resemblance to either parent; even its sex was not apparent. As if it had fallen from the sky. It was hard not to wonder what had gone wrong with the pregnancy, what determining factor could have caused that unforeseen result and, worse, on what side of the family that defective gene dwelled, that microscopic saboteur, capable of turning his warm seed into that deformed creature. He glanced at the tag on the side of the incubator with the details of its weight, size, date, and hour of birth. The dotted lines corresponding to the name and sex had been left blank, as if to suggest those details were unnecessary because it would probably not live past a few hours. Maybe they were right, he thought, and he didn’t know what to feel about it. The death of the creature would be a terrible blow, as they would return home empty-handed, saddled with failure. But then again, they would forget it after a while and try again. They would already know what to expect and how to go about it, although always in the shadow of the same fate befalling them. The alternative, on the other hand, was unpredictable to say the least. He was shocked to be harboring a sinister hope.

“It’s a girl.” The voice of a nurse behind him interrupted his thoughts. She was wearing a pink uniform, the same color as the blanket in the incubator. She dragged a plastic chair toward him. “The tag doesn’t say it, but it’s a baby girl. Are you the father?”

He nodded, embarrassed, as if she had somehow read his thoughts. He refused her offer of the seat.

“She still doesn’t have a name?” the woman went on.

“We haven’t chosen one yet.”

“It happens sometimes,” she replied calmly, almost sympathetically, standing beside him for a while, contemplating the monstrous contents of the incubator. He didn’t know what to do or say and he couldn’t understand the calm demeanor of the nurse, for whom all babies were undoubtedly the same. Except this one. He felt an irrational fear that at some point she would congratulate him, praise the baby’s beauty or tell him that it had his eyes or his smile. So he maintained a stubborn silence until the woman eventually just sighed and went back to work. Then he forced himself to look at the creature a little while longer. Maybe a sudden wave of love would overtake him. Maybe it was just a matter of time.



*

The next day a robust-looking nurse, dressed in nothing but pink, knocked on the door and entered the room, carrying in her arms what was then revealed to be the newborn. It was swaddled in white rags, from which its weirdly shaped and reddened head barely protruded, resembling the stump of a recently amputated limb. The nurse stood in front of the bed. The mother took some time to understand what was being proposed.

“I’ve come to show you how to feed the baby,” she said bluntly. “Do you want me to call your husband?”

“He just left,” she said, attempting a smile. “Poor thing didn’t sleep a wink last night.”

“Then I’ll help you do it.”

With professional detachment, the nurse helped her to sit up, to relax her spine, and to hold the creature’s head properly. She followed the nurse’s instructions somewhat robotically, as if in a trance. It was almost a relief that the creature was covered so she didn’t have to be suddenly confronted by its ugliness. She was surprised by how little it weighed and by the constant purr coming from the weirdly shaped opening of its mouth. It was so unbelievable to her that this thing had grown inside her, feeding off her for months, and that it would now do so again from her nipples. It seemed a totally unreal scenario, a shameful and unnecessary cruelty. A wave of anger within her brought to mind her absent husband, guilty of having planted in her body such a monster disguised as love.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” she complained feebly.

“Let’s start on the right side,” her protest was ignored. Gently but firmly, the nurse brought the horrendous head to her bared breast, from whose expectant tip a white droplet had already appeared. At the slightest pressure, a thick and transparent thread of liquid flowed toward the creature’s face, missing its crooked mouth and soaking the cloth around it. A sweet smell inundated the room and the mother closed her eyes, feeling as if fish were swimming around in her stomach. She took a long, deep breath to stop herself from gagging. Unconcerned, the nurse made another attempt. This time two droplets rolled into the opening, which was little more than a crack, a crooked, yellowish crevice that could not achieve true suction or even grasp the nipple. When the droplets entered, the creature seemed to shudder, trapped in its own flesh. Visibly pleased, the nurse let out a faint “good”. The third attempt was not long in coming but the liquid completely missed the mouth and rolled toward the mother’s navel, as if looking for a way back inside. The creature continued its hoarse rattling under the glassy stare of its mother, whose efforts to control herself became even more obvious, until slowly the milk stopped flowing.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she warned again, this time in a much louder voice and facing the nurse full on.

She was ignored once more, and union between the two bodies was attempted from a different angle, but this time she resisted all contact.

“Wait a moment, please!”

“What’s wrong? Do you feel sick?” the nurse asked.

“I’m scared it might bite me,” her voice was starting to crack.

“Babies are born without teeth, señora.”

“I know they’re born without teeth but I can’t get the idea out of my head.”

“Let’s try with the other breast.”

She blocked the maneuver again.

“It’s going to bite me, I know it!” she almost shrieked. Overcome with dismay, she dropped the creature onto her lap. The cloth unfurled like a flower, revealing its grotesque contours. “I can’t do this, I’m sorry . . . Just look at it. It looks like a lizard.”

The nurse maintained an indecipherable silence.

“You’d better take it away,” the mother murmured, hypnotized by the monster’s hapless movements.

“Señora, the baby has to eat.”

“Take it away!” she ordered, extending the bundle toward the nurse, as if she might drop it suddenly. The nurse ran to its rescue, and lifted the rigid little body with expertise. “We’ll try again later, OK?”

“You’re her mother, señora,” was her final remark, in a resigned voice and with a certain air of superiority. She wrapped the creature up again and left the room without saying goodbye.

There were no new breastfeeding attempts. The father arrived at noon with a breast pump and a bottle. Neither of them asked the other too many questions.



*

That afternoon, they were told that nothing else could be done. No surgical or hormonal treatment held out any real hope for improvement. Against all odds, the creature was surviving on its own, so maybe with time and dedication it could lead some sort of normal life. As for its growth and development or any complications that might arise, that was completely unpredictable. They were offered social and psychological support, specialized pediatric follow-up, and “all their understanding”. Lastly, they were recommended one more night’s rest before returning home the next morning; little else could be done for the moment. Even the obstetrician, so diligent and friendly before the birth, began to treat them with cold professionalism, taking less and less interest in the case. She referred them to a specialist in “atypical babies”, who never answered the phone or returned their calls. And so, after several attempts to get specialized help, the couple gradually gave up pursuing any treatment.

“Do you remember what you said to me when you found out I was pregnant?” she asked her husband shortly after they’d been told that they were now on their own. He looked at her and shook his head.

“You said it would be the most courageous thing we’d ever do: to bring someone into the world. And that you could not think of a better accomplice than me.”

The memory of his words brought a smile to her face, which slowly began to contort as her eyes filled with tears.

“Yes, I remember that.”

“You probably regret it now.”

“Why do you say that?”

She shrugged.

“Didn’t you hear the doctors?” He went on. “It was impossible to know that this would happen. Not even they knew it. We did everything we could.”

“I knew there was something wrong.”

“There was no way of knowing it.”

“I knew it, I felt it. You felt it too.”

“They explained to us that it wasn’t possible to know. Didn’t you hear them?”

“Do you think this is my fault?”

“Why? Who’s saying that?”

“This has never happened in my family.”

“So what are you trying to say? That it’s happened in mine?”

“I don’t know. I’m not saying that either.”

“Then what the fuck are you saying?”

“I don’t know. Don’t yell at me!”

“Who’s yelling at you?”

“You’re yelling at me!”

“I’m not yelling at you!” he yelled. “Just stop being so . . .”

“So . . . what?”

“Nothing.”

They fixed their eyes on opposite sides of the room. The sound of crying in the distance seeped through the door. He was the next one to speak.

“I’m going out for a walk before it gets dark.”

“What?”

“I’m going out for a walk.”

“A walk?”

“Yes, dammit, a walk. I need to think.”

“What—can’t you think here with me?”

“Does it seem as though we’re thinking very much?”

“Right, so that’s why you want to be alone—to ‘think’.”

“That’s exactly what I want. Is that too much to ask? Haven’t I been with you in all this from the beginning?”

“You’re the father, it’s your duty.”

“And haven’t I been doing it?”

“Yes.”

“Then?”

“OK, but don’t leave me alone. Not now, please.”

“No, no . . . Look at how you’re acting.”

“Seriously, don’t leave me alone.”

“Look, it was you who didn’t want any visitors until we got back home.”

“Oh, so I deserve it then.”

“Dammit, I’m not saying that!”

“No, of course you’re not. You never say anything.”

“OK . . . just drop it. I’ll be right back, honest,” he said and shut the door behind him, without giving her time to reply. It was the first time they had ever argued like that.



*

He went out with the plan of finding a newsstand, buying a pack of cigarettes, and giving in to a bad habit that had been under control for a year and a half. But once out on the sidewalk, he felt an urgent need to put some distance between himself and the hospital. There were no nearby squares, no places to sit down, so he kept walking in circles, like a tied-up dog, wandering aimlessly about with mechanical steps. That’s how he stumbled on the store, a few streets away, just as he was about to head back. He was struck by the neon sign in the window: a smiling fish in a hat, the reason for its sheer joy unknown. Its smile made him suspicious, as if it were anticipating something. Thick black grilles barred the windows, but he could still see the huge fish tanks filled with movement: whirls of life under white light. He was uncertain whether to go in or not, but the doorbell announced he’d already done so. Then a strangely familiar environment surrounded him, although he did not remember ever having been in an aquarium before. He greeted the salesclerk and wandered down the aisles, accompanied by the hum of the motors, which gave the shop the solemnity of controlled environments. He was like a child, captivated by the multiple hues of each small animal, by the smooth motion of their agile, contemplative existence. Carp, angelfish, goldfish, he walked from tank to tank, each properly labeled on the side, and in bold stating “Please don’t tap on the glass.” Step by step, he reached the tanks at the back of the store, the ones that were least well lit, where the most pitiful-looking fish were: sad, flat creatures that crept instead of swimming along the walls of the fish tank. A few of them were stuck to the glass, exposing the pale underpart of their brown bodies, as though stained by the very muck on which they fed.

“Sᴜᴄᴋᴇʀᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ Cᴀᴛғɪsʜ” read the label.

Even the name was harsh and graceless, similar to an insult. He stretched out his hand and tapped the outside of the glass right in front of them, without the creatures even registering anything. The motor continued its stubborn, relentless bubbling, and the fish just kept on existing. In one corner he noticed a plastic scoop and felt a sudden need to know if those creatures were always as docile as they appeared. He looked around to make sure no one was watching and then quickly lowered the scoop into the water. He cornered one against the surface of the glass. The fish barely even resisted, at most a lethargic attempt, until the moment it was lifted almost out of the water. Then it began to wriggle around frantically, with such force that it slipped free and landed on the ground, right at the feet of its gigantic captor. It remained almost motionless, opening and closing its mouth as if making an imperceptible plea. The assault with the scoop resumed. The fish was pinned to the ground, and then picked up by a trembling hand that held its slippery body tight while lifting it into the air. No one noticed what was happening. He held the suckermouth catfish in his hand and let out a deep breath, as if wanting to show it how to breathe. Then he simply stopped and watched for the minute and a half it took the fish to asphyxiate. He was amazed at how quickly its life ended, as if it were in haste to fulfil a pre-arranged commitment to go somewhere else. In the end, he threw the lifeless fish back into the water and watched it sink slowly to the bottom. The others clung persistently to their spots along the glass wall. He returned the scoop to its place and discreetly wiped his hands on his pants. He glanced at the fish tank and then rushed out of the shop. He stepped outside and felt an overwhelming desire to weep.

Their return home the next day was a somber one, a joint crossing through the desert. Forty-five minutes of being wrapped in their own thoughts, together with the incessant snoring of the creature, lying face up in a basket on the seat between them. It was the last thing they took out of the car when they got home, as if each of them was waiting for the other one to do it. And once inside the apartment, they both realized, without saying anything, that they hadn’t thought of a place to put it. An absurd realization, considering that before its birth they had planned everything for their future as a family: the cradle, the high chair in the kitchen, the pacifiers, the pile of baby clothes, things that now seemed overtly and cruelly useless to them.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

They sat down opposite each other.

“I don’t know.”

Their words hung gloomily in the air, like the suckermouth catfish in the glass tank. A feeling somewhere between resentment and resignation hardened their poses, something bitter and heavy weighing on each word. Their eyes met for a moment, and then they continued staring at the basket.

“Are you going to go for a walk? To have a think?” she said, flaring up.

“No.”

“Ah. Just as well,” she replied, and then nodded as if having understood something in retrospect. She stood up with her hands on her hips. She waited a few moments and finally announced:

“I’m going to give her a bath.” “A bath?” “Yes, a bath.” “The doctors said no baths until the umbilical cord—” “I’m her mother and I’m going to give her a bath,” she declared. “I need to know that she’s at least clean.” “Its first bath.” She stared at him as if he were from another planet. “Yes, its first bath. Are you going to take photos?”

There was no reply. She leaned down to take the creature out of the basket, and her face neared the husband’s for the first time since the day of the birth. She carried the bundle in her arms into the bathroom, while he stared at his shoes, as if embarrassed by something left unsaid or unthought. He felt his life had taken a dark turn, like a train heading into a long black tunnel. He reached instinctively for his shirt pocket, where he used to carry his cigarettes and, for an instant, he was surprised to find it empty. Then he heard the water running in the bath.

The hardest thing was to undress the creature. That is, to unwrap it. Every fold of cloth revealed yet another maze of flesh, which she passed over with a tight feeling in her chest and an eager determination. When there was nothing else left to expose, her hands shook so much she was scared she might drop the creature. But she was glad to see it naked at last: there would be no hidden ugliness left to surprise her. She rolled up her sleeves and positioned it in the way she had seen the nurse do. The skin was soft, sticky, and hot. Maybe it lacked a critical layer of tissue. She sat on the edge of the tub, testing the water temperature with her free hand—lukewarm, almost cool—and leaned forward without hesitation. The baby in her arms shuddered at the first contact with the water, as if gently emerging from a profound lethargy. She held it tight, keeping its head afloat, trying not to think about how much it looked like a tadpole. Maybe one day she would laugh about all this. She took a deep breath and wondered, almost instinctively, if she would be capable of lowering her arms into the water past her elbows: a barely perceptible movement, an oversight on the part of an inexperienced mother during her baby’s first bath. There would be no screams, no struggle. Everything would happen in silence and in a matter of seconds. Just a matter of inches and it would all be over. But her arms stayed locked in the same position. The baby seemed to enjoy the warm bath and the mother made a first timid attempt to stroke its head.

The door creaked open and the father came into the bathroom. He sat down beside her, without once looking at the water. She noticed his eyes were wet. He kissed her gently on the cheek and then leaned his face into hers. Their eyelashes brushed against each other. She allowed herself to be caressed, while sitting motionless. She had almost forgotten such feelings existed. A quick peck turned into a passionate kiss, an outburst of tenderness that ended with her husband’s arms wrapped around her, holding her against his chest as if he never wanted to let her go. And then a moment later, with determined patience and an equally firm gesture, his amorous hands moved down her shoulders to her forearms, pushing until they gradually sank into the water. There was mild resistance at first, barely a tremor, while the lukewarm water climbed above her elbows, soaking the hems of her sleeves. She moved her lips as if to say something, without making a sound. The creature shook in their hands for just a second, and sank slowly to the bottom of the tub.