Afloat

As the brakes squeal and the truck comes to a stop, the hot summer air creeps its way through the open window. Despite the early hour, the sun still beats down on us, forcing me to squint and turn my head towards the inside of the truck. My mother sits behind the wheel rummaging through her bag, looking for the key to the padlock she insists on adding to the back of the truck. Between us sits the family photos we’d taken out of their frames, since “every penny counts,” and on top of the pile sits a picture of my father, smiling with the same gray eyes I had always hated on my own face while carrying a younger me atop his shoulders. 

“Ah! Found the keys,” my mother chirps. I feel her gaze drift down to the same spot as mine and a brief silence fills the car, so brief I wonder if she even feels it. After a moment though she breaks it. “Come on, lazy butt. I need your help unloading.”

I peel myself out of my seat, my legs sticky with sweat, and follow my mother to the back of the truck. She lifts the door revealing the heaps of stuff we’ve brought to sell. Junk is really a better word. There’s of course the now empty frames, wooden with a cheap gold paint overtop; a chipped set of dressers that once sat in my parents’ room; my own twin bed frame that, until a few weeks ago, I thought I’d never grow out of; our kettle and coffee maker that my mother bought in a moment of ambition, believing she could really give up diet soda; essentially anything that couldn’t be shoved in a backpack sits here in this truck to be rid of. 

We first set up the set of plastic tables to display the smaller items, covering each with a baby blue gingham tablecloth we once used to decorate for Easter. While my mother unloads the heavier furniture–she’s always been the strong one–I begin arranging the smaller knick knacks. First I lay out my mother’s collection of salt and pepper shakers, an assortment of about ten or so ceramic sets, each one brightly painted and laughably corny. My mother’s favorite is the pair of sheep, one gray and one white. I do her a favor and put them towards the back. The next is our jewelry, then our collection of old books–half the pages are missing in most of them–then my dad’s stamps, and all our other trinket-y crap.

My mother and I pass the morning mainly in silence, each of us doing our own tasks until the truck is cleared and our belongings are laid out in front of us. Upon seeing it–my life, my past–splayed out and modestly priced, a strange sense of emptiness washes over me. Once it’s sold, it’s gone. Even if it isn’t sold, it’s still gone. Tears start to scratch at my eyes, and, as if on cue, my mother hands me an ice cold soda can.

“For all your labor,” she says, smiling and surveying the market, as vendors finish their final arrangements and shoppers trickle in. “Don’t drink it too fast, it’s the last one left.” And so I sink into the foldout chair we had placed behind the tables, and sip my soda, one gulp at a time, letting the rest of the morning pass over me.

The final sip of my drink is flat and warm, so with the can finally empty I focus my attention on the market. The early morning quiet is mostly gone, though it seems to have lingered around our stall. Regardless, my mother stands in front of the table, still smiling wide. A few people pass by, viewing from a distance, until a woman, not much younger than my mother, approaches. Her sharp eyebrows arch downward as she inspects our pieces. Her bony arms are crossed tightly in front of her chest, though, as she approaches, she reaches her wrought iron fingers towards the selection of necklaces I laid out earlier. My mother begins with her pleasantries about the heirloom quality, how lovely the gold would look with her complexion and so on, before the woman cuts her off:

“These would be just lovely,” she pauses, “if they were real gold.” Her lips purse, and she places her hand over her heart like some smug pledge.

I feel my frown deepen, unaware it was there in the first place, and retort “How do you know it’s not?” 

Her eyes, formerly fixed to the table, dart to mine, and the corner of her lips flinch downward. “I have an eye for this sort of thing.”.

I feel my mother’s panic as schmoozes and offers her a deal.

The woman pauses maybe ready to barter, but, standing up, I interject, “This is real gold. Full price.” As my mother prepares yet another groveling, the woman flounces away with a petty “thank you.” I return to my seat, and the quiet seeps in again.

“What the hell was that for?” Then my mother whispers, “They really weren’t gold, you know that.”

Crossing my arms, I respond, “Well it’s the principle of it.” 

“And what principle is that exactly?” I shrug. I couldn’t answer even if I wanted to. “How about you take your principles elsewhere?” I feel her frustration rising, though she instead instructs me to “scout out the competition a bit.” My mother has a way of smoothing things over, and I can feel her using it with me now. She knows how people liked to be spoken to. She knows to be apologetic even when she’s right, and to be accommodating even when someone doesn’t deserve it. I’m being a bitch, but she’ll never say it. She redirects. I don’t think my dad ever knew to redirect. He was steadfast. When he did something he committed. I suppose we’re very alike in that sense. 

Obliging to the redirection, I grab my empty can and begin to wander around the vast market, leaving my mother in peace. Admittedly, the other stalls are much nicer than ours. Tables of oak and mahogany so well lacquered they could be mirrors; intricately woven wicker furniture with equally elaborate embroidered cushions to match; vintage TV and radio sets beautifully restored but forever silenced; fainting chairs and chaise lounges with deep jewel velvets. In this endless sea of far finer antiques, though, one stall stands out to me. 

The stall only has one small table, smaller than ours even. On it lay rows and rows of glass trinkets as well as bowls and plates towards the back. But the glass isn’t normal glass. It has a milky, lavender tint to it, like a bulb of energy emanating outwards caught in its own cool confines. As the clouds above me part and the sunlight strikes the table, the whole collection begins to twinkle and shine in a blinding display. As my eyes adjust, I notice the smallest of the trinkets as it sits right in front of me. It’s a little goldfish, not much taller than my pinkie, his fins gliding behind him as he swims up, eyes wide. I pick it up. Its chill is a shock to my warm hands, and the man behind the table, whom I hadn’t seemed to see, speaks.

“That’s a good find, little lady.” He could’ve been a mall Santa. Maybe that’s what he does when the flea markets are closed. His beard and rosy cheeks certainly fit the part. But he seems thinner than most Santa’s. His smile seems different. He offers me a price.

“Oh, I don’t have any cash,” I respond.

He chuckles. “Well alright then.” His smile persists, though he turns away to another woman, a customer who can actually pay.

As the vendor speaks to her I look at the fish once again. I look at the vendor. His back is turned. I’m out of the woman’s periphery. No one is looking. I wrap my clammy hand around the fish, and back away from the table. I still hear him talking, so my pace quickens. My eyes dart. No one has seen. But I can feel their eyes. Someone saw. How could they? Either way, I’m still walking, brushing past the perusing shoppers. The crowd wasn’t this packed on my way over. I try not to shove anyone, but I inevitably do. One man tries to tell me off, but soon I see my mother and make a beeline for the table. It’s still empty around us, though one set of shakers is gone. Not the sheep, thankfully.

“Hey sweetie. How’s the rest of the market?” she asks.

“Just fine.” I check that no one’s around me still. “Should we get lunch?”

“It’s only eleven,” she says, perplexed.

“I’m starving.” I squeeze the fish harder, its smooth surface reassuring, and my mother’s eyes begin to drift down to my hands. “I can go grab something. I’ll take the truck.”

“Are you sure you can drive it?” Her eyes are back on me.

“Oh sure.” I can’t.

Reluctantly, slowly she gives me the keys and a twenty dollar bill, and I’m off. As I climb in the truck I place the fish in the passenger seat, the photos from earlier still sitting there. I check the mirrors, and no one’s there, so I pull onto the main road. I forgot to turn on the radio, so I drive in silence with only the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my head. Did he call the cops? Surely not. It’s one trinket. It’s antique though. It could be worth thousands. I doubt it. It soon dawns on me that I don’t know where I’m going. Twenty dollars isn’t exactly running away money, so that’s off the table. I could just get lunch. I could call my dad. He said he’d go to Arizona. Or was it Arkansas? I don’t know if he even knew. He knew he was going to leave. He committed to that. As I pull up to the traffic light I realize where I am. 

I take the next right into a little neighborhood, lined with single storey homes and slightly overgrown lawns. I drive until the end of the cul-de-sac, in the middle of which lies another copycat house with a sold sign in the lawn. I park the truck, and with the fish in hand walk up to the front door. When I try the handle it’s locked, so I instead tread to the backyard. The gate lock has been broken for years. In the middle of the yard lies my swingset, weeds growing out the base, swaying slightly in the cool wind. As I sit in the swing, I peer into my old bedroom window, now empty and lifeless. No more of my plants that always died no matter how much water I gave them; no more of my posters that we’ve now pawned off; no more looking out to watch the moon with my parents. Now it’s all just some window. 

I look again at the fish. Why did I even take it? I shove it in my pocket, and get up to leave, careful to close the gate. As I turn back to the truck I see a minivan pulling up to the house, with a little girl in the backseat. Her brows are furrowed, and her eyes are locked on mine. I freeze for a moment as the family exits the car, the parents heading for the house. As I walk towards the truck, the little girl stays behind, still eyeing me. By the door her parents are trying to find the right key, and so I approach the girl pulling the fish from my pocket.

“You didn’t get this from me, okay?” I tell her, placing the fish in her tiny hand. For a moment she inspects it, rubbing her finger along the ridges of his gills. Then she looks to her parents, then back at me, then nods. I nod too, and finally head back to the truck to turn on the engine. As I pull out onto the road, I see the parents open the door and call their daughter in. She shoves the fish into her little pocket and then trots up the steps to the house that’s no longer mine. The family enters and closes the door behind them. The house shrinks as I drive further away, and once I turn onto the main road, it’s gone from my view. 

Committed, I drive back to the market. I drive back to my mom.