Get Happy

  After school that day when I arrived home, I remember it smelled as if a giant vat of cleanser had permeated the cells of everything in the house. My mom had flipped her schedule, traded with her coworker so she had today off and would be working tomorrow. Cleaning the house was Pat Watson’s idea of a day off.

  I called out a quick hello — she was rummaging in the utility room — and ran upstairs to think of a way to make things better with Fin. My room was a picture of order. The top of my dresser was clean, every drawer closed, the mess on my desk gone. My bed was made, Aunt Joan’s puffy patchwork quilt stored away and replaced with the thinner, store-bought bedspread and matching sheets that I never liked.

  At first, I didn’t think much of it. My mother had done major cleans in the past. And then I remembered the necklace.

  I dove to look under the bed.

  Nothing. The rug was a blank landscape. In the closet, all my shoes were neatly stacked on a shoe rack, my favorites next to the ones I never wore, and no sheepherder boots among them.

  My mom appeared in the doorway. “Hi, sweetie. How was your — ”

  I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. “Mom, what did you do?”

  “ ‘Thank you’ would be a more appropriate response, Minerva. Your room was a disaster zone.”

  “Did you throw stuff away?” I looked under the bed again, hoping that the boots would miraculously reappear. “Mom? Did you actually throw things away?”

  “I have been asking you every day for the past year to clean your room. Look at how cute that dresser looks without a pile of — ”

  “Where did you put everything?”

  “It’s trash day. I threw away the trash and put everything else in a bag for Goodwill — ”

  “Where’s the Goodwill bag?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  “Are my boots there, those brown ones you hated that I got last year?”

  “They were filthy.”

  A hot wall of anger was rising up inside me; in my peripheral vision, the room seemed to be turning red. “Did you throw them out?”

  “They were absolutely not worth saving.”

  “Where’s the trash?”

  “Minerva, those boots — ”

  “Is it gone? Did they pick up the trash?” I already knew the answer.

  “For heaven’s sake, Minerva. You’re being ridiculous.”

  I lashed out. “You don’t have the right to mess with my things.”

  She looked as if I had slapped her. “Minerva, I don’t like this attitude. That is the last time I clean your room. You can live in a pig sty!” She left in a huff.

  I ran downstairs and double-checked the garbage can. I scoured our yard and then our street, just to make sure that the necklace hadn’t fallen out. I dumped everything out of the Goodwill bag and went through each item, in case it had gotten tangled up in something else.

  After twenty minutes of searching, I had to face the fact that it was gone.

  I went back up to my room and stood there, surrounded by the immaculate order: the smooth bedspread, the gleaming mirror, the parallel vacuum lines on the rug.

  I pictured the seahorse, the curl of the tail around the black silk cord, and I pictured my dad’s handwriting in black ink on the cream-colored card.

  I know that gifts are a far cry from being there all these years, but I want you to know that I am always thinking about you. I don’t know if it’s your style, but I hope you like it.

  The necklace was mine. I was supposed to decide if I should sell it or throw it away or maybe even someday wear it and feel the weight and elegance of it against my skin. He had finally given me something I could look at and hold in my hand. It had arrived without warning, and now, just as suddenly, it was gone.

  The universe giveth and the universe sweepeth away, and your needs, your desires, your feelings are swept away, too.

  I looked at myself in the mirror. No black silk cord around my neck. No silver and pearl-studded beauty against my skin. Nothing but a hollow, silent cry inside my throat.

  I COULD NOT EVEN look at my mother.

  I may not have been learning as much about history or math or biology as I could have, but I was learning the valuable lesson of how to completely ignore the existence of another human being while living in the same town house. My mom and I spent the entire evening in our separate bubbles. She didn’t insist that I sit across from her at the dinner table, and I didn’t ask if I could eat in front of the television. I loaded up my plate and cushioned myself on the couch.

  I texted Fin, asking him to call, and he wasn’t calling back. Nothing good was on. I flipped through the channels, knowing it would be better for my soul if I went upstairs and played the uke, but I couldn’t move.

  I texted again: Where are you? I’m going through something big and I really need to talk.

  My phone buzzed. Text from Fin: I didn’t get the part. Thanks for asking.

  I had completely forgotten about his final audition. I set my phone on the coffee table, got up, and paced. I wanted to throw something.

  Sounds were coming from the kitchen, dishes clunking angrily into the dishwasher.

  I grabbed my phone and texted back. I’m sorry, Fin. Please call.

  No call.

  Over the next two hours, I texted five apologies. No reply.

  Silence is a terrible thing. Hoping that he had just turned off his phone and that he wasn’t that mad, I stormed into my room and dove under the covers.

  I woke up in the middle of the night feeling sick to my stomach. Too much was happening at once. I went into the kitchen and stared at the clock. I couldn’t think of a way to make things right with Fin, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the necklace. My father had reached out to me, and no matter how much I told myself that I was putting him out of my mind, I couldn’t. Finally, I sat at the computer. I thought for a long time, and then I called up Google images. I typed in Keanu and Minerva.

  I deleted it.

  I typed it in again.

  I walked away.

  I came back.

  I stared at it.

  I hit IMAGE SEARCH.

  I held my breath, and a thumbnail picture popped onto the screen. I clicked to enlarge it.

  A photograph. There we are. He is standing in front of a large circular blue aquarium tank, holding me. I’m about one. I’ve got that wispy black baby hair and my eyes are huge and I’m wearing a striped dress and little black shoes that I’ve seen in other photos. Whoever took this photo must have been kneeling, because the angle shows a beautiful ceiling above our heads, lit with blue lights. We are surrounded by blue, as if we are in the water. No wonder I fantasized that he’d emerge from the lake at the beach when I was little.

  I clicked on the link to see where the photo lived, and it took me to an archive of Shedd Aquarium newsletter articles going back twenty years. Caption:

  KEANU AND MINERVA ENJOY

  THE FACULTY HOLIDAY PARTY.

  He is holding me with one arm as if he’s having fun showing me off. He is young. We both look happy. My chubby arm is resting on his shoulder so casually. At one point in my life, I was completely comfortable in his arms.

  I printed it out.

  20

  THE SHEDD AQUARIUM

  I WOKE UP light-headed; my movements felt involuntary, as if I had stepped into a strong current and was being carried along.

  I put on my green dress and took my uke, the photo, and my backpack downstairs. My mom was already at work, although it was Saturday, because she had not worked the day before. The note on the counter, reminding me about assignments that I hadn’t done that week, had a tone of annoyance. I rode my bike to the El station and took a train to Chicago.

  When I left the train, it took me a while to figure out which way to walk, the sun bouncing off everything so brightly it hurt to look ahead. After a long walk, I could see the aquarium, which looked like a Greek temple with the magnificent lake behind it and a cloudless bl
ue sky above it.

  Huge and majestic, the building had four pillars and colorful banners between each pillar, announcing special exhibits. The banner on the right read: SEAHORSE SECRETS. At the top of the stairs near the entrance, a glossy cardboard cutout of a seahorse — six feet tall — was on display. Next to it was a large poster explaining my dad’s award and his research. The reality of him hit me: My dad, the guy I had tried and failed to avoid thinking about for so many years, was right here, in this building.

  The line to get in was out the door. I stood behind the last family waiting and checked my wallet. I hadn’t done my research to find out how much it cost to get in. When the line finally reached the doors, the ticket prices were visible. More than I expected. I left to find an ATM, tapped out what was allowed to be withdrawn, and hurried back. By the time I walked in, I was out of breath.

  The main room, the grand rotunda, was the same room that was in the photo I had in my backpack. The same beautiful blue ceiling and curved aquarium tank. I had been here fifteen years ago in my dad’s arms — we had been at a party together, and he had been showing me off. When he moved here again to work and saw this, it must have brought back memories of us together. I wondered if he wrote the letter to me here, in the beauty and peace of this aquarium.

  Inside the first large tank, the scene was mesmerizing, plants and animals moving underwater gracefully and effortlessly: sea turtles, moray eels, and parrot fish. A little girl standing with both hands on the glass was literally yelping with excitement every time a creature swam by.

  The mom asked if I would mind taking a picture of the family together.

  I held up the camera. Inside the frame, the parents stood, all smiles, with their daughter between them. “Say ‘fishies,’ Zoe!” the mom said.

  I started to get a little panicky and walked around for a while, not looking at the tanks, with an internal debate raging in my head. Should I play it safe and go home right now or should I go into the auditorium and at least stay for the lecture? I didn’t have to approach him; I could just sit in the back, a baby step to be in the same room at the same time. If he happened to see me and recognize me after the lecture, I could make it sound as though it wasn’t a big deal, tell him that my bio teacher had recommended coming. He’d see the uke in my backpack and ask me about it. I’d have something to say. Yes, I play the uke. I’m doing an open mic later tonight with a friend. I’m doing just fine, thank you, as you can see.

  I made my way to the auditorium doors. People were streaming in. A man wearing a blue suit asked for my ticket.

  I showed him my receipt.

  “That’s your admission to the aquarium,” he said. “You had to reserve a lecture ticket in advance.” He looked past me to take the reservations of a couple waiting behind me.

  I just stood there.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Your ticket does give you admission to the seahorse exhibit as well as our permanent exhibits.”

  Stunned, I walked away. The corridor was crowded, full of moms and dads and strollers. I walked into a bathroom to escape. There were three women waiting for the stalls, and I squeezed past them and stood at the sink. The soap was pink and foamy. I glanced up at the mirror just as one of the stall doors behind me opened. Cassie Lott walked out.

  “Minerva!” she squealed, and stepped up to the sink next to me. “Look at you with your uke! How fun! What are you doing here? Are you going to the lecture?”

  Of course she would be here. I don’t know why I was surprised. I rinsed the soap off my hands. Words came out: “My bio teacher wanted us to come, but I didn’t reserve a space.” I heard myself laugh at my own stupidity.

  “It’s packed!” she said. “If I had known you were coming, I could have saved you a seat up front with us.” She leaned over the sink to wash her hands, and a pendant that had been stuck under her shirt came free and swung forward.

  I stopped midbreath.

  It was a seahorse. It was my seahorse on a black silk cord.

  My mind tried to make sense of it. Perhaps the necklace had fallen out of the garbage truck, and, in the strangest of all coincidences, Cassie found it on the street. Or maybe a friend of hers found it, and knowing that she loves seahorses, gave it to her. I asked, full of genuinely innocent wonder, “Where did you get that?”

  She lifted the pendant and smiled. “This? My stepdad.” She let it go and pulled lip gloss out of her back pocket and leaned even closer to the mirror to put it on. “He’s the one giving the lecture.” She smiled at herself and smacked her lips. “Didn’t you know that? Keanu Choy.”

  My stomach dropped, and the color must have drained from my face because she asked if I was okay. A stall opened up. Fortunately, the line was gone, so I turned and walked in. As I twisted the lock, I managed to mumble something about how I had eaten something that was making me feel sick.

  Through the crack in the door, I saw her finish up in the mirror. “Sorry,” she said. “Hey, do you want me to see if I can get you in?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Okay. I have to go. Hope you feel better. See you next Saturday.”

  She left and more people came in. I stood in the stall, staring at the door, feeling as if the room were tilting back and forth.

  Images were flashing through my mind. A young Cassie and her divorced mom living in California. Cassie and her mom hanging out at the beach. Cassie and her mom meeting Keanu Choy, hitting it off, having so much in common. Vacations together. A marriage. Trips to Hawaii, Fiji, Bermuda. The job offer in Chicago. The decision to move. Enrolling Cassie in Parker, nothing but the best.

  Through the crack, I saw a mom and her kids lining up at the sinks, two girls and a little boy. “What did you like best, guys?” the mom asked.

  “The seahorses,” one daughter said.

  “The rays,” the second one said.

  “The hot dogs,” the boy said, and the mom laughed.

  Someone from the line knocked on my door.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” I said.

  A little kid in the stall next to me was talking to her mom nonstop.

  I walked out of the stall, avoiding eye contact, washed my hands, and left. The doors to the auditorium were closed and a sign read: LECTURE IN PROGRESS. A red velvet rope blocked the entrance.

  I turned to leave and thought I was headed to the aquarium exit, but I was funneled into an S-shaped room lined with small tanks, photos, and facts on every wall. The Save Our Seahorse special exhibit. The last place I wanted to be.

  Moms and dads and kids and single people were all shuffling along, waiting their turns to get closer to the tanks, or stopping to read the stuff on the walls, or listening to the recorded tour on their smartphones.

  A different species of seahorse was in each tank. The creatures looked powerless and sad, with their tails curled around strands of seaweed or floating through the water, their faces expressionless, their bodies rigid, even when moving, their bony plates like primeval armor: tiny, armless, aimless toy soldiers.

  Hot, unable to breathe, I pushed against the flow, trying to get out in the direction that people were coming in. As I was entering the last curve of the room, the only opening in the flow of people was closest to the wall. On it was a display explaining the SOS Project, with photos from my dad’s research and dives. The time line was in reverse for me, so as I moved forward, my dad was getting younger in the pictures. There was a photo of a whole group wearing SOS polo shirts on a large sailboat with Keanu in the center, and a younger Cassie was in the shot with what looked like her mom standing next to her.

  I kept moving forward, not wanting to look at the photos but unable to look away. The last photo stopped me. It was the same picture I had printed out and brought with me, the picture of my young dad and me surrounded by the blue of the grand rotunda, except they had cropped me out. The picture was just a head shot of my dad, and the caption said, SOS FOUNDER KEANU CHOY AT SHEDD DURING HIS INTERNSHIP.

  If you looked ve
ry closely, you could see that my chubby little arm on his shoulder had been erased.

  Something inside me, some inner rope that had been holding me, snapped. I took the printed photo out of my backpack and threw it away. Then I walked from the exhibit to the lecture hall. The museum guard who had been standing in front of the auditorium doors was gone. I unhooked the velvet rope and simply walked in.

  The stage was lit up with a projected image of seahorses, and there he was, talking. Keanu Choy.

  I stepped to the side and stood against the back wall.

  He was handsome and confident, wearing black jeans, a crisp white shirt, and a headset microphone, walking around the stage and using his arms to punctuate his remarks with robust enthusiasm, sleek, graceful, the kind of man who never trips over a word or a crack in the sidewalk.

  “Thanks to the efforts of marine conservationists, more seahorse habitats are being protected, but we still have a long way to go, my friends. For those of you who are divers, please help us by contributing to our seahorse survey project. If you see a seahorse in the wild, be a marine detective. Try to notice everything you can — weather conditions, habitat, size of the seahorse, distinguishing marks, spots, speckles, stripes … behavior — Is it clinging to a holdfast? Is it holding an umbrella?”

  Everybody laughed.

  “Send us your description and a photo or video.” He smiled. “Make sure you use an underwater camera, though!”

  More laughter.

  “Seriously, though, if you do photograph seahorses, please, please refrain from excessive flash, and if they move away, let them go. Like many of us, they don’t want their faces to be plastered all over YouTube.” More laughter. “Protecting and preserving these creatures is always our main goal. Questions?”

  A woman in a navy blue aquarium blazer stepped forward and invited anyone with a question to stand at either of two microphones that were set up toward the back of each aisle. Several people lined up.

  “Dr. Choy, I loved your talk and found it so interesting that the male delivers the babies, so to speak,” a woman gushed. “You said that the father carries the fertilized eggs in his pouch. Do they have many partners or do they mate for life?”