McKenzie

McKenzie was in tears, sniffling and pouting as she walked hand in hand with her father down toward the water.

"No, Daddy, please?" she said, "I don't want to go in there."

"It's okay, honey," he said, "it'll just be for a few minutes. Then we can come in. You'll see — Once we're out there, it'll be fun. I promise."

For a moment, this actually made her feel better. But then she remembered another of her father's promises (the one at the doctor's office when she was sick and he'd said that shots didn't hurt), and her fear redoubled. She sobbed as they paced over the pale sand. Their heels drove downward, making painful creaking noises and leaving deep gouges rather than footprints. Ahead, the murky ocean made small waves of impenetrable green-gray, lapping at the shore like a swollen tongue.

Her father swept McKenzie up into his arms, hoping to calm her down, but didn't slow his walk toward the water.

"What's the matter, honey?" he said, patting her back. "What's wrong? What's so scary about the ocean?"

McKenzie was crying too much to speak clearly. "It's — it's the — it's all the fish," she said. "There's so many fish in there-re. I kn-know it. And they — th-they say so scary things."

McKenzie's father leaned her away from his chest for a moment and scrutinized her face. His near-constant smile faltered.

"They say things, huh?"

She nodded, and he pulled her in closer again. He didn't know what that was about, but they were almost at the water now, and anyway, it would be good for her to get over her fears by facing them. They trudged through the shallow surf, the water growing higher around them with every wave and every step. McKenzie was still ruminating on the fish, on their voices, and on the doctor's office where she had first heard them.

She had found them in the beautiful blue aquarium that stood against the wall of the doctor's office waiting room, that day she had a fever. The fish were so funny. They bobbed and danced around one another in the water. They seemed so happy. Hot with fever, she had laid her head against the cool glass for relief, then gasped when she heard them.

"Hey."

"Hey, hey."

"Hey," they would say, again and again. Every time one fish passed by another, which was almost continuous in a fish tank, they would greet one another with a hollow, resonant "Hey".

It had been funny when it was just an aquarium, and she had been too young to find anything truly disturbing about fish talking. But months later, when the family had gone out to the local park to swim in the lake, it had been scary. Fish in the lake didn't seem to say the same things as fish in a glass box.

"Eat."

"Eat that."

"Don't get eaten. Don't get eaten. No, no, n —"

"Eat, eat, eat, eat."

"Swim, swim, swim, swim, aaaaah —."

It was awful. Those sounds of hunger and fear chorused around her whenever she ducked her head under the lakewater. The voices grew louder and softer, darting closer and farther away, invisible in the cloudy-blackness. There were so many, just so many voices. McKenzie could not imagine how that many fish lived and swam in one lake. Before taking any more time to consider it she had emerged from the lake crying and could not be cajoled by anyone to return to the water.

Her parents had let it pass that time. If it was just fear of swimming, or the water, they could overcome that. Surprisingly though, they had no trouble getting her to swim in the pool at home. If the water was transparent and filled with chlorine, there were no problems. But, be it lake, river, pond, stream, sea, bay, or ocean, McKenzie would throw a tantrum the instant they suggested she take a swim. They began to wonder if there wasn't something wrong with their daughter.