Pancakes with Rocket
by Kylee Webb
It was after the day your father died that you wanted to become a hermit crab. When you saw the car he was in and how it was crumpled like a soda can, you lamented how he would have survived if he only would’ve worn his shell—the one you made him at school. I’d never seen his marine biologist’s face light up more than when you gave him that paper maché shell, as childishly crafted as it was. You knew his favorite crustacean to study was a hermit crab, the Paguroidea.
Anyway, I’m rambling now, but after that day, you never took off the shell. You even wore it to the funeral. I remember the stares when you shuffle around in the pews and the paper shell crinkled, sounding like soft rain, for everyone to hear. The sounds even made the pastor pause his eulogy at one point.
Another incident where your behavior took a troublesome turn was the day I received a call from your school. You had stolen sand from the playground and stuffed your backpack with it. They discovered this when you collapsed under the intense weight of your backpack while coming back from recess . I remember sitting with you in the principal’s office, your tiny legs not even touching the floor, swinging like newton balls. He said, “Why did you take all of that sand, son?” No one called you “son” besides dad. So you didn’t answer him. When I took you home that day, I asked you to please, please tell me why you did that. You told me, “I need the sand to build my habitat.” The word “habitat” sounded so silly coming out of your five-year-old mouth, but I didn’t have the wherewithal to laugh at that time. Instead, I just let the tears trickle silently down my face and hoped the beating summer sun would somehow dry them up.
After the school incident, you refused to crawl out of your room. When I called you to come down for breakfast, you never showed. I remember it was especially unusual because I made your favorite pancakes that day: chocolate chip banana. Your dad always made them better than I did. I remember scuttling up the stairs to fetch you from your room. When I opened the door, there you were staring blankly into your fish tank, your face pressed against the glass. I asked you why you weren’t coming down and you just shrugged, then tapped the glass where your pet hermit crab was. You said, “I want to be in there with Rocket.” I told you you couldn’t go in there with him, that it would hurt Rocket if you did. You frowned deeply. I hated seeing that. I then asked you if there was anything else you’d like to do today. Your face perked up and then you said, “I wanna go to the beach!”
So I called you out of school that day and we drove for about an hour, trying to count the gulls as we went. You still wore your shell which made it hard to apply sunscreen. The whole time you had this thousand yard stare toward the ocean’s horizon. I wanted to ask you what was going on, but I decided not to. I wanted to enjoy the peaceful silence, the waves calling out “hello.” I couldn’t stop thinking about your father and how on our first date, we went to this beach and he kept on telling me the scientific names of every creature we saw squirming in the tide pools. The way the summer heat enveloped me and the way his charming, unassuming intellect enticed me, ensured me that I would have you with him someday. Gross, I know.
You slowly stood up, phasing me out of my recollections. You began to step deliberately toward the ocean. You were nearly at the edge of the foam when I finally called out to you and asked you what you were doing. You turned to me and smiled and I will never forget what you said. You told me, “Mama, I’m going home. I’m going where I belong.” And I don’t know why I let you go, but I did. You walked into that water, barely knowing how to swim. Then, a powerful wave smashed into you and swept you up underneath it. Immediately my heart propelled into my neck. I dashed to the water. Faster than I have ever done anything in my whole life. But you had disappeared, enveloped by the salt water.
The whole beach and I searched for hours to find you, calling your name left and right. By the end of the night, my vocal chords were torn to shreds and I could feel the judging stares and pained grimaces hitting me like crashing waves.
I finally felt you when I was on my way to leave the beach for the police station. There you were, pinching my foot with your claw, your shell looking exactly like the paper maché one. Maybe I should have left you there, but I couldn’t. Plus, you were so happy here with Rocket. It gives me endless glee to see the times when you come out from your shell and sidle up against the glass to see me. Everyone around me mourns the loss of you and blames me for your disappearance. But little do they know that you were here.
When you eventually left this world, I buried you right next to your father. Good thing there was already a gravesite for you there. Now, I sit here and wait for you to return to me in any form you wish, no matter how long that takes. I hope you still like banana chocolate chip pancakes.
Kylee Webb is Editor in Chief of Last Resort Literary Review and a graduate student in the English Literature program at Arizona State University. She’s a member of Phi Beta Kappa and graduated Summa Cum Laude with a major in literature and a double minor in Spanish and Political Science. She’s primarily interested in absurdist, surrealist, and feminist works, and enjoys the films of David Lynch, Ari Aster, Luis Buñuel, and literally any feminist director. Her work has appeared in volume 3 of 𝘈𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘙𝘪𝘥𝘨𝘦'𝘴 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘰 fiction anthology and 𝘛𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘓𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘑𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭'𝘴 inaugural issue. You can find her on Twitter @KyleeNikole13.