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288 pages, Paperback
First published February 7, 2019
Imagine its white underside against the white dust and ash and sand or whatever it is on the moon, looking identical, like a mirror image, and that dark topside looking like the moon from farther away, patterns like craters. Dark side of the moon, essentially. The halibut has been waiting for this meeting, waiting for millions of years, brought home, finally. Destiny. And then it hits both ends, hard, like wings, and the gravity is so much less. Even on Earth, they can launch a few feet above deck. But on the moon, this halibut flew.
The bare light bulb humming, another torture, moth wings fusing to its surface. Too many things. Rhoda, the IRS, his divorces, the sinus pain, his job, the empty new house, winter, this trip that has not made things better at all. He was making it through the weeks until this trip, a kind of finish line, but now he can see all the weeks waiting after it, and no change, no improvement. The doctor was supposed to help. And Rhoda, and his family, seeing his kids, getting away from winter and loneliness and insomnia and work, but it’s no easier here. He’s no closer to seeing a way through. How to stay alive long enough to where life becomes something wanted again.
It hits both ends and knows flight, true flight, for the first time. Not restricted by the thickness of water. No resistance. Something no human has ever felt either, and no bird, to fly in an airless place, and without any suit. No barrier. Only the purest flight ever known, pure also because both its eyes are on the top side of its head. Any other fish would see the astronauts below, the lunar module, the surface of the moon, but not the halibut. It sees only emptiness above, undistracted, or maybe it sees Earth, a blue-and-white orb so far away, and knows the ocean is there, Alaskan waters, reaches for home, flops again against nothing to try to propel itself faster. What does a halibut think in that moment of flight? Until we know that, do we know anything?
“Please,” Gary says, his voice really pleading, desperate. “Please try. I know you can get back to your old self.”
“I’m sorry,” Jim says. “I’m not trying to hurt you. But there is no old self. There’s nothing to go back to. That’s what people don’t understand. There’s no self at all. There’s no one home.”
A kind of groan then from Gary, a sound of despair, nameless.
The dust floating thick above the carpet throughout the entire house, up to perhaps knee level in high concentration and thinning above that, an atmosphere in different bands. The nostalgiasphere first, the layer most dense, where he's lying now, a region of immense weight where time can slow or even stop moving and echoes of sound and smell and feeling can travel forever. Catfish with their wide tendriled mouths patrolling here as leviathans, fallen birds and smell of gun smoke and blood and everything grown larger. A place intent on suffocation, place of Bible stories with children ripped in half, towers falling, tongues without words, locusts descending. The sea parted and held back by a single human hand and the weight of that ready to rush in again, mountains of water overhanging and bending light and even the water smells of blood and can transform, all mutable here, nothing remaining separate or safe.