CW: discussion of child death.

It hides from me deep below. Amidst bubbles and foam, a skull of gills and scales and spine stashes away under waves of blue. Do we share the same creases beneath our eyes, the ones that feel like gashes in the mornings? Is salt buried above its cheeks? When it swims and breathes does it choke like me, now? Like me, before? And when it cries and screams does the ocean swallow it all up, too?

• • • •

Fisherman Martín de la marín wears a lit cigarette behind one ear and a sharpened pencil with teeth marks on the other. Hands of salt and sun, he cleans his white work slab with a towel, rinsing the bloody cloth over a sink punctured by bones. Siguiente! he calls, waving us over. Martín winks at the women in line whose shoulders haven’t seen the sun in a while, his yellowed and glassy eyes lingering on their bodies as they pass by. My brother holds the list written by Mamá for our New Year’s Eve dinner: a pound of shrimp, peeled and deveined, two fish heads of dorado, keep the eyes intact, and a pound of octopus.

The hermanitos Robles, Martín says and nods as we walk towards his counter. So good to see you back in Casa Blanca. How are you, guambras? It’s been—it’s been a whole year, hasn’t it? Since? he asks.

We’re fine, I say, snatching the scribbled note away from Gabriel. My brother looks out from the entrance of the fish market and into an ocean that today wishes to be brown; it gargles up its own sand and spits it out. Can you help us with this order? I ask el pescador.

He takes it, reads it, and begins to pack our pedido in a plastic grocery bag. Did y’all see what we’ve been catching all week? he asks, the cigarette about to burn his ear. When we shake our heads no, he holds up his index finger—blood under his nail—and says, Okay, espérame un ratito. Martín disappears from behind the counter, his cigarette falls, and he whispers Ayayay!

Gabriel looks at me and chortles. I roll my eyes and smile, too. Martín de la marín, I say, we have to head back to our apartment soon.

He returns, a fish held up to his chest. It is dead and grimy, and its stare is set on us. I immediately see it. Martín’s earlobe is a little red from the burn, but his smile is wide as he opens and closes the fish’s mouth with his hand; the puppet, too, says, samesies, no?

Eyes yellowed and glossy, a dot of red on its wet cheek. Martín el pescador’s crooked nose and sun-chapped lips. A sharpened pencil sticking out of its punctured fin. The fish wears Martín’s face.

What are you gonna call him? Gabriel asks.

Pezcara, pues, Martín laughs. Garino el marino has one también, he says, pointing over at the slab across his. The fisherman Garino cradles the fish that carries his face and smiles at us; the dead fish, too, smirks.

How much do we owe you? I ask him, grabbing the plastic bag with our food.

For the hermanos Robles, Martín says, free. Poor kids, he adds, as we walk away, his hand petting his fish face.

• • • •

We should’ve dropped this off before heading out to get el viejo, Gabriel says, pointing at the grocery bag of fish bits, shrimp, and pulpo. The heat begins to cook it all, but I don’t tell Gabriel he’s right. He drags his feet as he walks, his flip-flops picking up the sand from the road. I’ll be the one sweeping the beach apartment later so Mamá doesn’t complain about the arena that’ll stick to the bottom of her feet.

I turn to my brother and ask him, Do you have a preference for the New Year’s Eve effigy? We walk along the pier where vendors have set up tiny shops of monigotes. Under a faux ceiling of taped-up black trash bags burdened by puddles from last night’s rain, the giant New Year’s effigies are displayed to the tourists of Casa Blanca. The painted, plastered, and newspaper-woven beings stand taller than me; with their dummy circled eyes and synthetic opened mouths, these distorted figures watch us from up close. The año viejo dolls are mostly political: Rafael Correa, the corrupt socialist president who stole and stole; Guillermo Lasso, el banquero president who stole and stole; Hugo Chávez, a most-wanted by those Venezolanos who rode the exodus wave over to Ecuador; and then this year’s hottest media poppets take over the exhibit: a dark-skinned Thor with blond hair, a Frankenstein-looking Hulk, and Tony Stark without his Iron Man suit, who, in civilian clothing, just looks like Martín de la marín except no glossy yellowed eyes and no fish that carries his face embraced in his arms. The last two poppets are of course brown evil Chucky and brown chunky Homero Simpson.

Gabriel hands me the fish bag as he takes out some cash from his swim trunks’ front pocket. The last vendor around the block sits with his effigies freshly painted—they smell like sulfur and hay and shellfish—and a big red bucket of water where some fish swim around.

Mi señor, Gabriel says to the vendor, are these your fish? I know the answer before the vendor swallows his morning empanada and replies. The fish even have his black moustache dotted with bits of melted cheese. His unibrow, too.

Mis pececitos, he says, still chewing. Isn’t it funny? He tosses a bit of his breakfast at them; one fish swallows the piece of empanada whole. And then I spot one creature that’s not the vendor, that’s not his face, and it’s the slowest of swimmers. The other blue and gray fish bump into it at times.

Señor, and that one? I ask him, pointing at the scaled being whose hair is long and curly, whose eyes are winged with eyeliner and glitter.

My beautiful sister, he says, taking another bite.

Is it a true resemblance? Gabriel asks.

It is, he says, now gulping it all down with a Pepsi en vidrio. And that’s all I have left of her, he exhales.

What do you mean? I ask. I’ve twirled and twirled the fish bag so much, the juices from the sea begin to seep out from the plastic’s pores.

Desapareció, he says. We haven’t seen her in a week. Told the police and everything. But you know how it is around here. The vendor frowns, his unibrow now a tiny caterpillar, and he looks at my brother and I, adding two plus two. Wait, he says, aren’t you los hermanitos Robles?

Gabriel nods sí.

I turn to him and ask, Did you like any doll in particular?

You know I never liked choosing them, he says to me, still nodding.

Can you please pick one?

I was never the one who picked. It was always Sara, Gabriel says, and Sara’s name lingers between us, melting, radiating, gashing.

Fucking pick one please, I whisper. I’m sweating so much, my glasses begin to slide down my nose. I push them back up and the grocery bag hits my face.

We’ll take el Tony Stark, Gabriel announces.

El Tonisito, muy bien, the vendor smiles and picks up the monigote. He brushes off arena from its head and arms, and hands it over.

Do you have something to burn it with?

We do, I respond. Gabriel and I head back to the apartment, fish bits in plastic and Tony Starked.

• • • •

Before the sun sets at six thirty, I want to go surfing with Gabriel. And to convince him, I tell him that maybe we’ll find a fish with his face out in the Pacific, too. He stands now in the beach apartment’s kitchen, stuffing his mouth with patacones con sal while Mery pours him some lemonade. I sit at the table and fold napkins into nothings, using my nails to deepen the creases.

Muchachito, Mery says, laughing, you’re going to choke. Mery’s curls have been tamed by thick transparent gel and now they’re stuck to her skull. Her freckles that with time have created a constellation I know so well today look somewhat darker. Maybe it’s because she’s in all black.

Tell him the ocean is perfect right now, I say to Mery who looks at Gabriel, salt sticking to his upper lip.

Tell Rocío I don’t want to swim before dinner, he says to Mery, and offers me a patacón. I take it and rest it on my folded paper napkin. The oil begins to seep in and it stains me, too.

Can’t swim or surf after you eat, señorita Rocío, Mery says, smiling. You know this very well, she adds. I nod.

It’s the last swim of the year, I say to my napkins and my fried plantain. Gabriel rolls his eyes and takes another bite.

God knows back in Quito you kids get no sun, Mery says, but maybe it’s best to leave the surfing for next year, she winks at me. Gabriel laughs.

I want to go out there today, I say. Emphasis on hoy.

And after a pause where we only hear the plantains sizzling in the hot oil and the ocean crying from beyond our window, Mery, the woman who we hire for every visit out to la playa, for every New Year’s and summer, Mery, the woman who changed my diapers of sand and who taught me how to put in a tampon so I could go swimming with my friends, Mery tells me, Won’t it be too much, señorita Rocío, she says to me, won’t it be too much to think about niña Sara out there today in the sea?

When Mery says my sister’s name, I know I want to hurt her. Gabriel looks my way. He drops a couple of patacones on the kitchen floor. Mery starts peeling plantains and chopping them. And this is when I ask, Is that why you’re all in black, Mery? For Sara’s death anniversary?

I am not, Mery immediately responds, her grip still tight on the knife. My tío abuelo Ramón passed away two days ago, and we only got around to the funeral today, in the morning. I didn’t have time to change. Had to rush here to make y’alls lunch and dinner.

I stare at my paper napkin and think of the eyeliner wing on that fish. It was so delicate and precise. Something I’ve tried to do with Mery’s help for years as I got ready for New Year’s Eve parties at the beach. She’d also hold my hand and guide the eyeliner as we both explored the curvature of my eyeballs, the resilience of my skin, and just how shitty both of our pulses were. Does my fish carry my crooked eyeliner like I did back then? Or does it look like me, now, hunched over the kitchen table with my face scowling at Mery and a lump forming in my throat? I think of my fish out there waiting for me to catch it, to save it, to kill it. I think of Gabriel’s fish. Of Mery’s. Where is Sara’s? And so I say, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry, too, Gabriel adds.

Oh, he was like ninety or something. Still loved to pezcar, though. To be out there by himself and his lancha and his buckets, Mery smiles. So, señorita Rocío, maybe best to stay on dry land tonight, she says to me.

I don’t think so, I respond. Why are we here en la playa then? Why do we have to come back here every year? Even after—

Gabriel shrugs and quickly replies, You’ll have to go to Mamá for that one.

Yeah, great, I say back.

La señora has been through a lot, Mery intervenes. And so have you both. More patacones? she asks us. We shake our heads no.

Rocío, if I go with you, will you shut up? Gabriel asks me. I nod sí. Do you really think we’ll find a fish with my face on it? he asks. He wants me to smile, and I do.

You know Ramón fished out one with his face a couple of days ago, Mery says as she puts away the lemonade.

As in Ramón from today’s funeral Ramón? Gabriel asks.

Yes, Mery responds, smashing down the fried plantain bits with her open palm. My mom now has it at the house; it’s swimming in her sink, she says.

Ramón fished out his face and then he died? Gabriel asks.

Ready? I ask him.

• • • •

Strands of seaweed stick to my ankle and try to pull me down. I kick them off. Gabriel rides a wave and uses the tip of his fingers to graze the water. The wave dies down and so he dives into the ocean, hands first and feet last. His boogie board’s tied to his ankle. He swims towards me, and I can only see the Styrofoam pink board approaching like a shark’s fin gliding across the surface. I lay on my board face down, sometimes sticking my head in saltwater and opening my eyes, seeking.

When I come up for air, my brother floats beside me, his eyes shrinking and melting; he’s trying to see me without his glasses. So, what are you thinking about? The fish face people? Because so am I, Gabriel says. He drifts on the water while we look for more waves. He doesn’t wait for me to respond and continues, What do you think happens after you find your fish with your face? He blows his nose into the water.

Gross, ñaño, I say. I don’t know. I splash some water his way. You either die or disappear, apparently. The ocean pulls us in slowly and from afar we see a big wave forming.

Well, I guess I’m going to miss Martín de la marín, Gabriel laughs. I do, too.

And apparently Garino el marino, I laugh. Who will sell us our fish now.

I hope we never come back here, Gabriel says, splashing the ocean on his chest.

I don’t tell him that I don’t plan to.

That one looks too big, I say, looking out to the horizon.

We float in silence on the hot water that gradually changes moods from a bucket-water brown to the bluest of blues. We start swimming sideways, but the wave’s caught us. Gabriel looks my way, and he holds out his hand for me to catch it. The sea slams into us, first sucking in Gabriel’s boogie board and then mine. I am smashed under its weight and bending in its depth.

This is when I appear to me. I am luminescent, cold-blooded. I carry deep marks beneath my eyes. I wail in the water. Gabriel’s legs kick next to me and I scatter.

When I swim up to the surface, I am coughing so much but I manage to ask, Did you see it? Did you see me?

Mhmm, he replies. Gabriel holds his glasses in his mouth, teeth chewing his lenses. I guess this means you’re a goner, he says to me. I smile and look down at my raisin hands and burnt thighs and I lick the ocean salt from my lips. There’s so much water in my ears and up my nose. We both look back at the Casa Blanca skyline behind us that has shrunk and bubbled into a smudge of spit and decide to head back.

• • • •

When I get out of the shower, I see a Gabriel dressed in all white placing glasses made from paper napkins and crinkled up aluminum foil on Tony Stark’s face. Mamá turns on the radio and begins blasting her New Year’s Eve playlist. I ask him what he’s doing all this for, and I think Gabriel says Because we couldn’t find my fish. And from this distance, I see a Tony Stark that looks so much like my brother: the tiny brown mustache, the weird aluminum glasses, the hair parted on one side.

I wear my white New Year’s Eve dress and so does Mamá. Tonight we will follow all New Year’s Eve traditions like we’ve always done: eat el encocado, watch the fireworks, burn the monigote, go out to the beach and drink champagne. Mery has gone home to her family; she was still dressed in black when she left. Mamá has laid Tony Stark slash Martín de la marín slash Gabriel out in the path that connects our apartment to the Casa Blanca beach. She stabs Tony repeatedly with the patacón knife and opens him up to see his insides. The secret is to stash away some matches inside its body, so when a little of the effigy burns, the fósforos take care of the rest.

I’ve opened the champagne before we’re supposed to. I drank half of it back in our room while I sat on the upper bunk bed and looked down below at the mattress that Mamá nor Mery couldn’t be bothered to dress. I search for her. Now my mouth is dry and tangy and my eyes are set on the poppet. What is Iron Man without a suit? He’s the effigy that burns so we can jump over him and leave the bad old year behind. We will leap in search for a new year, a new hope. And this being burns for us. But I don’t want to abandon this year. I don’t want to leave her. Mamá lights the monigote on fire.

The first to jump is Gabriel, and as he backs up with his flip-flops clacking on the cement, I see the burning effigy take my brother’s form: when its face burns, it becomes my brother’s dimpled chin and wire glasses and a face that refuses to grow up. Gabriel runs and leaps across, part of his white pants catching on fire. We applaud as he lands, and he claps too. Mamá wants to go next. I’m surprised she does.

Feliz año! Mamá shouts as the fireworks light up our equatorial sky. Ephemeral patterns of fire are born and die above her, leaving their remnants to fall on us, and she lands on one foot on the other side. The man on fire stands between me and them.

Dale, Rocío, pequeña, my mamá calls me over.

I jump.

• • • •

Far away on the horizon, something jolts out of the water and loops back in. I point at it with my index finger for my brother to see it; Gabriel’s feet are now cinder and legs a coal on fire. He nods his head in agreement. He saw it, too. Our bodies make no dips in the sand. The air still smells like New Year’s fireworks and burnt effigies and now an ashy Gabriel. Behind us rows and rows of houses and apartments painted white light up with their poppets still on fire, their politicians and celebrities and monsters still ablaze.

I cry and smile when I first feel it in my neck. The gills slit open and I take in my last breath. My brother made of ash watches my body recoil into my fish, into me, and when the waves come in my sister arrives with them, her face scrunched up into the smallest of fishes, and they swoop me up and hold me and carry me as if I’ve always belonged.