My dad continues to grill me with questions as we walk through the aquarium’s tunnels, surrounded by rippling, lapis-limned light. He doesn’t ask about mom and I’m not stupid enough to bring her up. After several minutes of stilted conversation interspersed with awkward pauses, with him clearing his throat of a rather persistent itch and me pretending to be interested in the wrinkle-riddled snails and neon seahorses we pass, we arrive at the sea lion enclosure. I push aside the heavy plastic strips hanging in the entryway and squint against the blinding light of midday. A few families are already seated on the semi-circular bleachers in front of the tank, and I have to drag my dad back to the third row before he can sit down in the front. 

Once we settle, I busy myself with watching the two sea lions swim circles in the bright blue water of their tank while my dad, whistling to himself, peruses the brochure he had grabbed at the front desk.

My phone buzzes with a text from Gabby. It’s a selfie of her and Reagan driving in the Catskills, with a message that reads, “Wish you were here!” I smile through the dull throb in my chest, grateful for the distraction, and type out a response.

“Sea lions are highly social animals and often return to the same coastal areas year after year to rest and raise their young,” dad reads aloud. “Although you probably know that already; sea lions were always your favorite animal.” 

When I was four, I think. I nod quickly and resume texting Gabby. 

“Who are they?” my dad asks.

I turn again, finding him glancing at my phone. 

“Oh. Right. Gabby and Reagan. They’ve been my best friends since freshman year,” I supply. 

“They seem nice.” 

“Yeah,” I nod. “They are.” 

My dad clears his throat and leans back in his seat. I fidget with my phone while I wait for Gabby to reply. The golden-brown pancakes and perfectly fried eggs from this morning churn uneasily in my stomach. It’s still hard to believe dad made them. He used to burn everything.

More families start to file onto the bleachers, the gentle murmurs of happy couples and excited children closing in around us. I spot a couple kids my age in the crowd, but without friends or a younger sibling beside me, I feel closer to the toddlers with jelly sandals and rosy faces, clinging to their parents’ arms. 

Three minutes past eleven, a woman in a full-body wetsuit emerges, carrying a large silver bucket filled to the brim with raw fish, her body tilting slightly under its weight.

“Welcome, everybody,” she says, setting the bucket down on the ground once she reaches the front of the bleachers. A headset amplifies her voice across the entire outdoor space. “Looks like we’ve got quite a crowd today, so thank you all for being here. My name is Pam and I’m one of the keepers and trainers for our sea lions. In just a moment I’ll introduce you to the stars of our show today: Nala and Seabastian.”

Picking the bucket back up, Pam climbs a small ladder attached to the side of the tank and steps onto the wooden walkway that, along with some sort of cement material shaped into artificial-looking rocky outcroppings, surrounds the tank. As she walks to the edge, both sea lions follow her with their heads out of the water, and when she throws each of them a herring, they dive down to catch it. After resurfacing, Nala and Seabastian leap onto the rock beside Pam and the crowd gasps. 

Pam then leads a series of tricks involving the seals diving into the water, barking, and catching fish. It’s hard not to notice my dad beside me, who claps loudly after every trick and cups his hands over his mouth to amplify his cheering. He looks over and nudges me with his elbow. 

“Come on! Where’d your fun go? Nala and Seabastian won’t put on a good show unless you cheer for them.” 

 I clap slowly because he’s still watching me, but his words leave a bittersweet taste in my mouth. I faintly remember him saying something like this when I was six and still hung onto every word he said. Back then, I probably put my hands together and yelled along with him, oblivious to the empty seat on my right.

Mom wouldn’t be caught dead in an aquarium.

I try to resist the pull of his words because at seventeen, it makes me feel childish and naive. Still, I can’t quite shake the twinge of longing for the way my six-year-old self saw the world—with everything painted in rainbows and glitter. 

About five minutes before the end of the show, the seals retreat to the water and Pam turns to face us.

“Now,” Pam says, “I’ll need a volunteer to help me with our next trick.” 

Of course, my dad’s hand shoots up. Pam, shielding her eyes from the sun, scans the crowd of toddlers and parents before landing on my dad. 

“You, sir, in the green cap!” 

My dad puts a hand on my shoulder before getting up and walking down the aisle to Pam, grinning like a man who had just proposed. The people around me clap. 

“What’s your name, sir?” Pam asks. 

“Frank,” he says, his voice slightly amplified by his proximity to Pam and her microphone. 

“Everyone give it up for Frank!” The crowd cheers, and my dad waves enthusiastically. I sink lower into the bleachers. 

“Alright, Frank. You’re going to help me feed Nala her favorite treat. Think you can do it?” 

He nods and Pam hands him a small, pale herring from the bucket. Their fingers touch imperceptibly. 

“Now, I need you to hold the fish above the water like this,” Pam says, guiding my dad to the edge of the tank with a hand on his shoulder. He watches her closely as she demonstrates. “And when I tell you to, you’re going to toss it up nice and high for Nala to catch.”

He smiles at her and gets into position, crouching comically low. But when Pam whistles and Nala dives underwater, he throws the fish too early. It falls into the water with a lame splash, nowhere near the sea lion. The crowd chuckles and I glance around to see if anyone is looking at me, but they’re all focused on my dad, who is now bowing like a Broadway actor at curtain call.  

From where I sit in the third row, he looks small. I imagine him shuttered up in my large wooden dollhouse, wedged between the Barbies I played with as a kid—the same ones I found still sitting in his house in my old childhood room. Despite my embarrassment, the thought makes me want to laugh at the same time as something in my chest pulls tight.

“Okay, let’s try that again, Frank!” Pam hands him another fish. This time, when she whistles for Nala to dive under the water, my dad waits until Nala breaks the surface and Pam yells “Go!” before tossing the fish into Nala’s awaiting jaws. Nala arcs gracefully back into the water and everyone cheers. My dad pumps his fist in the air and takes a bow. He scans the crowd, and when he finds me, he waves, his face breaking into a wide grin. I give him a thumbs-up. 

He doesn’t even look at Pam as he descends the ladder and makes his way over to me. 

“Did you see that? Nala caught my fish.” 

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help laughing. He still acts the same, grinning and teasing, like nothing’s changed. And as we walk out of the seal enclosure, I realize that the aquarium hasn’t changed much either. We pass the clicking dolphins, which pulls me back to afternoons spent imitating them until our sides hurt, and when we reach the stingray touchpool, I remember the time my dad nearly dropped me into it. It makes it easy to fall back into familiar steps, only my strides are longer and I’ve been away for so long that it feels comforting and strange all at once. 

When we get back to my dad’s Toyota, which is at least as old as I am but still looks brand new, he turns on the radio before pulling out of the parking lot. We drive down Surf Street and take a left, passing the little french bakery with the baby blue windows. I wonder if they still serve the best croissants in town. We pass the Italian restaurant we would eat at on special occasions, the local book store with the round tabby cat, the playground where I skinned my knee, and then my dad takes another left and my body leans into the turn, recognizing the route to the gelato place. 

“You can never go to the aquarium and not get gelato after!” he’d always say.

I smile into my lap and notice the dark brown stain from where my mom once spilled her coffee on the seat. She sometimes drove with us to the gelato place, although she never got anything, just sampled our scoops. On our drive there we’d always play the alphabet game, watching the passing road signs for words that started with each letter of the alphabet, in order from A to Z. We’d gotten so used to the drive we’d had to take different routes.

I can almost hear my mom leaning forward and shouting, “Exit!” her fist raised in victory as my dad makes a show of complaining that she has an advantage sitting in the passenger seat. I can hear our laughter now, filling the car. 

We’re approaching another intersection now, but I know we’ll turn right. I look back out at the passing road signs, the familiarity of the car and my childhood town seeping under my skin. 

“Airport,” I say suddenly. 

“What?” My dad glances from the road to me. 

“A for Airport.”

He looks at me for a moment, then smiles. 

I smile back.