Chinese Takeout
Image by You Le via Unsplash
Written by Mahalia Otshudy
We sit at the kitchen table in silence. Our eyes shift back and forth from the door. An occasional thump comes from upstairs that causes the lightbulb over us to sway slightly. It moves some more as somebody stomps through the corridors.
The fried pastry of one of my spring rolls makes a scratching noise as I move it around my plate, trying to collect the last of the sauce that I have. I feel a tap on my arm and look towards Omar. He passes me his tub of sweet and sour sauce, a small smile on his face.
‘Thanks,’ I say, dipping my spring roll in it.
He shrugs, ‘It’s alright.’
I open my mouth to respond, but a shout comes out. It's Mum’s. Dad yells next. It’s muffled, but the aggression vibrates through the walls. I look back up to the ceiling.
Omar taps me. ‘Ignore them.’
I nod, look back down at my plate, and take a bite of my food. I know I should ignore them. It's been routine for fifteen years, but Omar always feels the need to coach me through it. The same way he used to do when I would climb into his bed late at night as a kid. I’m grateful for him and sorry that he first had to experience five years of this alone.
‘I wonder what it’s about this time.’
‘Who knows.’ He shakes his head, ‘Is it just me, or does the duck taste different today?’
There’s another shout. Then another thump.
‘Yeah, it’s chewier too.’
‘Maybe they changed the way they cooked it.’
‘Probably.’
‘I still prefer our old Chinese takeout place to this one.’
I laugh, ‘That’s because you have terrible taste.’
‘The only one with terrible taste in this family is you.’
We snicker as we go back and forth, getting off track as the conversation goes from food to music to film. I’m prepared to explain my case to Omar as to why I am the sibling with better taste when the kitchen door swings open. I’m interrupted by Dad storming through and looking in drawers. His arms flail about as he yanks at their handles and then pushes them closed just as quickly as he had opened them.
‘Where are my car keys?’ His voice shakes.
Omar and I return to eating our food. I clear my throat as I take a sip of my drink. Omar rests a hand on my leg.
‘Has anyone seen my keys?’ Dad pats his jeans and rushes past us, he comes back a second later and tugs at the front door. Turning back towards us, he makes a fist, and it trembles as he speaks. ‘Your mother is just so– Don’t expect me to come back!”
The door slams shut, and a glass falls off the table smashing, and spilling water on the kitchen floor.
I jump up from my seat. ‘I’ll clean it.’
‘No, it’s fine. I can do it, sit down.’
The door opens again, and Mum comes in exasperated, ‘Why is there glass on the floor? How many times have we told you both to be careful with the glasses? One of you better clean it up. Where’s your dad?’
I point to the front door.
‘You know there is no one on this earth more despicable, more selfish than your father.’ She rushes out of the house, but Dad has already started driving away. She yells things at the car, and I watch from the window as the neighbours start to come out of their houses, standing on the street to view the spectacle. One neighbour sneaks past Mum to our front door and asks Omar and me if we’re okay. I nod, ‘We’re fine, it’s nothing.’
She doesn’t look like she believes me, but she smiles anyway and walks back to her house. I continue to watch as Mum continues to shout, and more people start to gather around and try to calm her down.
‘Mariah.’ Omar snaps me out of my daze. ‘Can you get me a plaster please?’
Blood trickles down his index finger and I head to the first aid cabinet, doing my best to avoid all the tiny pieces of glass that shimmer beneath me. With shaky hands, I stick the plaster to the tip of Omar’s finger.
We sit on the floor in silence as we sweep up the mess that’s been made.
Edited by Nico Horton