Dry Fish
Taste of Fate | Defne Oncel | Painting
Dry Fish by Maya Fritz
“The fish is dry,” Mother snidely remarked with distaste. I stared down at my salmon on the kitchen table in commiseration; it really was dry. A sigh unwittingly escaped my lips. I jerked to attention as Father roughly slammed steaming peas on the table. His burly frame was confined by a small cotton apron that was stretched too tightly across his large torso. The dark scowl etched into his face jarringly juxtaposed with the brightly patterned apron he wore.
“I slaved away for hours on this meal…and that’s your first comment? Yesterday, I was in the wrong when I didn’t cook dinner. Today, you are critical of me for cooking dinner. There’s no way to win with you!” he bellowed.
Mother maintained a facade of icy calm as she arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. I curled my shoulders further around me as I forced myself to swallow another bite of salmon. A frenzied laugh steeped in hysteria cracked Mother’s veneer.
“Who has cooked dinner for our family the full fifteen years of our child’s life? Me, that’s who. And who is the only employed adult in this family? The answer is me, again!” Mother’s voice rose in volume and pitch as she spoke. “The least you could do is make dinner, but that’s too difficult for you. And when I offer constructive feedback on this overcooked fish, you raise your voice at me.” She paused and turned her beady gaze upon me. “Marley, honey, are you enjoying dinner tonight? I seem to recall that you dislike salmon.”
At that inopportune moment, I felt a pain in my mouth as a sharp fish bone prodded my teeth. The sensation of parched salmon and the poking bone caused my gag reflex to kick in; I spat the fish glob onto my plate. Ashamed, I moved my rice to cover the offending spit-covered chunks.
“Do I have to answer that?” I whimpered.
Mother’s peach colored lips curved into a saccharine smile. “Sweetheart, we just want to understand how you are feeling. There are no wrong answers here.”
Steeling myself, I whispered, “I don’t like salmon much. I’ve told both of you this many times. I…”
A low grumble reverberated in the room as Father listened to my complaint. I wondered how I could fix this ever-present battle between Mother and Father. I was jolted out of my thoughts as Mother vocalized her latest machination of war against Father.
“Marley, baby, let me make you some creamy cheddar mac n’ cheese, your favorite food. I, unlike someone else in this room, care about making you food you actually like.” Mother kissed my cheek as she flounced out of the room to cook my new and improved meal, leaving me alone with Father.
Flooded with helplessness, I awaited with trepidation the next wave of Father’s fury. And though an ever-shrinking part of me believed he wouldn’t yell this time, the voice was snuffed out as Father turned his fiery eyes awash with rage upon me.
“You ungrateful princess! Again, and again, you sabotage my marriage with your mother! The only question now is whether it’s intentional or not.” Father spoke calmly and monotonously to avoid Mother overhearing our conversation through the thin plaster walls.
I’d long given up trying to refute these baseless accusations. Instead, I weathered the barrage of cutting jibes until he grew tired of it. I knew to erect a shield to protect me from the heavy blows of his words. Once in a while, a harsh criticism would infiltrate my armor and worm inside my mind, to be repeated over and over again in self-flagellation. …Ungrateful princess, ungrateful princess, ungrateful princess… My belief in myself waned; could he be correct?
Father stormed out of the room to fight more with Mother. The harsh words played in the background, the familiar soundtrack of my childhood. The argument sparked the imagery of two dragons battling and exchanging verbal fire, the caustic words bouncing off their impenetrable skin. But they always forgot I was caught in the crossfire, all alone. And sometimes the weapons missed and hit my fragile skin.
I licked my chapped lips and tasted salt. I realized that tears had stained my face, tracing the all-too-familiar routes down my cheeks. Bowing my head down, I wiped the tears from my eyes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my uneaten plate of overcooked dry fish.
