Chapter 29 Chapter 28: Water is Thicker Blood
After trying on everything I owned, a frantic mosaic of fabric now covered my room. I was down to three dismal choices, each a testament to a wardrobe in crisis. The red top I was wearing now had the best cut, its structure flattering my new shape, but a small, stubborn stain near the hem, a relic of some forgotten meal, marked it as hopelessly flawed. The black off-the-shoulder top was undeniably beautiful, its long arms figure-hugging, the delicate lace trim adding a touch of elegance. Yet, the neckline plunged, and my cleavage looked way too bold, too intentionally sexy for a family dinner that was sure to be full of my aunt's judicious glances. Lastly, there was a soft, cream-colored knitwear jumper that was nice, inoffensive, but it looked like it had been washed too many times, its fibres pilled, and its shape stretched into a formless sack.
The distinct hum of a porty rolling into the driveway cut through my indecision. A moment later, the doorbell chimed, its sound immediately setting off a wave of excited murmuring and chatter from my siblings’ downstairs.
My mother’s voice, sharp with anticipation and stress, rocketed through the floorboards. “Nanda! They’re here!”
Panic sealed the decision. I ripped the red top off and pulled the black one on, the fabric whispering over my skin. One last look in the reflector confirmed it: the neckline was dangerously low. This will have to do. It was a choice, if not a good one. I raced down the stairs, my footsteps echoing my frantic heartbeat.
I arrived in the entrance hall just as the front door swung open. Loran, my aunt, swept in first, her eyes already performing a critical inventory of the entryway. Her second Nate, gender settled and smiling blandly-Den, my cousin who was four years younger than me, hands shoved in his pockets, his gaze instantly landing on me with an unnerving directness. Bringing up the rear was Loran’s husband Jon, my uncle, a large, loud Nate already looking for a drink I guessed. My mother stood beaming in the midst of them, her smile only faltering for a fraction of a second as her eyes swept over my chosen top.
We started in the living room, a space suddenly shrunken and airless with way too many bodies crammed inside. The air grew warm and thick, smelling of perfumes, my father’s aftershave, and the savoury scent of the nibbles arranged artfully on the sofa table. My father began handing out drinks, a nervous host navigating the cramped quarters. The twins, buzzing with illicit energy, had already managed to empty one entire bowl of salted nuts before the first drink was even poured, earning a sharp, silent look from my mother.
My auntie Loran’s eyes conducted a slow, meticulous inspection of the room, her cold leer taking in every slightly frayed edge of the rug, the family portrait that was a year out of date, the faint layer of dust on the mantle. Her gaze was a silent critique. Den, my cousin, immediately slumped into the farthest corner of the room, claiming an armchair and pulling out his com, effectively building a digital wall between himself and the rest of us.
My uncle and father, meanwhile, fell into their familiar, loud batter, their voices booming in the small space.
“Did you see the Squids match? Appalling! The ref needs hanging!” my uncle stated, his face already flushed with the heat and the argument.
My father nodded vigorously, eager to agree. “A disgrace! A total disgrace!”
“But you would have shown them, Nanda,” my uncle continued, turning his boisterous attention to me. “You were always good with a ball.” He then gave me a broad, knowing wink. “Guess not anymore, eh?” He roared with laughter at his own joke, a sound that seemed to shake the small room.
My father’s face, already red, deepened to a shade of purple. “Nanda won the game the other night, did you not?” he said, the pride in his voice a shield against my uncle’s jibe.
“Not dressed like that, I hope!” my uncle laughed again, his eyes crudely scanning my black top. The comment hung in the air, ugly and suggestive. He took a gulp of his drink. “I guess you’re Trembling still has not come?” he almost shouted, just as my mother entered the room carrying a fresh tray.
She froze in the doorway, her expression instantly horrified. The tray wobbled slightly in her hands. “Um…!” she interjected, her voice too high. “Nanda’s doing very well, aren’t you, dear? Moving up in the world! Fine new job!” She desperately tried to steer the conversation onto what she saw as safe, prestigious ground.
“So, we heard,” my uncle added, not letting go. He clapped a hand on Den’s shoulder, jerking my cousin out of his digital stupor. “Well, Den here looks good for warrior school. Takes after his brother, doesn’t he, Den?”
Den sort of nodded a vague agreement, already retreating back to his screen.
“He could’ve got a scholarship to any school, of course, with his dieball,” my uncle boasted. I had seen Den play; I’d even played against him once. He was average at best. “But he’s gonna fight for his land like his brother. That is, if you don’t go and play make-up between us and Sylva first!” He laughed again, a harsh, mocking sound.
My father tried to butt in, his voice straining for a diplomatic tone he didn’t feel. “Now, now. Diplomacy is always the better option in the long run.”
My uncle made a gun with his fist and thumb, pointing it at an imaginary enemy. “Diplomacy is Polli talk,” he sneered. “A bullet is what they need. Ain’t that right, Den?”
The room fell into a strained, awful silence. The political had become violently personal in our own living room.
My mother, her smile now a rigid, terrified grimace, clapped her hands together. The sound was like a gunshot. “Shall we not go in and eat?” she chirped, her voice trembling with the effort. “Dinner is getting cold!” It was less an invitation and more a desperate plea for a ceasefire.
The spread my mother had created was nothing short of amazing. The table groaned under the weight of a glazed ponya studded with cloves, a tureen of rich, savoury stew, and platters of roasted root vegetables gleaming with herbs and oil. Even Loran, whose eyes were usually sharp with criticism, seemed hard-pressed to find a single thing wrong with it. She offered a tight, nearly approving nod, which from her was the equivalent of a standing ovation.
The talk around the table was quieter now, more tamed by full stomachs and the soft glow of the overhead light. It was the usual safe territory: who was doing what to whom in the small world of their offices, the petty politics of the neighbourhood council, updates on cousins and old friends. A gentle, buzzing hum of family life.
As the main course settled, my father reached for the vin bottle, his movements ceremonial. He moved around the table, carefully filling everyone’s glass to the brim with deep red vin. He returned to his seat, raised his own glass, and beamed at me.
“To Nanda,” his voice was warm, full of a pride I hadn’t heard in so long. “The diplomat.”
“To Nanda the diplomat!” everyone echoed in a warm, tipsy chorus, their glasses lifted high.
And that’s when I felt it. A hand, heavy and unmistakable, settling on my thigh under the table. My uncle’s. It was a deliberate, possessive weight.
Without a second thought, without even looking down, I let my elbow “slip” from the table’s edge. It connected with the stem of my full water glass with a precise clink. The glass teetered for a heart-stopping second before pitching over. A cascade of ice-cold water and cubes arced perfectly through the air and landed with a drenching splash directly in his lap.
“What the fuck!” he screamed, the vulgarity a bomb in the cozy atmosphere. He jerked back as if electrocuted, the cold shock wiping the smugness from his face.
“I am so sorry, Jon!” I chirped, layering my voice with a cloying, innocent concern I didn’t feel. “My elbow just slipped! Oh, what a mess!”
He was on his feet, frantically mopping at the dark, spreading stain on his trousers with a linen napkin, his face a thunderous purple. Everyone moved at once, my mother thrusting more napkins at him, my father barking about club soda, a flurry of useless, panicked help. Muttering curses under his breath, he finally batted the assistance away and rushed from the room towards the bathroom.
A silent, profound bliss followed. The tension that had coiled around the table for years had, for a moment, been popped. I didn’t look at anyone. I just looked at the empty space where he had been.
I saw my mother’s face, her beautiful dinner momentarily shattered, and a pang of guilt pierced me. I did not want to break her heart. But as I sat there, the ghost of his touch still burning on my leg, right here and right now, I was so profoundly, fiercely happy that I had done it. The spilled water was a drawn line. A small, cold rebellion. And it was mine.