Writings / Fiction: Tashania Colquhoun

Pages: 1 2

Spread the love

Strangers

When I was 14, my mother moved a stranger into our apartment. A few days before he arrived, while we ate our TV dinners in the couch as we watched the channel 7 news, she said that someone would be coming to stay with us. Who? I asked. My husband, she said. I paused and looked up at her, her diamond ring a tiny sparkle seeming out of place as she shovelled food from the container into her mouth with a plastic fork. Oh? I asked, even though I knew that she had gone down to Jamaica three times in the last two years, returning with a gold band and diamond ring after the most recent trip. She wore it with a boastful silence, placing a plastic bag over her hand to mop the floor or take out the garbage. But never had she mentioned the words marriage or husband to me. Her admission relieved me of any guilt I had felt when I found and read more than a few of the mystery man’s love letters to her when I rifled through her dresser drawer, searching primarily for loose change, but in the back of my mind hoping to happen upon secrets. If not for those stolen glances, I would have choked from surprise. That’s right, she said in a tone that discouraged further discussion on the matter.

I took another spoonful of the watery mashed potatoes and returned my gaze to the television. Someone had been stabbed in the parking lot behind our building. A tragedy, the reporter called it, because the victim, a 15-year-old boy, was so young. My mother kissed her teeth and rolled her eyes. Victim? she scoffed. Like he was some saint. He was probably out there running with the gangs, shooting up the place. She belched loudly then changed the channel. Matlock. I rolled my eyes and sighed, she seemed to have a knack for loving things that I hated. I got up and she asked me where I was going. To my room, I said. You know how much I hate Matlock. It sucks. She cut her eye at me, sharp like she wanted to lash my skin with just a look. Watch your tongue, she said. I want no attitude from you when he gets here. You hear me?

I wanted to slam the door when I got to my room, but I knew she’d only return my insolence with blows and licks that would swell purple and bluish-black bruises across my skin. I wrote in my diary instead, calling her all kinds of nasty names that would probably have singed the halo that hung over her holier-than-thou head. By the time I penned the last vitriolic sentence in my entry of contempt, I felt better. I spent the rest of the night hanging my head out my window, peering 12 storeys down at the basketball court, listening to the screech of sneakers and the rubber echo of the basketball bouncing off the asphalt.

He came that same week. When I got home from school, my headphones on and my CD player volume bucked all the way to the highest setting, I casually turned the key in the lock and, finally, let out a fart that I had been holding in the elevator ride up. My mother, who was sitting in the couch with her back to the front door, turned her head and glared at me. You nasty child, she hissed. You’re lucky he’s in the bathroom and didn’t get such a warm welcome from you. I apologized and said that I did not know she would be home. I took my runners off at the door, placing them at the opposite edge of the door mat, as far away from the man’s leather loafers that were already there. Come take a seat, she said. I sat in the loveseat, next to the couch and placed my backpack on the floor by my feet. I glanced at my mother, sitting up straight and proper, with her legs crossed and her hands resting lady-like in her lap. She was wearing make-up and her black pin-striped pant suit, two things she only wore on parent-teacher nights. Her hair was freshly done too, her roller-set curls tight and crisp with a healthy black sheen. You look nice, I said. Really? she asked, smiling nervously. You think so? I nodded and winked at her with a thumbs up, our mutual sign of approval.

I heard the muffled sound of the toilet flushing and hoped that our guest had flushed himself away. All the way back to wherever he came from. But against all my wishing, a tall dark-skinned man with a chiseled, hard jaw and heavily lined forehead emerged from the washroom. His face was clean-shaven and his hair cut so low, it gave the impression that he was bald. My mother breathed out coolly and smoothed her hands over her thighs, then introduced me as her daughter, Deirdre. But you can call her DeeDee, she said and though her gaze was still fixed upon the stranger, I think she must have felt the daggers I was cutting into the back of her skull, because she immediately added, but she prefers Dee.

The stranger held out his hand and smiled, turning up only one corner of his mouth, while the other side stayed flat and cold. Pleased to meet you, he said without introducing himself. He took a seat next to my mother, settling back into the plush cushions with an arm around her shoulders and his left leg casually folded over his right knee, a little too comfortable for a man who had only just arrived. So, how was school? he asked. Alright, I said. What are you studying? Everything, I said. My mother’s eyes narrowed and her lips shrivelled into a tight knot. Math, biology, English, I added. You know, the usual stuff. He nodded, but he was staring at my mother and stroking her back, while she rubbed his thigh with her palm. I shifted in my seat and adjusted the collar of my shirt. I didn’t like what they were doing. May I be excused? I asked. Sure, he said, even though my question had not been directed at him.

Pages: 1 2

7 Responses to “Writings / Fiction: Tashania Colquhoun”

Read below or add a comment...

  1. Shavell says:

    Reads like a poem, beautifully written.

  2. K.H says:

    Great story, written by a talented writer.

  3. Martin says:

    Great read. Vivid. Left me wanting more. Give us more Tashania, give us more.

  4. Martin says:

    Great read. Vivid. Left me wanting more. Give us more Tahania, give us more

  5. Angeleta Byfield says:

    The art of writing is gained by some through lectures, however the art of writing was ordained on to you from birth. Your excellent at what you do and I hope your blessing in writing rains forever more.

  6. Omorebokhae onomoase says:

    Fine crafting.

  7. I felt the girl’s desperation and loneliness. Well done!

Leave A Comment...

*