The Aftertaste

When my younger sister was still hiding in her room for the third day in a row, I couldn’t keep waiting for her to come to me. It took a bit of coaxing, but in the end she let me in and let it all out. I gathered up her tears and her heartbreak, swallowing it all down for her. Her sadness tasted like a heavy sea fog, thick and gray and salty, but the bitter aftertaste was a small price to pay for my sister’s happiness. It wasn’t long before she was smiling again, and so was I.

I’d just sauteed the onions when Mom got home, overflowing with the words she wished she could say to her manager. Red-faced, she paced back and forth, filling the air with burning indignation. Hugging her was like putting my hand on the hot stovetop, but I did, and came away with handfuls of righteous anger. I sprinkled it over my tacos. It wasn’t that much more spicy than the chili powder, and besides, it was worth it to see Mom at peace even for a little while.

When I woke up in the morning, salt was clinging to my tongue. I brushed my teeth twice as long as usual, washing it away with minty freshness.

My best friend sat next to me on the bus, back from her family’s beach house vacation. Her phone was full of pictures. With each swipe of her finger, rancid bile bubbled up my throat. Envy. I swallowed it down just in time to squeal and smile, sharing in her excitement the way I wanted to.

After we split up for class, I belatedly noticed it wasn’t acid coating my tongue, but salt.

My backpack was overflowing with homework when I arrived for my shift at the local burger joint, only to discover we were short-staffed. While everyone else scrambled to keep up with the dinner rush, I was at the register, swallowing down everyone’s panic and impatience and frustration so I could keep smiling at the customers. Once things finally slowed down, I decided to skip my free meal combo – I wasn’t hungry anymore.

When I got home and realized it was too late to get any homework done, I swallowed that down, too, even though it nearly made me throw up. The last thing Mom needed was my worries on top of hers.

Not long after midnight, my sister’s screams pierced the air: another nightmare. I combed my fingers through her hair, collecting up all the shadowy wisps and tendrils of fear. They writhed around in my mouth, struggling to be free, but I forced them down in the end. The coppery taste left my mouth dry, but my sister was already nodding by the time Mom returned with hot cocoa; it didn’t take long to lull her back to sleep.

After tossing and turning for a while, I got up and did my homework. When I finally finished, I was too exhausted for mere aftertastes to keep me awake.

Morning brought with it the lingering taste of salt. No matter how much I brushed my teeth, it wouldn’t go away.

I didn’t realize I’d fallen asleep in class until my history teacher was screaming in my face. My eyes watered from the acidic anger curling up my nostrils, but I kept swallowing and swallowing and swallowing until he was panting for breath. This wasn’t really about me: he was lashing out. So instead of landing myself in trouble by lashing right back, I swallowed down my own shame and indignation and appeased him with a heartfelt apology. He said it was all right as long as it didn’t happen again, and it didn’t. The fire raging inside my intestines was more than enough to keep me awake for the rest of the day.

When my best friend caught me skipping lunch, she took me aside and made I-statements straight out of our module on eating disorders. She meant well. She always meant well. The fear swirling around her was less appetizing than the cafeteria’s greasy pizza squares, but I feasted on it anyway, washing it down with my own exasperation. Smiling, I calmly assured her I appreciated her concern. The hesitant way she nodded was how I realized I hadn’t quite swallowed the sea fog wrapped around my tongue.

Mom was working late again, so my sister asked me for help with her math homework. It ended up being equal parts algebra and swallowing down her endless sea of anxieties like an all-devouring whirlpool. When she thanked me and hugged me tight, it made it all worth it. But when I was alone in my room, staring down at the incomprehensible jargon scrawled across the pages of my calculus textbook, there was barely any room left in my stomach for my own confusion and worry.

When I woke up the next morning, the salt was so thick I couldn’t close my mouth anymore. I swallowed and swallowed and swallowed until it stopped up my throat. As I writhed on the ground, gasping for breath, I dimly wondered whether it was mine or my sister’s or Mom’s or all of ours together. It didn’t matter. There was too much of it, and now I was going to choke to death.

My door flew open, and Mom was there, coaxing the chunk of salt out of my mouth. She tossed it aside, letting it shatter across the floor. More welled up from inside me. If I didn’t let it out, I was going to choke again. I swallowed anyway because otherwise, Mom might choke instead.

Tears shone in Mom’s eyes, but she didn’t let me wipe them away. She called the school, told them I was sick, and took me to the cemetery. Standing over Dad’s grave, I couldn’t hold in my tears anymore. We both cried and cried, coating his headstone in salt like powdered snow.

The aftertaste was strangely sweet.

* * *

Ⓒ Julia LaFond

Originally published in Twenty-Two Twenty-Eight, October 2023. Reprinted here by permission of the author.