I, on the other hand, wasn’t the epitome of all she opposed, as I did take pride in how I looked; however, I wasn’t really too bothered about it all. I wouldn’t spend more than half and hour getting ready, I wasn’t into designers; and as long as I didn’t look like a walking fashion disaster, I was ok.
It was strange. Even though she wasn’t the most pleasant, let alone sharpest tool in the box, everyone seemed to like her. It was always ‘Hey Laila, how are you?’ or ‘So Laila, can you come to Starbucks on Friday?’ Maybe this was because she always put on a front to people. She really was a good actress, or maybe that came with being two-faced. I don’t know, but one thing was for sure. Even with family, I was the little girl, and Laila was the grown up young lady. Her opinion was counted, whereas mine wasn’t. There was only one year between us, and it had always been like this.
Ever since I could remember, I was always the one who people seemed to laugh at and say ‘Oh, that Kess! Always messing around. When will she learn to act like Laila?’ My aunts were forever giving me birthday cards with big ‘13’s on the front, even though that was Rabia’s age. The outfits I received were ‘much better for someone of my age’; whereas the ‘grown-up’ outfits Laila received had been gathering dust in her wardrobe for years. No one seemed to realise that there was only one year separating us.
My oldest sister was called Zaina, and if she wasn’t always at uni, I probably would have liked her the most. She was kind and caring, but also responsible and firm. The thing I liked the most about her though, was the fact that she was my older sister, and I was her little sister. It obviously wasn’t like that with Rabia, and although despite Laila’s bitterness we did have a few ‘sisterly’ moments, Laila had always been more like a classmate, rather than a sibling.
To Zaina, I was her little sister who she was meant to protect, and I think in some way, we had this connection. It was like we thought on the same level, and wanted the same things. I didn’t know about her, but I really wished that she was there. She could look after me; tell me that everything was ok. Mum would usually be able to do that, but not today, not now. I didn’t understand what was going on. I mean, of course I understood, but I didn’t know why. It was like all of a sudden the atmosphere had changed, and a small argument, not even an argument, a disagreement, had escalated into a fight, a shouting match, a war. All of a sudden, everyone had changed, not only their mood, but their personality too.
Since when did Laila scream? Whine, yes, but scream? Since when did Rabia cry in corners? Since when did I hit and throw things at my sister? Since when did mum walk out?
But then again, what was my memory of all three people? No matter how my mother acts, I will always think of her in the same way. Holding me in her arms. I was probably about seven, and I had just had an argument with Laila and she had made me cry. I remember thinking to myself, ‘don’t let mum know we had a fight. She’ll just get mad.’ I still remember the joy I felt tingling inside when she walked over to me, picked me up, and sat me on her lap. The smell of her lavender perfume as she held me in her bosom. The feel of her soft woollen cardigan. The look of her warm face and eyes.
I never really knew how or what Laila thought, so I couldn’t really judge how she was acting, however, at that moment I felt like hitting Rabia. I knew it wouldn’t help the situation, but maybe mum wouldn’t have left if she had kept whatever she was feeling bottled up inside. Just for a while.
I felt so ashamed of myself. Of my sisters. It was like I had stepped outside of my body and was watching the miserable scene. I looked so pathetic, doing nothing, just stealing glances at the others to see what they were doing, just looking at my feet. I could feel the tang of the metallic-acidic taste of nervous vomit at the back of my throat. It was ridiculous. Nothing even slightly nauseating had happened, and yet somehow, I was going to throw up. Great.
However, when I looked over to Laila, I was more disgusted by her behaviour. I had always known that she was selfish, but this was too much. She was just sitting there on the floor, continuing her art coursework, watching a muted episode of Friends, as if nothing had happened. Maybe ignoring it all was her way of coping, of getting through the whole episode. How was I to know? What hurt me most though, was watching Rabia. She was still crying in the corner. Should I go over and comfort her? Be her Zaina? Or should I let her be? I didn’t know what to do. What had happened to us all?
Before it started, I hadn’t meant for all this to happen. I wouldn’t have said anything if I knew it would. I would have kept my mouth shut. But it was too late now. I didn’t realise what our arguments did to mum. How much they affected her. It didn’t even feel right calling her that anymore. Mum. It was as if I didn’t deserve it. I had started it all. At first it was just a stupid, petty quarrel, as I was nagging Laila to give me back my top. She had taken it without me knowing, and I wanted it back. It wasn’t hers to take. It was mine. “Give it back to me now,” I said heatedly. “You can’t just take my stuff without asking.”
This, however, was not a suitable or valid reason for Laila to give back my clothes. “You’re not even going to wear it tomorrow because you have school.” She didn’t seem to understand that it was the principals of what she had done, and that she couldn’t take what wasn’t hers. She was forever ruining clothes, CDs and basically anything she could get her hands on. When I told her once again that she couldn’t wear the top, her malicious side began to shine through.
“It doesn’t even look good on you. You’re too fat, you’re practically obese. The top looks about two sizes too small anyway.” I heard mum in the kitchen, and I knew that she could hear us. I wanted to handle the situation as maturely as possible, but she couldn’t get away with calling me that. I knew that I wasn’t really fat, and I definitely wasn’t nearing obesity, but I wasn’t as slim as her, and as shallow as this sounds, it really hurt my feelings. She said it on purpose because she knew it hurt my feelings, and it was her way to get back at me for not letting her take my top. Overcome with anger, I lashed out. I slapped her, hard. Not on the face or anything, just on the arm, but she, as usual wanted revenge. In response to my gesture, she hit me several times on the arm, each hit, just as hard as the one I gave her. This was clearly not fair, but she didn’t comprehend. So I picked up a mini hairbrush that was lying on the coffee table and threw it at her. I didn’t even mean to throw it hard, but it hit her face just under her eye, and automatically left a red mark on her face.
This was typical. If Laila had thrown the brush, it would have probably missed me. It had to be me that got into all the trouble.
I hadn’t realised up until then that mum was standing at the door. She had just seen that incident, that accident, that incident. My realising she was there was her cue to jump in. Of course, I was the guilty one, as I had thrown the hairbrush. It never occurred to her that I might have thrown it for a reason. It didn’t matter what the situation was, I always turned out to be the guilty one.
Then I started to plead my case, but as soon as Laila heard this, she couldn’t let me plead my case without her pleading her own. For some reason, Rabia decided to start up as well. No matter how grown up she acted, a few of her actions always gave her away.
“Rabia, not now,” my mother snapped at her. She didn’t mean to, but she was angry with Laila and I and wanted to sort us out.
“Jeez, mum. No need to jump down my throat. I only called your name.” Right then and there a second argument erupted. This shouting just made Laila and I revert back to our ways, and within seconds, our voices had all raised so high, that none of us could hear each other. Then she snapped.
“How dare you? All of you. I raise you, feed you, clothe you, and this is how you treat me? I can’t possibly be your mother, because children don’t treat their parents like this.” This just made Rabia cry. Tears stung my eyes too. I was so ashamed. But I couldn’t tell what Laila was thinking. I never could.
“From now on do as you like. You’re all just lodgers in this house. I just feed you, clothe you, and drive you to school. That’s it. If you want, stay out ‘till midnight. I don’t care. It’s your lives, and you’re your own people.”
That scared me. She’s always told us off, but now she didn’t care. I didn’t like it. She was talking calmly as if all that had happened was normal. Completely and totally normal. As much as I hated the yelling, I hated the serenity more. She was angry. Irate, even. She was supposed to shout. There were four of us in the room, and yet it felt so empty.
“I’m going for a drive. Make yourselves dinner,” she said in a tone I couldn’t understand. It wasn’t normal and calm, but it wasn’t angry either. I couldn’t decipher it.
As she left the room, we all just stood there, silent and motionless, like the wretched creatures we were. I wanted to go over to Rabia in her corner and pull her out of it to comfort and protect her, as I knew Zaina would to me; but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything, especially with Laila around. We had caused this trouble, and yet Rabia and mum were paying for it. Who knew when mum would be back? Would she even be back tonight? All because of Laila and I.
I couldn’t even look her in the eye. Not after what I’d done. What she’d done. What we’d done.
