SOFIA ZAMORA-WILEY

Creative Nonfiction | The University of Texas Rio Grande Valley, Brownsville, TX

An Implied Taste

I’ve always hated onions. My dad passed this trait on to me, and it’s such a deeply rooted hatred, I wouldn’t be shocked if someone said it was genetic, ingrained in my DNA.

“When I was in high school,” my dad told me once, “my teachers used to compliment me on my pipetting skills and my precision with tweezers.” He made a pinching motion with his fingers when he talked about the tweezers. “They said I could be a brain surgeon. And you know what I said?” I shook my head, already laughing. “I said, it’s from picking all the onions out of my mom’s food growing up!”

My dad is a musician and I’m a writer, but we carry ourselves a little differently knowing that, in some other lifetime, we could be neurosurgeons.

***

In sixth grade, I was bullied so much in public school my parents withdrew me to homeschool me. They were both teachers, which made my education superior, but living on two teachers’ salaries was hard enough already. Neither of them could sacrifice their job to stay home and really homeschool me, so I spent the days at my sister Camila’s house, and they taught me when they got home from work. Dad taught me math out of a thick yellow workbook and science from an encyclopedia, and mom gave me books—so many books—to read and write reports on. She gave me spelling words and Latin vocabulary. It was a well-rounded curriculum, not too much or too little for me.

At the time, Camila had recently given birth to her first daughter, Luna, and she was soon to find out she was pregnant with her second. I tried to help around the house when I wasn’t working; I felt like it was only right that I contribute if I was such a significant part of her life.

My mom insisted that I not be a burden to my sister in any way, including with food, so I usually brought something from home to eat, something microwaveable or re-heatable. But, after about a month, Camila noticed this pattern in my eating habits.

“Is that the third time you’ve brought ramen this week?” She looked at my bowl with such concern and distaste, I hesitated to answer.

“Yes?” I replied like it was a question.

“Oh, come on. What else do you usually bring besides that?”

“Um, Spaghettios, ravioli—”

“Ravioli? Like, homemade ravioli?”

“Uh, no. Chef Boyardee.” I wiggled my eyebrows.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” She pushed herself up from the table where she’d been sitting across from me and crossed her arms.

“You know what? As long as you’re going to be staying here, I’m going to teach you how to cook. Not put something in the microwave— cook. For real.”

So, over the next few months, Camila made me watch her make lunch for herself and Luna, and eventually, I started helping, chopping and stirring and slicing whatever she asked me to. I learned what all the spices in her cabinet did and what they tasted good with. She made me taste things before adding spice, and then again once she’d added it. She always laughed excitedly at my change in demeanor afterwards.

She had me taste a dish one afternoon that I hadn’t watched her make. I told her it was delicious as I fanned my mouth from the heat. She smiled, but it was a suspicious smile, and I swallowed what was in my mouth nervously.

“Guess what?”

I froze. “What did you do?”

“I put onion powder in it!” She made jazz hands in the air in celebration. I faked a gag, and she rolled her eyes at me.

“Oh, come on! You said it was good before you knew there was onion in it. Try another bite!” I took another spoonful of the stew, but this time, I smelled the onion before I tasted it. It was like trying a completely different dish. I felt my face morph into something ugly, heard her laugh, and choked the rest down reluctantly.

“You’re so dramatic, just like dad. It’s an implied taste. If I hadn’t told you, you wouldn’t have even noticed it was there. You would’ve eaten ten servings.”

I thought about what she said. Was dad dramatic for not liking things? I’d always interpreted dad’s refusal to eat onions, his unwillingness to sacrifice his taste buds at a meal, as his way of maintaining his standards. I’d always thought he taught his girls to do the same.

***

Joaquin took a day off work about two months after the family found out Camila was pregnant with her second daughter. I watched Camila grow antsier by the day, and I attributed this to her pregnancy, so more than I ever had before, I tried to help with little tasks around the house.

Camila, Luna, and I at the dinner table while we waited for Joaquin to return with Burger King, a special treat for his day off with the family. I’d been clear when I said I didn’t want onions on my Whopper, and he’d smiled and promised me he’d check to make sure there were none.

While Luna did her puzzle, Camila quizzed me on the vocabulary my mom had assigned me for that week. She was reading off a list of Latin root words when she slowly trailed off, looking distracted, her eyebrows knitted together.

“Cam, are you okay?” I flicked the top of her hand to get her attention.

“What? Oh, yeah, of course! I’m…excited Joaquin’s going to be with us today. He never gets time off to just be with us.”

The security in her tone didn’t match the look of concern on her face, but I didn’t think or care to probe further. I let it go.

Joaquin returned with our food, and I moved with Luna to the den where she could watch The Jungle Book while we ate on TV tables on their leather couches. I watched the movie with her, and Camila stayed in the kitchen with Joaquin. I heard the sink running and the TV blaring “I Wanna Be Like You” as I unwrapped my burger and took a bite.

Immediately, I spit the still-intact bite out of my mouth and removed the burger’s top bun in disgust. Sure enough, six worm-like caramelized onions were there, peeking through a pile of shredded lettuce, like whoever had made my burger had tucked them in under a green blanket and read them a bedtime story, unaware that they were possessed by evil little flavor demons.

I was annoyed that Joaquin hadn’t checked like he swore he would, but I decided not to complain and ruin the good energy, just to take my topless burger to the trashcan and scrape the onions off as best I could.

Dad showed me a video once of a foley artist recording noises for special effects for a movie. To make a punching sound, the man wrapped a baseball bat in newspaper and then whacked a phone book. To make a slap sound, he wore a thick glove and clapped his forearm, then layered it with the sound of him hitting a can.

The sound I heard in the kitchen before I could round the corner was nothing like the foley slap of the glove and the can. There was no comical echo, no sharpness to it. It was dull and short, a dry sound. I heard Camila spit in the sink.

“Come on, Camila. Can I not trust you to be at home by yourself? What are we gonna do when the baby comes, and then you’re taking care of three kids? Fuck!”

I walked back with radio static between my ears and sat in front of the TV next to Luna. She had eaten a few french fries and a chicken nugget, and she immediately came and put her head in my lap without looking away from the screen. I let her stay there instead of encouraging her to eat more, and I put the top bun back on my burger.

Camila only had two daughters, and one was still unborn. When Joaquin said she couldn’t handle three kids, I realized the third was me. I hadn’t known he saw me as a burden. I thought he liked me. I thought he appreciated what I did for Camila and Luna when he was away.

I frowned as I reflected on our interactions, looking for something in my memory that would reveal his resentment towards me. As I played back the tapes of our conversations, I realized something else: he didn’t like my sister, either. I wondered if Camila knew that. How could she not? He had just slapped her, right? Certainly, that meant she couldn’t love him. I could never love someone that hurt me.

But, then again, I’d never had to.

Joaquin came into the living room with his food, a friendly smile on his face, and sat in the matching leather chair, perpendicular to the couch. He asked me how school was going. I don’t remember replying, but I must have. I couldn’t look at him.

Camila came in about fifteen minutes later, the tip of her nose pink, and sat down on the couch next to Luna, sandwiching her between us. I stared over Luna’s head at Camila till she looked at me.

When she did, she gave me a smile that failed to hide her watery eyes. She looked from me to Luna, and then to Joaquin. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then tried again.

“I’m just…I’m just so glad we have this day together. We’re really blessed to have this.” She kept staring at Joaquin’s turned head. I could almost hear her begging him in her head to look back at us.

Joaquin nodded, but he didn’t look back.

I pretended the onions weren’t hiding under the soggy bread of my burger, and I ate the entire thing.