I press against the door between the untouched “showroom kitchen” of our townhouse apartment—a dry sink, empty cupboards, and spotless tile counters—and the extension that houses our “dirty kitchen” and dining area with the drying rack piled with dishes, a bowl of browning bananas atop a wooden six-seater dinner table, cans and jars littered across stone counters, and the looming shadows of my parents.
I twist and peek through the screen of the door into the kitchen. Pots and Corelle plates zip from one end to the other.
Dade bellows. Fighting words I can’t remember.
Mame screeches back. Curse words typically banned in our home.
More pots, pans, plates, and plastic containers zoom across the kitchen.
I turn on my heel and sprint up the staircase. My two older brothers and older sister perk their heads when I enter the bedroom. They stare wide-eyed and with lips pursed, expectant of news from the battlefield.
I shrug. “They’re still fighting. Mame’s throwing stuff at him.”
Diko, my second older brother, kneels on the floor. “We found a hole here. It looks like termites ate through it.” He bends and presses an ear to the hardwood. “We can listen in on them like this.”
"I thought I was your spy,” I say, pouting.
Ate, our second eldest and my sister, sits on the bed with legs crossed. “It’s not a big deal. You’re still our spy, but this way we can all hear them without having to go downstairs. It’s too risky.”
Kuya, our eldest, stretches on the upper deck of our bunk bed. He scowls. “Hoy!” he hisses down at us. “Can you guys stop that? Let them fight.”
"JODEL! JADE! JAP! JAYEE!”
We cringe. Kuya bolts upright. Ate straightens her legs. Diko stands. My heart thumps against my ears. I tense at the door.
Did they hear me? Did they catch me spying on their fight? Did I get us all in trouble? Will we get spanked? I clench my buttcheeks. I wonder if I can put a pillow inside my white cotton shorts. I can fake pain. I can hide Dade’s belts.
"JODEL! JADE! JAYEE! JAP!” Dade’s voice jabs the air. “GET YOUR MOTHER!”
Kuya jumps down from the upper deck, Ate and Diko rush to the door, and I step aside so they can go ahead of me. I jog down the stairs after Ate and Diko with Kuya at my tail. We funnel into the kitchen through the screen door.
Mame lies on the floor. Her mango-print frock splayed out on the tiles. Her eyes shut, arms limp on either side of her body.
"There. She fainted. Bring her upstairs.” Dade towers over us next to the stone sink counter and the gas stove. His hands swing awkwardly by his hips.
Us four bend and pick a limb to grip. My clammy hands grab her right shoulder and arm. Ate takes Mame’s left arm. Diko lifts the right leg. Kuya supports Mame’s left foot and thigh.
"Okay,” Kuya murmurs. “One… two… three.”
We heave. Mame’s bottom touches the floor. Her limbs raise ten inches off the ground. Six-, eight-, ten-, and twelve-year-old kids carry a 34-year-old woman from the unpaved stone kitchen floor. We pick up her arms and legs and drag her torso toward the screen door.
Four pairs of beady eyes exchange glares. I cup Mame’s head and lift. She groans and shifts in her position. Ate reaches for the screen door and pulls it. She pushes her butt against the door to keep it open, and we shuffle through.
"Let’s just bring her to the living room couch,” Diko says. “Their bed is too far.”
We shuffle centimetre by centimetre, crouched collectively around Mame’s 5'3", 140-pound frame.
My spine aches.
The head of wiry black pixie-cut hair passes the threshold. Then the pale shoulders, followed by her subtly rising and falling chest.
I stifle a groan.
Mame’s eyelids flutter. Maybe I imagined it. The creases on the folds of her eyelids deepen. I blink.
Her waist passes through the door.
She groans. Her eyes flit open. Her lips part. “Put me down,” she says.
We lay her down.
Mame pulls up her knees, supports herself with palms on the glossy red marble, and stands. She points a shaky finger at Dade. “You called the children to take me away?! What is the matter with you?!”
“Because I knew you were faking! You were just being dramatic for the sake of it! Did you think I was going to pick you up?!” he booms.
"Well, good thing I know you won’t pick me up if I fall!”
Kuya, Ate, Diko, and I sprint up the staircase. Diko and I press our ears to the broken floorboards.
Dade stomps around while whistling. Mame screams at him while slamming cabinets open and closed. She gives up and instead sings ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” very loudly and very out of tune.