He glanced at the egg and shrimp in the lunch box and pouted like a child. “What is this? Just the smell makes me want to throw up.”
I patiently reminded him, “This is the egg and shrimp dish you said was delicious and that you hadn’t had enough of the day before yesterday at noon.”
“I hate eating shrimp the most.” He shook his head irritably. “Don’t you know that I hate shrimp the most?”
He started complaining about the food again. With no other choice, I leaned closer and gently asked, “Then what would you like to eat?”
He closed his eyes and remained silent.
I began making suggestions. “Mackerel dumplings?” The mackerel dumplings from the “Every Day Is New Year” dumpling shop were something he had eaten a whole lunch box of just a few days ago.
He shook his head with his eyes still closed.
“How about chestnut braised pork?” This was a dish my mother made that he had always loved.
He opened his eyes, looked at me, and said, “No.”
“Then how about stewed lamb ribs?” I deliberately used an excited tone, hoping to spark even a little interest in him.
He neither answered nor shook his head. He simply frowned with annoyance and closed his eyes again.
“How about sea cucumber rice?” In the morning, the aunt in the next hospital bed had eaten millet and sea cucumber porridge brought by her child. After smelling it, he had murmured to himself that sea cucumber was a good thing.
After a while, he said nothing and showed no expression.
I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that he had silently agreed.
I found the phone number of a hotel and ordered a serving of sea cucumber rice. His childlike side still remained: he would often become interested in what others were eating but would not say so directly, leaving me to guess again and again.
But I dared not get angry, nor did I dare complain.
