The Kid Who Dreamed

I could not possibly bring myself up that stage. Not now. Not when Jaime is standing right next to a tall woman whose eyes have been colored with fury beneath her glasses.

“Whose son is this?” she asked, her thin lips curled downwards.

An ideal dad would have stepped up on that stage, declared that the boy was his son, and took the fall of the consequences of the boy’s actions, but I wasn’t an ideal dad. I bent my head so low that all I ended up seeing were my leather shoes, polished to neatness despite it being four years old. Again, the woman asked the same question and every parent, except me, looked up and studied my son who was currently bathed in colorful, sticky paint.

Paint. My son wanted to be a painter. I suggested that the right term would be an artist but he merely shook his head and said, “I will be a painter.” 

I didn’t give much care about it being the kind of dad I was, and now, I wish I did. If I had cared about what he said during that one time I had to send him home to my ex-wife, then he wouldn’t have possibly lifted those cans of paint over himself.

What would Sheila say if I returned Jaime to her in this state? I doubt she’d be very happy. Possibly, she might never let Jaime attend art exhibits with me ever again. Sheila is a beautiful artist and while she had a love for painting and drawing, I didn’t, which was how our marriage went downhill. For Sheila’s sake, I brought Jaime to this art convention so we could admire the on-the-spot work of different artists and painters (in Jaime’s term). While Jaime and I made our way through different aisles, I spotted one piece of art that caught my full attention. She was a beauty, much beautiful than Sheila. She had red hair, sparkling green eyes, and freckled skin. The way she smiled told me so much that she lived a full life of happiness. I approached her, asked her name, and received a responsive answer. Laura. That was a name to remember. The questions I usually asked Laura were about her address, her interests, and her hobbies, but the conversation would always drift to Laura’s sketching techniques and why she decided to be an artist. She’d babble on, talk more about herself with regards to artsy topics, and then I’d nod my head while I selectively listened.

And that’s when I realized, I lost him.

“Does anyone know who the father is?” once more, the woman on stage asked, her hand confidently resting on Jaime’s back as if she was unafraid of paint stains.

I felt a light tap on my shoulder and I turned around, surprised to see Laura blinking at me. “Isn’t he yours?” 

I cleared my throat. She must have seen him wander off when I approached her. The look on her face filled me with embarrassment. Furthermore, it has left me guilt-ridden. Jaime was my responsibility. Sheila knew that. I knew that. Even Laura knew that. For a few seconds, she stayed on her spot, gazing at me meticulously and waiting whether or not I had made a decision to go up there and save Jaime. 

I tensed. OK, I tensed. I wriggled my arms, breaking free from the tension and I took a step forward, ignoring Laura’s eye movements. Jaime noticed me from the crowd and his lips broadened into a smile. The woman who kept her hand over his back spotted me walking towards the stage. The crowd who kept searching for Jaime’s irresponsible father locked their eyes on me. I can practically hear them say, finally, he’s here. They didn’t want to feel responsible for my responsibility. I understand.

“Sorry,” I called out, raising a hand up at the woman so everybody can see that I am taking responsibility for once in my life. Just as Jaime’s smile widened to the point that his missing tooth showed, I said to him in an angry tone, “Jaime, we’re leaving.” 

The woman beside Jaime seemed to have been relieved of just hearing those words. Jaime’s innocent smile turned into a frown and his eyebrows crinkled, the way they always did whenever he realized he had done something wrong. He usually showed that expression to me because he always did something dishonourable, and I always scolded him about it.

I took Jaime’s hand and we walked through the crowd that made way for the paint-bathed boy and his angry father. Laura warmly smiled at me then at Jaime. “You shouldn’t have yelled at him like that,” she murmured to me. I glared at her and said, “Did I yell at him?”

“Well, it sounded like you were,” she said, her small smile replaced suddenly into a straight line. 

“He misbehaved, Laura,” I said with determination. “This is a consequence of his action. I’m sorry for causing trouble, but--” 

“This is an art convention,” Laura said in the same tone. “I believe your son wanted to be an artist but you didn’t keep your eyes on him which was why he decided to do things his own way. You know, maybe all he needs is a little guidance.” 

I was beginning to get furious. I never once had a thing for art even as a child. I’ve only had interest in car models, but I’ve never been that interested in any portrait that was a result of a pencil or a paintbrush. I felt Jaime’s small hand reach for mine and he squeezed. He knew I was upset and he knew Laura was right.

Oh, but she is right.

Jaime needed guidance. I don’t exactly know what Sheila’s been doing in guiding him, but Jaime wanted me to participate more in his own interest. This was a child that had ambition and I felt sorry that I had been too harsh and irresponsible. I realized that I don’t want him to grow old and just enviously stare at cars and break up ladies’ hearts. I don’t want him to fail in his future job because it wasn’t his passion. I don’t want him to end up smoking cigarettes in the morning and drinking alcohol in the evening. I don’t want him to be a father who never cared. I don’t want him to be me.

“You’re right,” I sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re right.” 

Laura merely responded with a smile. Excitedly, she grabbed Jaime’s hand and brought him to her art station. She introduced him to all the tools that she had been using for her masterpieces. Jaime was fascinated by it all and nothing was more beautiful than seeing the smile on your child’s face. Laura even took out a clean cloth and wiped Jaime’s face clean.  

“Here,” she said as she handed Jaime one of her artworks. It depicted a young boy who floated in the night sky, his hand reaching out to the moon. “This one is what I called The Kid Who Dreamed. Pin this up in your room and know that like this boy, you too can reach for your dreams even if they are far away. They may seem impossible to you, but then nothing is impossible.” She smiled at him then up at me. I let out a relieved sigh.

That night, I brought Jaime back home. Sheila greeted him with much joy and simply gave me a curt nod, probably deciding if smiling at me would be a good idea. I walked through the pathway and up the steps and she studied me, wondering what I was planning to do. I cleared my throat and said, “I’m sorry, Sheila. For everything that I caused you. Jaime is a great son, and he is going to be a great artist. Just like you. You’re both beautiful.” 

“Dylan, what are you talking about?” Sheila asked, her dry lips suddenly smiling to life. 

“I’m… I’m saying that I love you. I still do. I hope you can still give me a chance.”

“Look at you,” she slowly said as she leaned towards me and kissed my lips. I could hear Jaime giggle beside her. “You’re becoming the man I first met years ago.” 

On that particular night, all the things that once crushed me were gone. Although I had different intentions for Laura, she became an inspiration for me to make amends with my wife. But overall, it was Jaime’s childhood that mattered. It had something to do with the thing he liked that makes me want to support him. The thing that kept him young and kept him dreaming. What was it again? Oh, that’s right. Paint.