Family Portrait

The artist ran a little late, but we were all perfectly placed in the drawing room. My mother had made a big fuss over everything being spotless. Every few minutes or so, she would get up from the couch and re-adjust a painting, or make sure the tea set was centered perfectly on the glass coffee table. My parent’s vision for the family portrait would be the five of us posed candidly drinking tea. I believe in their minds it looked very natural, but I felt like a porcelain doll stuck in an unlikely pose. 

My older brother is behind the couch with my father, seemingly angling his face to hide his right cheek. He gave me a dirty look so I turned back around. Before doing so, I caught a quick glimpse of dad staring off into the mirror across the room. I assumed he was making sure his hair was in place for the portrait, but he seemed tired. My sister, who looked stunning, sat next to me. Being the eldest of the three of us, she’s been puppet-mastered by our mother the longest. Everyone was so quiet and focused on their stance, we would use mom's re-adjustment sessions as moments to let out a breath. We weren’t people during these family portraits, more like her accessories.

The artist finally arrived with his canvas and art supplies. He set up right in front of us as the hot-headed parent mumbled remarks under her breath. As though he heard her, the painter apologized for running so late. She quickly plastered on her fakest smile and laughed saying it was no trouble. You see, we were expecting relatives over next week for a dinner party, and they sought after a picture that perfectly captured our family’s essence: sophistication and excellence. After all, the party was to congratulate my sister's outstanding grades for the previous term. Although, I get the impression that it’s more of a brag fest for my parents, rather than a celebration in her honor. The artist requested that we start pretending to drink tea, and so we did. Our cups were empty, as to risk not spilling any on the couch. The whole tableau was staged, and felt very forced. I’m not sure what my parents are trying to prove to people, but I feel trapped and I’m scared to drop my cup under pressure. 

Sounds of brushstrokes and sniffles echoed throughout the room, so my mother took it upon herself to start telling the artist about our lives. She went on about my brother's good-mannered nature, my father’s promotion, and my ability to be a seven year old who can behave like an adult . The painter, who would reply with mmph mhp, clearly couldn’t have cared less. I was getting pretty bored until my wobbly fingers dropped the cup, having it shatter on the glass coffee table. 

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a mother bite her tongue so hard. A crack in the glass could be seen as symbolic, because it was the moment my mom’s decoy family began to fade. Everyone had jumped a little from the shock of the sound, but the painter resumed his work nonchalantly. In hopes of portraying a forgiving family, instead of yelling at us like she normally would, I was met with piercing eyes and a discreet pinch on my arm. 

My dad never approved the way mom disciplined me. Seeing this unfold, he whispered something in her ear (I can’t tell you what because it was inaudible). Whatever was said seemed to upset her, but keeping in mind our audience, she sharply hushed back: “I can’t communicate with a mumbler” (this I did hear, because my mom has the whispering voice of a crow). Repeating himself, I caught on that the words were incomprehensible because they were slurred. “You’re drunk!” she snapped at him, completely forgetting the presence of her guest. 

As he attempted to form completed sentences, she noticed the awkward stance my brother was in. He was still angling his face to hide his cheek, to which she found unbecoming. Snapping her bony fingers at him in efforts for him to quit his silly pose, he knew there was no point in fighting her stubbornness. A bruise had been painted on his face and we heard a very familiar shrill shriek. Flustered with emotion, our mother got up to closely inspect the mark. My dad seized this opportunity to take her spot, and rest his foggy head. From up close, I could smell the alcohol in his breath. I looked down at my mary jane’s to see the broken pieces of china scattered on the floor. I wondered if I could fix my mistake.

Part of lecturing my brother involves a great deal of comparing him to my sister. I could see the envy in his eyes as he tried to explain himself. Dodging parental manipulation is tricky because they know your vulnerabilities. With all this shouting and moving around, I wondered whether the artist was able to keep up with us. Would the image be a copy of our initial positions? Or just a messy blur? Either way, he seemed very calm painting away, as though we hadn’t moved at all. Having enough of our parents favoritism my brother decided to unleash a secret. He claimed to see our sister from his window at night, where she opted for smoke sessions.

My mother (if not already) was thrown in a fit of rage as my sister jumped up to slap my brother. With all the chaos unfolding behind us, I understood a mumbled whatever from my father. He put his feet up on the edges of the coffee table, and completely shattered the glass. Promptly releasing echoing screams from both arguing ladies. The only thing that seemed to snap everyone out of our situation was the outside standing up and clearing his throat. The painting was complete. 

I assumed my mom was hit with the frightening realization that he had been present this whole time. Everyone in silence, she walked up to face the portrait and us. Her anger immediately fell into embarrassment and fear. She begged the artist for a refund, and tried to explain how the painting was not at all a portrayal of our family.. To which the artist replied: “I disagree, this may be my most authentic work yet,” and left the room as I stared down at my broken cup.