Moments

Fifteen

             I hate myself.

             I don’t really, but maybe I do. I don’t know?

             I had blond hair as a child. What happened to that? What color do I use for my hair?

             Mom says I’m just going through a phase. That’s her word for every one of my moods. I’m just going through a phase, I’ll outgrow it. I’ll turn into a normal adult living a normal life, but first I have to go through a zillion teenaged phases.

             This isn’t just a phase. I’ve always felt awkward in my own skin, always will. Every so-called phase I’ve gone through is a piece of me.

             I stare at the girl in the mirror, and she is simultaneously more beautiful than me and uglier than me. She’s normal.

             Her mousy-brown hair hangs limply around her face. Her deep blue eyes stare defiantly back at me. Her long, oval face is only slightly greasy; the red pimples dot her face but do not detract from it. She has ridiculously high cheekbones. Her skin is a pale alabaster.

             Years ago, Mom gave me a fancy, old-timey hand mirror as a Christmas present. I decided that the girl in that mirror was not me, but rather my doppelganger, a young girl with her own independence. When I look in the mirror, I see her – Helen, I named her, after a character in a book I read. Helen looks just like me, but she is neither as beautiful as I dream I am nor as ugly as I think I am. She is just a girl.

             I look at the mixture of paints on my desk. What color for the hair? I look back in the mirror, at Helen. Does Helen slouch? Her shoulders are hunched over.

             The sketch on the piece of paper is finished. It is a rough depiction of Helen. I’m not so great at drawing humans. I prefer to draw fantastical animals, wild beasts from fairy tales. But I’m 15 years old, and I need to learn to draw humans if I actually want to pursue a career in art.

             There’s no future for artists. I’ll probably study something else in college.

             I mix some browns and yellows, add a dash of blue and white. Mousy-brown. I’ve always been good at identifying colors, mixing and matching to create the perfect shade.

             I begin to paint my self-portrait.

***

Twenty-one

             Disaster.

             I look around my room, the half-empty, overflowing boxes strewn everywhere. I’m supposedly packing. Mom arrives in two hours. She’ll see my room; she’ll tell me it’s a disaster.

             Tomorrow I walk down the aisle and graduate. Then she’ll take me out to dinner to celebrate. Someplace fancy.

             The day after, she’ll help me pack. But she’s already warned me that I should be finished packing.

             I’ve spent four years in Charleston and now it’s time to go. I’m ready to get out of the stifling heat, but I’m also not ready. I can’t even figure out how to pack.

             On top of my bed lies an expansive stretch of canvas, the pencil outline of Helen’s face, a few colors added in. My final portrait. Will I even get the diploma if the painting’s unfinished? I envision the dean calling my name, I walk down, I hold out my hand to take the diploma, then it’s yanked away. “You didn’t finish,” the dean will say condescendingly and everyone will laugh. My mother will scold me.

             I can never finish my self-portraits. They always remain undone. I like them better that way. That’s how I feel. Incomplete.

             I pick up a box and dump its contents on the ground. Isn’t that how you’re supposed to pack?

             A wooden hand mirror clunks to the ground. Oh, yes, that thing. I pick it up and stare. Helen looks back at me.

             I turn and look in the vanity mirror, which I use to apply my make-up, carefully cover up my large, oily pores, my red pimples – will I ever outgrow the awkward teenager phase? I look back into the hand mirror. Helen’s mousy brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, a few greasy tendrils falling against her pale yet shiny face. Her blue eyes shine above dark bags under her eyes. Helen hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in a long time, perhaps four years.

             I sigh and turn back to the self-portrait. I’ll put bags under the eyes. Make it realistic.

***

Thirty-three

             “I hate you!” my kid shrieks in a voice so high I can feel my eardrums breaking. He throws something across the room and it shatters.

             I enter his room and we both stare, numb, at the broken fishbowl. Luckily, there had been no fish. We’ve gone through several, and at the moment, we have none.

             He looks at me, lips quivering. He’s only five. He’s only recently learned to yell, “I hate you!” when he’s angry, and he doesn’t mean it the way a teenager means it. He runs away in fear.

             I slowly pick up the broken pieces of the fishbowl, first by hand and then by broom. This takes a few minutes, and I hope he’s calming down, I hope he’s realizing that Mommy isn’t angry. Then I search for him, and I find him in the studio, hiding unsuccessfully under the table, hugging his knees and sucking his thumb.

             I sit down next to him and hug him. “It’s been a rough day, huh?” I say. He nods. He points to the framed painting on the wall, the oil painting of a precious baby, chubby and angelic. It’s his favorite painting, and mine too. I finally got good at painting humans. I painted him as a baby, and he loves to hear me tell the story. Whenever he’s upset, I soothe him by describing, step by step, the process of painting my beloved Evan.

             As I tell the story, he stops sucking his thumb, and he rests his head on my shoulder. He calms down. I gently nudge him out from under the table, and we stand up. He looks at all the papers on the table – half-finished sketches and paintings. He sorts through them and he finds it. My painting from undergrad, never finished.

             “Is this you?” he asks.

“It was,” I say. “I started it before you were born.” He examines it carefully.

             “You don’t look happy,” he says.

            “That was because I didn’t have you,” I say. That’s not entirely true, nor is it entirely false. I wasn’t happy because I was stressed and overwhelmed; I wasn’t happy because I was still figuring out who I was. Now, with two kids and a full-time job, I’m even more stressed and overwhelmed; I still don’t know who I am; but miraculously, I’m content. Perhaps Evan and his sister Teresa are that miracle.

             “You should do a new one,” he says. “My beautiful mommy.”

             It’s times like these that make everything worth it. I hug him and promise to do a new self-portrait. He runs away to bother Teresa. She is the opposite of Evan – a dreamer – and she is holed away in her room, inventing stories for her Barbies. I’m sure he’ll chop off a Barbie’s head soon and I’ll have to intervene. But for now… I examine my portrait. Although it’s unfinished, I can see the sadness in the eyes, the fatigue in the face, and the beauty of youth. I forget that I had acne-prone skin and was always twenty pounds overweight. I idealize my youthful self.

             I reach inside the bottom desk drawer and fumble under the various papers. There it is; my fingers slide over the smooth, intricate carvings. I pull out the mirror and look. Helen stares back at me. She has aged… yet not too much.

             She is now a mature young woman, a mother even. Her acne has evened out; her face is still oily but seems calmer and more relaxed. Her stringy hair has not been combed, but rather than looking disheveled, she looks as if she’s come out of a romance novel.

             I find an empty sheet of paper and start sketching.

***

Fifty-two

             My back hurts.

             It’s been years since I’ve last done a long flight; the seats seem tinier, the flight attendants busier, the passengers ruder. I struggle to get my carry-on from the overhead bin, and no one stops to help me.

             I get off the plane and navigate the strange lines and passport agents – young men with poor English who stare at me suspiciously. “Falemenderit,” I say awkwardly, annunciating each syllable carefully. This is the only word Teresa has been able to teach me.

             At last, I get my luggage, pass customs, and enter Kosovo. I scan the crowd until I see Teresa’s golden locks. She’d started off blond and stayed that way, unlike me.

             She hugs me and grabs my things. She introduces me to her friend Edrin, who will drive us to her apartment. He smiles and says I look more like her sister than her mother. I’m sure he’s just being polite, but it’s nice to hear.

             Teresa chatters away during the drive, telling me all about her new city, and soon we are at her apartment, unpacking. Americans can stay here for 90 days visa-free, and that is the plan. For the next 90 days, I’ll use the guest room as my bedroom and my studio. I’ll paint with the same vigor of a 21-year-old, and I’ll forget the messy divorce.

             “What’s this?” Teresa asks, pulling out the hand mirror.

             “That was a present from Nana when I was very young,” I say, taking it and cradling it gently in my hands. “It’s a memory.” I look into it and Helen’s deep blue eyes stare back at me. I’m startled – I’d forgotten about Helen and hadn’t expected to see her. “I use it when I make self-portraits,” I tell Teresa. “I used to pretend – it’s silly – I used to pretend that the reflection in this mirror was not myself, but a girl named Helen. It helps me to see myself how others see me.” I feel foolish explaining this. A grown woman pretending that her reflection is a stranger.

             Teresa takes the mirror and examines herself thoughtfully. “I’ll call her Evangeline,” she says. “I’ve always loved that name.”

             My chronic daydreamer understands me. I smile and study her face – elegant and smooth, draped by soft waves of golden hair. How did she get to be so mature?

             “You’ve never done a self-portrait,” Teresa says, handing the mirror back to me.

             “I’ve started, many times,” I say.

             “You should finish,” she says. “Look at yourself, Mom. You look beautiful and full of wisdom.”

             I gaze at Helen’s face, the tall cheekbones, the laugh lines, the dark circles, the greasy tendrils falling from the matted bun. She has a certain beauty to her. Maybe her life has been easier than mine. Maybe her husband did not cheat. Maybe she was able to follow her dreams instead of a life-draining desk job.

             “I will,” I promise.

***

Sixty-eight

             “I hate you!” A door slams. I sit awkwardly in the living room, on the pale beige couch, holding my coffee mug with herbal tea, which is still too hot to drink.

             Evan walks dejectedly into the room. “You made it seem so effortless,” he says. “Parenting a preteen…. Does it get easier?”

             “You were your worst as a baby,” I say, laughing, “and slowly calmed down as you aged. Kindergarten was awful, though. You were always yelling or throwing or jumping off things.”

             “Did I hate you?”

             “All the time,” I say.

             He plops down on the couch next to me. “She was a good baby,” he says. “I wasn’t prepared.”

             “We’re never prepared,” I say.

             Hanging over the fireplace is the portrait I painted of their family – Evan, his wife Julia, eldest daughter Violet, middle child Timothy, baby Lily. Rather than use a photograph, they had posed for me, day after day. Julia had requested the painting, had bribed the children to be patient.

             He sees me staring at the painting, and he smiles. “We look like such a happy family,” he says.

             “You are,” I say. “Even on Violet’s worst days.” I grin mischievously. “Better watch out for Lily. She’s got a temper and a strong spirit. You’re in for something with those two girls.”

             He sighs. “And Tim?”

             I stare at the pale-faced young boy in the painting, alabaster skin and blond hair beginning to turn mousy-brown. He reminds me so much of myself. “He’s got a bit of your sister in him,” I say, “but he’s the most like me. Moody, deep thinker. Your problem with him will be that he won’t share his emotions. You won’t know what he’s feeling. And the teenaged years are so tough…”

             “What were you like as a teen?” Evan asks. Violet is nearly twelve, a preteen obsessed with pop culture, hair products, and boy bands. Timothy is ten; he’s still obsessed with Pokémon, and perhaps will always be.

             “Dark and depressed,” I said. “Full of useless teenaged angst. I started a self-portrait then, but I couldn’t get it right. Couldn’t get myself to look as profound as I felt.”

             “You never finish your self-portraits,” Evan says, almost accusingly. “You should, we want one of you.”

             “So you can remember me when I’m dead?” I ask. “You think I’m going soon?”

             “You’re part of the family,” he says. “You belong on the wall.”

             Violet’s preteen wailing interrupts us, and Evan goes to talk to her. I get up and go into the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror, and I look for Helen. It’s not her mirror, but Helen is imaginary anyways.

             The gray streaks in the hair. The wrinkles adding up. The pale skin with sun-darkened spots. The pale lips. The eyebrows which are so thin they are almost non-existent. The deep blue eyes staring back at me.

             Why haven’t I finished a self-portrait? Do I loathe myself that much? Or do I simply not understand myself?

             Evan is right. I should do this for my family and not for myself.

***

Seventy-four

             It is finished.

             I hover my hand over the painting, tracing the outline of the face. My hand is wrinkled with dark spots and bulging veins. It quivers just a bit; I can no longer hold it still.

             The woman in the painting is part Helen and part me. She has lived seventy-four years. She has raised two children and she loves five grandchildren. She has been married once and loved twice.

             Her hair is mousy-brown, with a few strands of pure blond, a memory of childhood, and a few strands of silver, a reminder of old age. Her face is a pale alabaster, with a shiny forehead, laugh lines, and a few wrinkles. Yet no red acne spots and no dark sunspots. The dark circles under her eyes are minimal. Her pale lips are curved upwards in a faint smile; her dark eyes hold a shimmer – laughter?

             I reach for the hand mirror and look into it. Helen is old. She looks tired. I quickly put it down, shove it away. Helen used to be a reminder of who I really was – how the outside world saw me – not as special as I liked to imagine, not as hideous as I worried. But now she’s a reminder of life passing by.

             I’m old.

             There’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” I say. Evan and Teresa enter. I look at them, full-grown adults, tall and proud yet bent and weary.

             Teresa is the first to see the painting; she rushes to the table and beams. “You finished!” she says.

             “Yes,” I say. “But there’s only one. It’s a present for you two, but you’ll have to share.”

             “It’s mine,” Teresa says, her hands reaching out as if she can clutch the paper. “Mom, you’re beautiful,” she says.

             Moments like these, I think to myself.

             Teresa turns to Evan. “We can share,” she says. “Joint custody.” He smiles and nods. He walks over to the table and examines the painting.

             “It’s gorgeous,” he says.

             “Well,” I say. I never knew how to take compliments. Seventy years of painting, twenty years of actually selling, and still confused when complimented. I change the subject. “Is it time?” He nods. “And Violet?”

             “So excited to officially be an adult,” he says, “and apparently, she no longer hates me. She told me this morning that now that she’s an adult, she’s mature enough to get along with me.”

             Teresa and I laugh. “What about Timmy and Lily?” I ask.

             “Oh, they both hate me,” he says. “Daisy still loves me, though.” Daisy, the youngest, the surprise.

             “She will,” I say. I stand up and smooth my hair. I know it’s gray and dry. But in my wrinkled hands, it feels stringy and greasy. It’s blond. My skin is smooth. I’m slouching because I’m grumpy and contrary, not because my back hurts. I’m walking slowly because I’m lost in daydreams, not because I have to be careful because the last time I fell, I nearly broke my hip. Evan takes my hand and escorts me to the living room, where Violet is dressed up and grinning while her younger siblings are sulking. Their cousin, Teresa’s only child, is clinging to Violet’s dress.

             Teresa stays behind, and I know she is looking into the mirror, at her Evangeline.

             “Nana!” Daisy shrieks and pounces on me. I stumble, and Julia helps steady me while Evan takes her off of me.

             “Be careful,” Evan lectures her.

             “Nana’s old,” I say.

             “Nana’s not old,” Daisy pouts. “Nana’s beautiful.”

             I look at the family portrait over the fireplace. There’s room for my portrait to hang next to it.

             “Nana’s old and beautiful,” I say.

             I don’t hate myself.