Page 28 of Portrait of A Lost Artist
?CHAPTER TEN
VERONICA
“Some people think that the physical things define what’s within, and I’ve been there before but that life’s a bore.”- If I Ain’t Got You by Alicia Keys.
“SMILE.” THE PINCH MOMGIVES TO MY WAIST STINGS ENOUGH TO LEAVE A SCAR, BUT IT WORKS TO HER FAVOR.As we stand in front of the local church, giving out plastic containers with full and balanced lunches, mom bares her teeth like a tiger looking for its prey. I concentrate on the task at hand; making sure everyone gets enough food and for the little ones to grab their juice cartons, as well.
“I’m smiling.” I reply when grinning widely, and I even make a show of exchanging a glance with her. Mom stands taller above me, wearing a bright green shirt and a heart pendant across her neck that has a picture of her family. Sometimes, I question whether Mom’s focus is on projecting an image of a perfect family, rather than genuinely appreciating our reality. “I have just, sadly, not mastered the art of being hypocritical.”
Dad says Mom and I are two clashing personalities. I’ve tried with my utmost desire to shape myself to what she wanted, and to an extent, I think I have. For the sake of keeping the peace that had once lived upon our household. However, I dare say that my mom’s persona is not one I would stand if blood didn’t unite us. Her behavior—the constant, unsolicited criticism masked as ‘God’s truth,’ the damage to reputations, the snap judgments—it’s something I could never reconcile. I’ve always stood against her, and now I have to live with the consequences of that choice.
“If I had talked to my mom like that, I would have gotten all my teeth knocked out.” Mom threatens, kneeling down to pat a kid on the head before giving him his container and his bottle of apple juice. “You look prettier when you smile, and considering you’re twenty-seven and living without a husband, one would think you’d try to be attractive to men, at least.”
“Way to go. We come to church just for you to sell me.” I retaliate with anger, trying not to show it as I turn around to organize the containers that are left. I count them, but I’m interrupted by a huff from my mom.
“You’d be happy with Lorenzo. You just decided to start again.” The gentle breeze and bird calls momentarily silenced everything else. I paused, taking in the nearby blend of voices and the sounds of people eating. “I’m talking to you.”
“Yes, I heard you.”
“I even heard around town that he was planning on proposing to you.”
Growing impatient, I turn around, placing a hand on my waist and hoping that the daggers I wish to throw at her through my gaze reach her. Unlike Mom, who’s constantly focused on tomorrow, Dad always made me feel seen. He’d smile, his eyes lighting up behind his glasses, and truly listen to what I had to say. My future, though, doesn’t seem to resonate with Mom.
“Of course, your plan is picture perfect.” I scoff. “I’m twenty-seven and I get married to a man that I love, but doesn’t love me back as strongly—”
“Here we go again.” Mom cuts me off, rolling her eyes. “If you’re going to blare up with the dramatics, then it’s better if we just leave this for later.”
“No, you wanted to talk and I am going to do so.” I continue, grabbing her by the shoulders so she looks me in the eye. “He doesn’t love me, so each night I wait for him in his favorite dress, like you did with Dad, but instead of him coming back home alone, he returns with the smell of a woman on his clothes. Someone probably passed by him or maybe he was truly with someone else, but all my mind will think is that there is someone else. So, when I go to sleep, I’ll cry about it, not trusting him, worrying that one day he’ll leave. And it’ll be a cycle—”
“That my mom, my sister, and all my cousins went through.” Mom adds, perching her hip to the side and pushing my hands away. “Men cheat.”
“Dad didn’t. That man has been head-over-heels for you for years and you don’t wish for me to find someone like that. I’d choose to be alone rather than be with someone who doesn’t truly love me.”
Havana’s sweltering heat, thick with the salt of the nearby beaches, plastered strands of hair to her face before she released a sigh. “I’m not stupid, Veronica, and I’m trying to save you from what everyone will think of you.”
Luckily, people are not paying attention to our conversation as I lower my tone. “Which I don’t care about.” To an extent. I would be lying if I said I didn’t want Mom to think better of me. For her to lie at night and think that she finally made it. Her two children had grown to be functional members of society, each loved equally.
“...I know you slept around with Lorenzo. And every man after you, knowing that, will only want you for one thing. They won’t see a wife—”
“Oh my God,” I want to curse at the sky for giving me this kind of life. For me to be torn apart by words just for living like a normal person would. I expand my hands on the edge of the box where the containers had once taken place before picking it up on a whim. “That’s none of your business, okay? If the men that want me will only deem me worthy because of my body count—”
“Don’t speak like one of those women who just like to sleep around. Cherish your body. Listen to your mother for once.” Her voice grows harsher, and I take this moment to really inspect her face. Despite her public pronouncements of my value, her love was unspoken. I know now that I can’t resolve the issues that have built up throughout the years.
I chuckle right at her face and say: “I have stuff to do,” like checking the text message that Nathan sent me early this morning. I had completely forgotten about it. Maybe continue working on that one painting I started a few weeks ago. I press the box to the side of my hip, jutting it out and grabbing the takeout bags from Aseré we had filled with food, now empty, before I hear mom speak again.
“So now you’re cutting me off?”
“Yes, Mom. As per usual. Adam’s a better son than I’ll ever be, to be honest.” I reply, tired of fighting with her, before I wave a hand at the group of people that are eating on perfectly perched tables, under open umbrellas. “See you later, everyone!”
A few of them ask me why I’m leaving, but I don’t have the energy to tell them that tiredness comes short for what I feel.
When getting inside my car, I toss everything in the backseat and let my forehead press against the steering wheel. Tears threatened to spill, but I held them back, knowing Mom was watching my car. I couldn’t bear to dwell on the thoughts I wished I didn’t have—the feeling that I was a burden. Dreams forgotten because of her, and still not enough to be considered her daughter. So, instead of venturing into my thoughts of self-pity and sadness, I take my phone out of my pocket, seeing Nathan’s name appear with a notification.
