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A Face by Picasso

My face must look like one of those portraits by Picasso, the kind he cut and sewed together to create a movie star masterpiece. If only I understood what he truly thought of me, how he really felt.

What I’ve always loved about my son, Yoda Bear aka Gerald, is his cheerful good nature, never whining or complaining (though he likes his milk bottle a bit on the chilled side or he’ll throw it back in your direction). Like a ball of vanilla pudding, he is, squiggly, wiggles his plump, diapered tush whenever he crawls; his chin too, always oozing gooey saliva. One leaky baby, he is.

Unfortunately, Robert, my neurotic champion, came down with one of those syndromes, something they call post partum depression and he hated being around the baby, I had to always take Yoda outdoors--but he’s the dad, I had told the doctors, it wasn’t his uterus that was used in our son’s birth! Shit happens, the hospital pretty much told me, shit happens.

As I sit on this rickety bench, watching eucalyptus trees--someone should really trim those branches, but their leaves are pretty swaying with the wind like that--I glance at the face of my son. He lies in his stroller, eyes half-open, and lips moving, making tiny bubbles as if he’s asking for another scoop of strawberry ice cream we can share when we walk back towards home. Though, I wonder when my Yoda finds out what I am doing, will he be able to forgive me or not. What do I see when I look at him now? Only watery eyes like bruised egg yolks on egg whites; sullen skin, like kneaded dough before baking; taut cheeks that are uncared for, deathly in need of sustenance--my face instead of his. He’ll never forgive me, I think, he’ll know, and when he finds out he will disown me then leave me forever.
I pull the stroller closer to me. My baby’s face--he’s got my nose, my lips, doesn’t he? His tiny hands hold his Winnie the Pooh teether tightly. His tummy balls out as if he’s in his second trimester.

On my twenty-sixth birthday, that’s when I found out I was three months pregnant. What a surprise that was, after two years of a sexless marriage--my Robert, you see, he got shipped to Iraq, had his tour of duty extended twice, when he finally did come home for Christmas, we tried to get to know each other again, quickly, with help from Traci Lords videos, champagne and beer, lots of champagne and beer. Then, nine months later, there was Yoda. Robert almost could not make it back in time for the delivery; they were getting things ready for the first Iraqi election, something like that.
All those months prior, I only had a couple of girlfriends help me. It was around those hard times that he had called me again. He got my number, he said, from an online site that helps search for people. You’ve been looking for me? I had asked him, I was surprised. It has been so long, all those years since our days at State College.

Sweet, that’s how classmates described me in my junior high and high school yearbooks and during my time at State. Oh, if they only knew, I would tell myself then, if they only clued in to what was really happening in my life, maybe they would have understood why I spoke in low tones, smiled a lot and never quarreled with anyone. I was sparing myself a slapping at home that’s why. My mother--she worked so hard, supervising salespeople at my father’s T-shirt printing company that when she came home, she was usually in a bad mood, angry. Angry about not making enough money, not getting the right contracts, never the right workers, she was mad about everything. As for my father, he abandoned me when I was a toddler--accidentally forgot about me in a taxi. The taxi drove off and all I knew was it wasn’t supposed to, not yet. But my father had so many calculations to do for his job; his mind was mainly focused on that. The taxi drove around blocks and blocks looking for him, while I sat in the back, crying my eyes out. See, he says now, the driver didn’t kidnap you, so why get upset. Forget all that, he says, I’m here now, aren’t I.

At State, one of my electives was Art Appreciation 101. I didn’t have a clue what it was then, but looking through our textbook, started to make me feel things, there were things in those paintings and art work that opened up the world and told me there were other things out there, other possibilities, so I did my homework and participated. A few months into my second semester when I signed up for a symposium at the college’s art gallery, he was there.
A few years older, he was already three years into a degree in biochemistry. He’ll be a surgeon, he said, so many actors and actresses in Hollywood, all wanting the perfect look. And he could help them, he liked art, he knew art. He had written a paper on Cubism, read it at the symposium. My face must look like one of those portraits by Picasso, I told him months later, you must like me because you think you can cut and sew my face together and create a movie star masterpiece. That’s when he said he loved me, while we laid, tangled there, under that grayish blue ceiling of his bedroom, piles of books littered around us, taking up most of the space, pushing our naked bodies closer. I smile at that now, how he said it, in a way that got me all mushy-eyed, and my legs fluttery for days, and how all of a sudden, things seemed to move in slow motion.

But I didn’t--I couldn’t understand what that was, that feeling, I should have but I didn’t and I still didn’t understand even when yesterday, he stood outside the taxicab, our luggage already in the trunk, his eyes watching me, waiting for me to get in.

Until a couple of years ago, it would have remained impossible to understand, that is, until he, Eduardo, started it all with that phone call. I was almost four months pregnant at the time, when I started walking to the park as a way to exercise; something that could ease the delivery and be good for the baby. It was a depressing time, those days. I was usually upset, puking in the mornings, headaches, body aches. I had all these ideas about having my own family, being a wife, a good mother, but it all seemed so hard, so torturous like running uphill wearing muddied socks that make you slip in so many directions until all you can think about is pulling them off. But it was the life I had chosen. So, I stayed. I just didn’t have any feeling that I had any other choice, you know. That feeling of confidence or right to be me--I just never got that and I had to live with my dissatisfaction. It took that phone call from Eduardo to help propel me to becoming comfortable living in my own skin.

After we started meeting up--Eduardo told me that one day, he looked down his office window, saw me walking to the park, couldn’t catch me, and was unable to find me for the next several weeks, so he looked me up online--I thought, maybe, I could change my life. I looked back at the choices I’d made and wonder, why didn’t I pursue this instead of that, how could you have been so scared? I had been disgusted, disgusted with myself, disgusted with Robert, disgusted with our small condominium, with what I ate, did, thought. The only thing I felt any pride in was my baby. The only thing that made me glad to announce, I’m here now, aren’t I. It made me worth something and Eduardo agreed, he also agreed to take me to my prenatal classes. How fun that was doing breathing and relaxation exercises together. Still, inside myself I knew that my baby was a deal breaker for us.

Eduardo didn’t become a surgeon but a Radiological technologist instead; so smart, so opposite of Robert. Whenever I was with him, our happy days at State returned and I felt safe. This time though, I didn’t want to lose him. And the funny thing is, I never felt like I was cheating on Robert, but there were intimate things Eduardo and I talked about, things I never even communicated with my husband.

Sometimes we spoke about going away, moving, starting a new life. When he got a job offer to Chicago, a chance of a lifetime, where they would pay for him to go back to school, finish his Master’s degree and eventually become the surgeon he always wanted. Eduardo still had the drive, you know, it was still in him. So many possibilities for us, it was scary and exciting at the same time. I felt that this time, without him, I would shrivel up and wander through life with a stone’s regret. Do you love me as much as I love you, he would ask. And with the great inspiration my baby brought me, I could finally speak. Always, I would say.

Eduardo postponed making any decisions until he had to take the job or lose it to someone else. We have to leave by the tenth of this month, Eduardo reminded me. You can bring your son, but his father would have to know where he is. He would of course fight for custody. That means I shouldn’t bring him, I said, my son will only cause problems between us, right? How could love be so caging? Robert understands cages. Just the other day, Robert told me he wants another child, this time, he promises he’ll be here for us.

When I didn’t get in the taxicab, Eduardo kept waiting, his eyes pleading, screaming for me to get in, or maybe I was only imagining. My son in my arms was crying and tears were running down my cheeks too. I had to pick up my legs to carry Yoda back towards the house, my chest pounding. I’m staying here with you, I cooed to Yoda, because we’re a team, you and I and nothing can break that, I told him.

Then, I knew, like a dolphin knows it is dying, that I was teaching my son to turn his back on happiness, teaching him to sacrifice himself, his love, his freedom for someone else. I’ve lived that way all my life, why change? As I look upon Yoda’s face now, his adorable, cooing face, deep down I know he understands why I’m doing this, why I must leave him. I remember Eduardo’s face as he waited next to the taxicab, drawn a questioning look when I had turned around from walking towards the house with Yoda to running back towards him. Give me my plane ticket. I told Eduardo, I’m coming with you, tomorrow. I finally shared with myself how I felt. I will meet you in Chicago tomorrow, I said, let me just spend one more day with my son, just one more day.

This rickety bench begins to itch under me, watching eucalyptus trees, becoming tiresome--someone will trim those branches, let their leaves sway with the wind like that, oh, a couple of birds, pigeons fly around the rose bushes while others chirp from the trees; far away voices, coming closer. I glance at the face of my son, while he lies in his stroller, eyes half-open, lips moving, making tiny bubbles as if he’s asking for another scoop of strawberry ice cream we can share when we walk back towards home for the last time.

And I realize, I am my father’s daughter. Why get upset, I whisper to my son, I’m here now, aren’t I.