It has been six years since the Incident. There are many improvements. The left side of my face sags less. My walk has less of a limp. I can do squats in my weight-lifting class, and even attempt yoga on occasion, using the wall for support. I can fold laundry with both hands, and possibly enjoy it more than the average person for this reason. I believe Nick when he tells me I’m prettiest with my hair pulled back so that my whole face is visible.
I suppose it would make me a better person if I said I no longer sat for pedicures, or favored hair salons that offer green tea and aromatherapy head massages. Why on earth do I still read gossip magazines? Why do I use whitening toothpaste, or ask Nick to pluck my eyebrows? Here’s what it is: My face may no longer be classically symmetrical, but I still have the feeling of beauty. The feeling of beauty has nothing to do with perfection. It is about self-respect. It is about caring for oneself. I try to be a little less careless now. Being careless never felt right.
Nick and I are married now. We have a baby girl, Olive. Throughout my pregnancy I felt very self-conscious, unsure if people were staring because of my belly or my face, or both. Did people wonder if I should even be having kids? It hurts to think it, but I know that it will be a sad but inevitable day when our little girl asks about my face, my eye, the rest of it. She will realize that I look different from other mothers, that I cannot run after her in crowds, or find her easily on a playground, and I have to wonder if on some level she will resent me for it.
The other day Nick, Olive, and I were on a downtown sidewalk, squinting in the bright sun, thinking of getting coffees or maybe having tacos; it was that kind of day. I was pushing the stroller because it’s nice to have the subtle extra balance. Nick said hello to a man and a woman walking toward us. “Nice to meet you,” I said, and stuck out my hand. The strangers looked at me with puzzled expressions. “We’ve met many times,” the man said. “We saw you just last month, at that party—”
“But we really didn’t get a chance to talk,” the woman said, shooting her husband a look.
Nick stayed quiet. He understood how stupid I felt, but also that there was nothing he could do. Before Olive, I would have pretended I was a ditz and bounced my palm against my forehead, not wanting to tell the couple that I’m not good at remembering faces because I have vision problems. Faces bob up and down, and I see double, so I rarely recognize a face until I have met the same person several times. But maybe that urge to denigrate myself is gone, or at least going away, because now, this time, I managed to raise my chin, smile my lopsided smile, and show these people my daughter, who was looking up at these strangers so seriously before breaking into a gummy smile.
Now I tend to let myself be looked at, despite the voice in my head that tells me to turn away. Maybe it is because I’ve realized that perfection is not what pleases the eye. What pleases the eye is what pleases the heart. My daughter looks to me for cues on how to act in this world, and I want to show her that you look people in the eye, you speak up, you stand as tall as your body will allow, and you say your name.