“No,” said Iz out loud, sitting in bed. “No.”
Shirelle said, “You should call the police.”
“He loves me.”
“So fucking what,” said Shirelle, in her Texan accent.
Izabel looked at her with new appreciation.
“Please come home for Christmas, Izzy,” said her mother on the phone, silence in the background.
Iz could picture it, the snowdrifts on roofs and swing sets, the lights spiraling around trees. Christmas in the suburbs. In the mall children climbed reluctantly onto the hot polyester fabric of Santa's lap, doubtful, afraid, but willing to risk it for the reward of presents. She remembered what that was like.
On a Wednesday afternoon in the second week of December, when Shirelle was taking her math final, Wade came in. Shirelle had left the door unlocked and he just walked right in and stood there, breathing a little heavily, as if he'd crashed through some immense barrier instead of simply turning a doorknob. Izabel was sitting in bed with a child's coloring book. This was as much art as she could handle these days; she was happy to stay inside of the big black lines. He was wearing a ski sweater and no jacket, and his cheeks were red from the cold. The rest of his face was wan, though, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Izabel was not afraid of him; in fact she felt nothing, and was vaguely surprised. She'd heard that love and hate were two sides of the same coin, that people could feel both at the same time, that this was how they came to kill those they loved the most. But she hadn't known it was possible to feel love, hate, and indifference simultaneously, with the last overlaying everything else, like new paint on a twice-used canvas.
“Bonjour, Izabel,” said Wade.
“What?” she said. “I mean, pardonnez-moi?”
“I've been learning French in the language lab,” he said, his breath still labored. “I thought that it would be great if we could communicate in French, you know, so we could be closer. I mean, I know sometimes I talk a lot, and sort of dominate the conversation a little. My parents are always telling me to slow down and listen instead of talking so much, they've been telling me that ever since I was a little kid, but you know me, Izabel, I get so wound up. I mean, nobody knows me as well as you do, Izabel.”
“Wade,” said Iz.
“I was thinking maybe you and I could go to France this summer — wait, hold on. ‘On peut aller à la France ensemble.’ What do you think? You could show me some places where you grew up, maybe, wouldn't that be great? And we could both paint, and talk, and—”
“Wade, I'm not French. I've never even been to France. I'm from Newton, Mass.”
He stood frozen in the center of the room. Izabel watched from the bed and waited for him to grow into a monster, a thunderbolt or a bull, but he just threw back his head and laughed.
“Well, that's pretty goddamn clever, I have to say. Pretty goddamn hilarious, Izabel, if that is your real name. That is your real name, isn't it?”
She nodded.
He came and sat down next to her on the bed and stroked her hand, which she pulled away. His voice softened and thickened, like Shirelle's molasses dissolving in tea. “It's so great you shared that with me,” he whispered. “Now we're in this together. Izabel, je t'aime.”
“Wade, it's over.”
“No! Non. Seriously, I mean it.” He began to work a corner of her bedspread, folding it and refolding it. “You love me,” he said, “and I love you. If we love each other, that's all that matters, right? And nothing can come between us.” He bent over and kissed her hard on the mouth.
She leaned back and hit her head against the wall. It made an inanimate-sounding clunk, like the head of a Barbie doll. She scrunched up her legs to try to get away from him, but he was strong. His hand twisted up the fabric of her shirt, but he was weirdly clumsy and didn't seem to know exactly what he wanted to do. Pushing against him, Izabel felt incredibly dizzy, as if the blood were flowing from her head. All the blood was flowing away. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled.
“Ow!” Wade sat back, rubbing his head and looking puzzled. “You hurt me. What are you, crazy?”
Izabel, gulping air, began to laugh.
“I'm leaving,” he said. “I can't handle this. I love you, Izabel, but you're crazy, I mean, seriously, I don't want to sit in judgment of you or anything, that's the last thing I'd want to do, and I know some people think there's a correlation between artistic genius and mental illness. But seriously, you might want to consider getting some help.”
“Okay,” she said. “Maybe you should go.”
“Maybe I should. I'm sorry, Izabel. I really am.” His hand reached up to stroke her hair gently, twice, then he got up and left, closing the door behind him with a quiet, considerate click.
Shirelle invited Izabel home for Christmas. Her family lived in the country on a ranch, and she promised hay rides and dances. She had four older brothers and made life at her house sound like an episode of The Waltons.
“It'll be a nice, traditional American Christmas,” she said. “We leave milk and cookies out for Santa.”
“Really?” said Izabel in her French accent. “Are zey not wasted? Santa does not eat zem, does he?”
“Izabel,” Shirelle said patiently, “Santa is my dad.”
“Ah, mais non! Zen you are very lucky. You must get zee most presents of anyone in zee world.”
“Girl,” said Shirelle, “sometimes I think you're putting me on.”
But Izabel did not go to Texas for Christmas. Her mother called, her voice trembling with the accomplishment, to say that she had brokered a peace with Iz's father, who had agreed to a double major of economics and art, so Iz could continue her classes. She didn't mention to her mother that she hadn't yet finished the first semester. There were presents waiting for her under the tree, if she would only come home to claim them.
“I went to the mall, Izzy,” said her mother, “and it was so beautiful!” Her voice was firm and happy. “All the decorations and the music, you just have to see it.”
Izabel could see it. She could see her mother moving alone through their house like some sad, ancient heroine, Demeter in Newton, decorating the tree, wrapping gifts. She could see her calling her daughter on the phone, picking out a tie for her husband at the mall, each day an act of small bravery. Izabel could see everything. She could see it because it was all inside her, hanging on to her like snow dissolving over their roof into a border of icicles. She could see it as clearly as she could see the children of the neighborhood bringing their toboggans to the park, where Iz would paint them over the holidays, watching from her bedroom window as they climbed through the snow, spots of color bundled thickly by their mothers into snowsuits, dragging their heavy loads behind them.