“We can talk to the head of school.”
“And say what? What are you going to say? What is she going to do? Send out a school-wide email warning against teasing Isabelle Ford about her mother’s indiscretions? What is she going to do, Mom?”
I had the sensation that I might vomit. There, in the car. The bile rising, my knuckles white against the wheel. I’d begun to sweat. There was no place to pull over.
“How long has this been going on, Izz? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Since January. Since those stupid pictures from Anguilla. But I know you’re happy and I know you love him. And he’s really nice, and you deserve to be happy. Because Daddy’s happy. And I don’t want you to be alone.”
“Oh, Isabelle.” My heart was wrenching. These were the thoughts that had consumed my daughter. “We can change schools,” I said. “You don’t have to go back there.”
“But I like my school,” she cried. “I like my school. And where would I go? Where would I go to school with other thirteen-year-old girls who don’t know Hayes Campbell? Zimbabwe?”
Traffic had come to a standstill on the PCH. Construction. The sun was setting over the Pacific, purple and perfect. And once again I cursed California for having weather that did not mirror my mood.
I leaned over the divider to hug her, my own tears falling. “I’m sorry, Izz. I’m so sorry.”
“I know you told me to just ignore it, and I’ve been trying, I have. But I can’t. I can’t, Mommy. I can’t.”
I held her, and sobbed with her, and breathed in her hair until the traffic started to move. And I knew.
I knew.
And all the other things, they did not matter.
*
That night, after I made Isabelle a bowl of hot chocolate and she calmed down enough to fall asleep, I called Hayes in Australia. It was three in the afternoon and they’d just arrived in Adelaide. And the second I heard his familiar gravelly voice I began to cry.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I can’t do this. I can’t do this to her.”
“What happened?”
I told him. About Cecilia first, and then Isabelle. And for a long time he did not say anything.
“Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
His breath was heavy. “Can we not discuss this right now? Can we not … Can we not make any decisions right now? Can we just deal with this when we get to Japan?”
“Are you not listening to me? Have you not heard anything I’ve said?”
“I heard you. What do you want me to tell you? ‘It’s fine, let’s just end it’? I’m not going to say that. I love you, Solène. I’m not just going to give you up without a fight.”
I was quiet then.
“And I’m like eight thousand miles away from you. I can’t do anything from here. I can’t … Fuck. Fuck. You promised me you’d come to Japan.”
“I know I did.”
“You promised.” His voice was quaking.
“I know.”
“Please just come, and we can figure it out then. Please. Please.”
*
Windwood’s spring break was for two weeks at the end of March. Georgia’s family had invited Isabelle to join them on their annual ski trip to Deer Valley. I let her go. That it happened to coincide with the Japan tour dates did wonders for alleviating my guilt.
*
On Saturday afternoon, after Isabelle had safely departed, Daniel came by the house to sign the school’s annual tuition contract. He did not bring up Hayes and we managed not to argue.
“Make sure you email me your itinerary,” he said. We were standing in the driveway: he, leaning against his car; me, pulling letters out of the mailbox.
“I will. As soon as—” I froze. There in my hand was a large manila envelope. No return address. Postmark: Texas.
I dropped it, shaking.
“What’s wrong? What is it, Solène?”
I could not speak.
“What is this?” Daniel picked up the package from the ground. I could see the phallic outline in his hand, taunting.
“Don’t open it.”
“What is it, Solène?” He tore open the envelope and looked inside. “Did you order this?”
“Yes. Yes, I typically order dildos and then cry when they arrive.”
His tone shifted, the realization settling in. “Did someone send this to you? What the hell? Solène? Did someone send this?”
I did not respond. He reached into the envelope, withdrew the note enclosed, and read it. “What the fuck? Solène, who sent this?”
“A fan.”
“A fan? What kind of fucking fan sends this? I thought they were all sweet little girls like Isabelle.”
“Most of them are. Some of them are not.”
“How long has this been going on?”
I told him.
His face fell. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to bother you. I didn’t want your judgment. It’s okay, I’m taking care of it.”
“You didn’t want my judgment? Solène. I care about you. I’m always going to care about you. Something like this happens, it’s serious. You need to tell me. Fuck my judgment.”
I stood there, wiping away the tears with the back of my hand. I did not want him to see me suffering. I anticipated it: the great big “I told you so.”
But instead, he wrapped his arms around me and held me close. It had been so long. I found myself searching for something familiar.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
When he got into the BMW, he still had the envelope in hand.
“I have to give that to the detective.”
“I’ll hold on to it. I don’t want this reminder in your house. It’s disturbing as hell.” And with that, he flung the package into the backseat and pulled out of the driveway.
*
I arrived in Osaka Monday evening. I did not have a plan other than to love him as profoundly as I could. And then let him go. It seemed to me my only true option.
We lay in bed that first night in our suite at the Imperial Hotel. Close, clinging, postcoital, my fingers tracing his face. We were not talking about it. Us.
“So this is the new nose…”
“It’s the old nose. Just 2.0.” He smiled.
I held his chin in my hand, tipping his face in one direction, and then the other.
“Well?”
“It’s pretty perfect.”
“Botticelli?”
“Botticelli.” I smiled.
“He actually made it one percent more symmetrical than it was before. He could have gone for a whole three percent, but we weren’t sure if it would visibly affect the symmetry of the rest of my features.”
“You realize how ridiculous this conversation sounds, don’t you?”
He smiled, his lips curling, his hands at my waist pulling me on top of him. “You mean when there are still girls missing in Nigeria? Yes, I absolutely do. But you yourself said it was art, so…”
I kissed the tip of it, delicately. “It’s art. All of you is art.”
“That’s why you love me,” he said, soft. As if he were reminding me.
“That’s why I love you.”