Part II-
It is Christmas Eve. We invited Michael to stay with us for Christmas. Right now, he and Max are asleep on Isabel's floor. They are in sleeping bags, and the giggling has finally stopped. The presents are beneath the tree, all wrapped and tied with perfect bows.
Philip grumbled, but we bought presents for Michael too. No child should ever go through Christmas without presents. I found a warm winter coat, new jeans, sneakers, and a dress shirt. Crayons (Isabel absolutely threw a fit when I tried to say no) drawing paper, and a Shakespeare play. All for a ten-year-old. A light of unreality flooded me, but I bought them, I wrapped them, and they are nestled beneath our tree.
I pretend sometimes, that Michael is one of mine too. I imagine that I would make him laugh, and chase the hunted look from his eyes. But, I must remember, he is not mine. Not really. He is only mine for Christmas. And he is a present in and of himself, just as Isabel and Max are.
It's Christmas morning, and my children are tearing into their presents. Isabel is reckless, with cries of joy and gratitude and love. Max is quieter, but pleased. Very pleased, especially with some books. Michael has opened all but one of his presents. He's sitting there, holding it in his lap, clutching it as though it will run away…or be taken away. I wonder what has scarred this child so. I look around at the pile, and realize that in this brightly wrapped package are the crayons and drawing pad.
"Michael, open it." I encourage.
Philip smiles jovially. Christmas has touched him just the way it always does. "Go ahead."
Michael drops his eyes. Isabel drops her sweater and goes over next to him. "It's all right, you'll like it."
Max nods.
Michael tears off the paper slowly, as if he is memorizing every second of this. His mouth opens, but no words come out as he lifts the box of crayons almost reverently. He looks right as Isabel, knowing instinctively that this is mostly her doing.
He whispers something in her ear that makes the princess blush like a rose. She looks even more beautiful, and Michael looks pleased with himself. Then he does something he has never done before, that I have always wished he would.
He stands, and walks right to me. "Thank you." He whispers, then impulsively, his arms are around my neck in a hug.
I hug back, holding tight, but not too tight. One hug does not mean that this wild boy is tame…but if anyone can tame him, it will be my Izzy.
Max brings him the pad, and Michael retreats to his corner again. Unexpected tears fill my eyes. Philip massages my shoulder. "I think my present will have to wait. There's no way it could even compare to that."
I nod. He's right. Michael gave me what he's never given anyone but Izzy and Max. He let me hold him close. In that moment, in my heart, he became mine. I loved him despite, or maybe because of his rough edges. He trusted me. It was a priceless gift, one I would never dream of trading away.
Philip and I start breakfast. We make waffles, and the kids enjoy them. I even see Michael smile. He doesn't do that when Philip and I can see. Another Christmas miracle. After breakfast, Michael sets up in the dining room. He meticulously examines each crayon and the colors it produces. Then, shyly, he starts to draw. I give him the space he needs. He draws, and works patiently.
I think for a moment of what this boy will do when he is grown. Even now I believe he will be, no even now he is an artist. Isabel joins him a little later. She doesn't interrupt, or peer over his shoulder. She sits next to him, with her own paper and crayons. Not long after, Max is there too, reading. Michael is sneaking glances at me and Philip when he thinks we don't notice.
Philip is deeply involved in the new mystery novel I gave him, so he really doesn't notice. I wonder how much Philip has missed in our children's lives already by not noticing.
Eventually, Michael hands the picture to Isabel. She beams at him, proudly. She thanks him, and asks a question. He hunches his shoulders and shrugs. Isabel bestows a 'princess look' and a bright smile on him, before whirling up to me with the paper.
"Mom." She says breathlessly. "Michael drew this for us. I want to frame it."
I take the picture, and know I was right. This child is an artist. With only crayons and paper he has wrought a miracle on paper. It's a portrait of my family. I am there, smiling. Philip is behind me, with his book.
Max and Isabel are together, her fair hair a perfect counterpoint to his dark one. She looks regal, like the princess Philip claims, only half-joking, that she must be. Michael is there too, off to the side a little. He is with his box of crayons. And there is one other person, far in the background. Her curls are golden, and she looks like she is longing to be part of this cozy scene.
I smile. "Of course baby. Of course we'll frame it. It's beautiful. Thank him. You know how."
Isabel nods. "He'll let you say thank you this time." She informs me.
I place the paper on the counter, carefully. I go over to the table. "Thank you Michael." My voice is only a little choked. "Your picture…you can't imagine how special it is to me, to have a picture like that."
He nods and shrugs, and I know not to push him.
"You know, I took some art classes in college. I think I still have the books. If you would ever like to see them, just tell me." I offer him a present for the present he gave me.
His eyes widen so far I wonder if it is possible for eyes to bug out of their sockets. He stammers. "Y-y-y-yes ma'am."
I turn to go back to the sink and dishes. He stops me. "M-m-mrs. Evans, is it true?"
"Is what true?" I ask.
"Do they really have classes—and books—and all that for art?"
"Yes, of course." I say. "Here, let me show you." I take a piece of Isabel's paper and sketch the Christmas tree.
He watches carefully, memorizing my every movement. I realize with amazement that he has copied every stroke I made. His picture is better than mine.
"That's great Michael." I compliment warmly.
He nods warily, still a bit suspicious.
I leave them, but I don't go back to the dishes. I go upstairs, and start searching for my old art books.
When I come back downstairs, Michael and Max's heads are together. They are avidly discussing a comic book, while Isabel paints her nails. It is hourse before they return to drawing. Michael takes up the crayon again, and this time it seems to be Max directing the drawing. I only catch a few words. "Blond……….Little. Very little………Prettiest in the world, prettier even than Liz Parker. Her eyes are this color." He proffers a blue crayon. "And her face is a heart, like love. She looks like love."
Michael rolls his eyes slightly at the poetic turn Max has taken, but he works with his crayons. "Is that her?"
Max takes it. "Yes, close." He agrees. "This is how she looks now."
Michael shrugs. "How will she look later?"
"One day we'll all be together again." Max promises. "I'll tell you how it will be." His voice is pitched soft, and I have stopped moving, so I can hang on his words. "We will all be older and wiser. Sadder, though we will know more. We will all know more than we want to know." He predicts. "Christmas will be the happiest time. She will be Izzy's best friend, and she'll be able to slow down the Christmas Nazi."
I try not to snort at the name Michael invented for Isabel during the holiday season. I love my daughter to death, but she does get a bit obsessive.
"It'll be Christmas morning. You will be here with Isabel. You will laugh at her as she opens her presents, because she has to shake them all and try to guess what's inside. But it's a nice laugh. It's a happy laugh. She will give you a present, the last of the kind that you would expect."
Michael's crayons move across the paper, obeying his wishes. I long for a second for such control with my hands.
"And She will be here." Special emphasis on she. A mystery woman. The same that they called the fourth?
Michael looks up.
Max continues. "She will wear a red sweater. I will put something special in her stocking, and she will pull it out and she will laugh and she will cry, because things will finally be the way they should be, the way it seemed that they would never be."
Michael draws on. Max sips some hot chocolate and goes on. "I will be there with her. I will sit on the floor with her, though I don't want do. I'll do it because she asks me too, and I would do anything for her."
Michael smirks, and he is concentrating so hard that the tip of his tongue sticks out of his lips.
"Mom and Dad will be on the couch. Izzy will hand them presents from all four of us, because by then the four of us will all be theirs. They will love us all even more than they do right now."
He talks on, describing a tree, and different decorations. I avert my eyes. The scene is too personal and I have been eavesdropping. I feel guilty, for more reasons than one. First, that Michael was so alone and still a part of my babies, and then that there was a part of all my children that was missing, a little girl with hair like the sun and eyes like the sea and a face like love. And that they have not let me in on this, on this missing parts of them…
I look again ten minutes later and the boys are playing Nintendo, intent on jumping, flipping, and climbing.
I wonder how often they think about this little girl, and I wonder if there will ever be such an idyllic scene as Max described.
I wonder if I will ever meet a little girl with a face like love, and for my sons' sake I pray that I shall.