Just Esme...

Important note: Το παρακατω fanfic δεν ειναι δικο μου!!!! Το ειχα ανακαλυψει εδω και καιρο στο deviart.com αλλα εκει τα fanfic δεν εχουν τη μορφη html για να βαλω link. (Αφηστε που εχω ξεχασει που ακριβως ειναι μεσα στο site ) Επιπλεον ηταν γυρω στα 26 κεφαλαια. Για να το διαβασω λοιπον το εβαλα στο word και το χωρισα συμφωνα με το περιεχομενο του. Μονο οι τιτλοι ειναι δικοι μου. προκειται για την ιστορια της Εσμε πριν μεταμορφωθει!!!!

Chapter 1: Sweet Sixteen

I phased in and out of consciousness as the pain came in waves. My leg, just below my knee, was broken, and it couldn’t be moved. I knew that I was in a carriage--that the local doctor had been out of time and that we were headed to Columbus. The carriage was frequently jolted, though, and I was in a strange suspension of consciousness--not quite awake but not passed out.
We stopped, and candlelight flooded the carriage. I was blinded, and I covered my face with my hands.
“Is this her?” a soft voice asked; it was so harmonious, so gentle, that I had to open my eyes again in surprise. I could only see a tall, dark silhouette of a man, and he reached down over my mother to get to me.
“May I?” he asked politely, smiling. I could barely see his face, but I could see that his skin seemed to glow, reflecting the soft light. His hair was golden, and it was like a flame in the candlelight.
I could only nod, not quite understanding what he meant. His arms wrapped around me, and I gasped at the cold temperature of his skin. Gently, he lifted me up, balancing my weight just so, so that he didn’t jostle my leg.
He carried me into the hospital, and I observed him fully in the yellow light of the hallway--strong jaw, bone-pale skin, hair like spun gold. And so young! I couldn’t remember seeing a doctor as young as he. My doctor must’ve felt my gaze, and he glanced down at me, smiling kindly like before. My eyes widened as I stared into his strange golden-topaz eyes.
“Hello,” he said politely in that beautiful voice of his, and his breath was sweet, intoxicatingly so; I breathed it in eagerly. “I’m Dr. Cullen--I’ll be treating you this evening.”
I smiled back weakly.
“You would be Miss Platt, I assume?” I nodded. “And I heard you have a broken leg.” He placed me down on a cot suddenly, and I all but cried out in protest, wanting his arms around me again.
He moved down to my leg, examining it. He touched it lightly in certain places, and a jolt spread through me every time he touched me. He must’ve felt me jump, for he quickly apologized. “I’m sorry--my hands are always cold.” I shook my head.
“N-no, it’s fine.” My voice was barely audible, like a whisper, but I knew he understood. Dr. Cullen looked up at me skeptically before ending his short examination.
“This should be easy to mend. Unfortunately for you, however, I have to set the bone, and that can be particularly painful.” I tried not to wince, but I was sure he caught it--his warm smile turned sympathetic. “I’ll give you some morphine, and perhaps if you’re distracted, it won’t be so painful.”
Distracted? How was I focused when he was in the room? It was impossible to think of anything else as long as his golden eyes were on me.
Dr. Cullen sat down next to my feet. “Now, how did you get a break like that? Not quite a normal spill down the stairs, was it?” The smile never left his lips.
I shook my head, and when I answered, my voice was still quiet. “I f-fell out of a tree.” I could hardly hear myself, but again, I knew he’d heard me.
“How did you do that?” he asked, light amusement in his eyes.
“I-I was jumping down, but I, uh, landed wrong.” I flushed with embarrassment.
“Ah.” He stood up and moved to the counter on the side of the room, pulling out some linen, a container full of clear liquid, and a needle. My heart sped as I looked at it in fear--I hated needles.
“I’ll give you some morphine now--it should ease the pain.” He put the liquid in the glass capsule of the needle and walked over to my left leg. He smiled again.
“This will just be a pinch….” He held my knee in his hand, and gently pinched the fat of my leg--I looked away as he jabbed the needle into my skin. I hadn’t even felt it.
A light numbness spread through my broken leg, and it was nice.
Dr. Cullen chuckled suddenly, and I looked back at him. The amusement reappeared in his eyes. “You know, I only just realized I don’t know your first name. Your father was too frantic with worry to tell me.”
“My name is Esme,” I said, my voice slightly stronger than it had been before. He came over to me, smiling, and outstretched his hand.
“I’m Carlisle,” he responded, and we shook hands. Again, I marveled at the ice-cold temperature, but it was strangely soothing.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, and he laughed lightly.
“The pleasure is all mine.” He sounded entirely sincere. He went back to my leg, examining it again. “Esme,” he murmured. “French, correct?” I nodded. “It means “loved,” too, doesn’t it?” I flushed, nodding again.
“A very pretty name,” he complimented earnestly. I was too entranced by his face--his hair, his eyes--that I didn’t notice when his hands touched my leg. I could hardly feel my leg any more.
“What do you want to do when you grow up, Esme?” he asked. It was an unexpected question, and I hesitated before I answered.
I did not have time to reply, however, when a sharp pain jolted through me as Dr. Cullen snapped my bones back into place. I blacked out.
“Esme?” Dr. Cullen’s voice called me back to myself, and he laid his hand on my cheek. So cool, but so sweet--I leaned into the touch, sighing. He chuckled softly and removed his hand; my eyes blinked open.
“You blacked out for a minute there,” he explained, and I looked down at my leg. It was wrapped up tightly, and I wondered mildly how long I had been out. “Your leg set wonderfully, and I’m positive that it will heal quickly. However, I’d like to keep you overnight, just for observation.” I flushed.
“You must be tired,” he said gently after I yawned unthinkingly; I nearly called out in protest--I didn’t want to lose a second with him.
He moved over to the counter, and pulled an extra blanket out of one of the many drawers. He pulled it out of the folds and threw it over me. Suddenly, I was very warm and very drowsy, and I struggled to stifle another yawn.
“Dr. Cullen?” I murmured as I turned on my side, closing my eyes to fall asleep.
“Hmm?”
“I want to move out west when I grow up,” I sighed, settling into the cot. He laughed softly.
“Goodnight, Esme,” he whispered, and abruptly the overhead light went out with a click!
“Goodnight, Carlisle.” And I fell asleep.

Chapter 2: The Wedding

I stared at my reflection for a good long time, trying not to think too hard. My face was remarkably pale, nearly as white as my wedding dress. My caramel hair curled softly to my shoulders, and my gray eyes were curiously dead. No one would notice them, however, as I walked down the aisle--no one would notice the look of fear that presented itself in the very way I held my body. My fear and my uncertainty. Simply a smile, and I would look like the perfect bride to any outsider. I tried to pull up my lips, but I stopped when I realized I would burst into tears if I did.
There was a soft knock on my door. “Come in,” I called, my voice hoarse.
It creaked open, and two faces peeked into the room. One gasped and one cooed, and my two best friends came to my side. Laura kneeled to me and clasped my hands; Estelle wrapped her arms around my neck, her head on my shoulder.
“Oh, Esme!” Laura breathed, her blue eyes wide. “You look so beautiful!” I tried unsuccessfully to smile.
“You do!” Essie agreed, squeezing my shoulders. She studied my reflection in the mirror then, and I purposely avoided her gaze. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice dropping to a concerned murmur. I could feel Laura’s inquisitive eyes on me as she studied me, too. “Having second thoughts?”
I nodded, and finally burst into the tears that had been hiding in the back of my throat since this morning. Laura squeezed my hands and Essie hugged my shoulders.
“We all had them, Esme,” Laura assured.
“I know I did,” Essie added.
“And Charles is a great man.” Is he, really? I nearly asked.
“You’ll be fine,” they said together.
I could not tell them my whole problem--not only did I not want to marry him, but I wanted another man, one I had not seen in five years. I could not tell them that this marriage had virtually been arranged by my parents, and that they simply wanted this because Charles had a good background. I could not tell them that there was a small lump in the pit of my stomach that told me that I was doing something wrong. I could not tell them this because I could not tell myself. I could only nod, pretend to accept what they said, pretend to smile behind my tears.
Laura got up from my feet and kissed my cheek.
“You’ll be fine,” she reminded me softly, smiling. “We’ll be out there waiting for you.” Essie patted my shoulder, and stealthily they left the room. I was left to mop up my tears.
~~~
It seemed like only seconds later that I was on my father’s arm, heading for Charles and for my future. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, but I paid no attention--I stared only at him, at Charles. I saw him through new eyes, critical eyes that had finally accepted the truth that I felt deep down.
I could see every imperfection in him: big eyes that held a strange cruelty in them, a crooked nose too small for his face, thin lips that were set with arrogance and victory. My father placed my hands in Charles’s, and his hands were big, tough--and everything seemed to fall into place.
Suddenly, I could see everything now--I was a prize for him. He would not be the gentle, loving husband I had always dreamed of--Charles would be vicious. I could see it--his whole face held a strange mix of his cruelty and arrogance and sense of victory. Why hadn’t I seen it before?
Within a matter of seconds, I became terrified. I trembled.
My eyes flickered to the exit, and for a short second I could see myself running from the church, away from him.
I would not run from him, though, when I was only working on women’s intuition. That was cowardly, and it was arrogant for me to believe that I could read my fiancée so well. I had no proof of my fears, and I would not run from them.
Still, I was frightened. Charles just seemed to have an air of violence around him that I had never noticed before. I had a whisper of fear as I realized that very quickly this marriage would turn into a nightmare.
My lips were trembling, and I fought hard against myself to force my lips to form the words. “I do,” I whispered, and new tears caressed their way down my face.
This is a mistake, this is a mistake, this is a mistake! I yelled at myself as the ring was placed on my finger.
There was nothing I could do.
“You may kiss the bride.” In my fantasies, my new husband would cup my jaw and gently lower himself to my lips--he was always tall, slender, and blonde. My short and stocky husband did not touch my face in a loving caress, however--he simply pressed his thin, arrogant lips to mine in a greedy way.
And it was done. My fate was sealed. I was Mrs. Charles Evenson. The tears streaked down my face at a quicker speed.
He led me down the aisle, in between the cheering audience. With despair, I realized that they mistook my tears for those of joy.
We were outside then--it was an oddly overcast day, the sky dark and dismal. I wondered if it was mocking me.
Essie and Laura both hugged me and laughed and whispered things in my ear that I paid no attention to. They were so engrossed within their own happiness that they did not notice my fear.
Someone helped me into a car--the car that would take us to the train station. I was pushed against Charles, and his arms wrapped around me. I had never noticed how strong and rough he was.
As the car sped down the road, I looked out the back window. Essie and Laura were waving at me, and I performed our secret signal for Wish me luck!: I crossed my first and middle finger, kissed them, and touched my cheekbones. Could they see my tears from this distance?
They both saw the sign, and simultaneously they repeated the Luck! signal: they crossed their fingers, kissed them, and touched their heart.
Charles pulled my attention away from the window then, and off we sped.

I lay completely still until Charles’s snores became regular; the tears leaked out from the corners of my eyes. I bit my lips to keep my sobs inside. Slowly, I crawled out from under the covers, placing my weight lightly and carefully on the floor. He did not move. I flitted to the balcony door and edged it open inch by inch lest it should squeak. The warm breeze hit my face, and I crept out of the room and onto the patio. With the door shut, I sank into the nearest chair and wept.
Everything I’d guessed had been correct--his cruelty, his strength, and his air of violence. All true, and he hadn’t even hid it from me.
He had had a normal disposition back home--he seemed so cool, so together--but behind closed doors, it seemed like every little thing set him off. He got angry with our train conductor when we left the station ten minutes late; angry with our waiter when he brought our food to us and it was cold. Somehow, I had avoided his anger, but not his brute strength. I touched the tender bruises on my forearms where his hands had gripped me too hard. I felt sore all over: my hips, my back, my thighs. He was passionate above and beyond the point of violent.
I wailed and curled myself up into a ball. This was what I had been waiting for my whole life--marriage and children. I had never imagined that there could be bad--that someone could mess up so simple a recipe for happiness. But single-handedly, Charles had turned my marriage into a living Hell, and I feared for our future. For my future.
The only sounds in the room were the soft, echoing clink! of silver on porcelain and our quiet breathing. Charles sat at the far end of the table, away from me and yet still too close for comfort.
We had been married for only a month, but if felt like a year to me: nothing had improved between us. Charles somehow had managed to keep his violence away from me, but I lived in fear for the day when he would actually strike me. I knew it would come, but I could do nothing to delay it: like watching a train wreck.
I told my parents of my fear, but they passed it off as nonsense, as I wore no bruises. I anticipated it, and that fear sometimes stopped me cold, iced my heart and froze all thought. I couldn’t believe I was living this way: appeasing my husband in any way so I could save myself.
Charles grunted, and my head snapped up. He glared at me as his fork picked at the food on his plate.
“This chicken is too bland,” he said, putting another piece into his mouth. “I thought you said you’d marinated it."
“I did--it tastes fine to me.” I immediately regretted the words, and I looked down at my plate, not daring to look anywhere else.
I heard the plate slide sluggishly against the tablecloth; Charles huffed in frustration, and I glanced up just in time to watch him pick up the plate and throw it against the wall. I flinched as it crashed, shattering on contact, and fell to the floor; the chicken stained the wall. He pushed himself up from the table, and sauntered back to the bedroom, where I knew he would get a drink from the secret liquor cabinet he kept. I trembled in my seat, afraid of his sudden violence. It took me a minute to collect myself; I went over to the crash and tenderly picked up the pieces of porcelain. I sighed as I brought them over to the sink--it had been a wedding gift from my parents.
I threw the chicken away, and wetted a napkin to clean the grease from the wall. It didn’t give way very easily; I gave up after only a moment or two, deciding instead to clean up the dining room table.
I had sufficiently pushed Charles from my mind when he came back into the kitchen; he watched me as I washed the dishes.
“You know,” I heard myself say, not understanding where I’d gotten the sudden courage to speak, “that plate you broke was a present. I wish you’d be more careful.” I knew that those words were a mistake--what in the world had made me say them?
Automatically, I turned my head to the sound of his footsteps, and I watched him advance towards me, his eyes nearly murderous. I did not have time to react as his arm raised and the back of his right hand hit my jaw as it swept across my face--the hit was powerful, and I was sent back against the counter. My knees buckled from fright, and I slid down, cowering at his feet in my terror.
“Don’t you ever,” he growled to me, swaying slightly. I could smell the whisky on his breath. “Ever talk back to me, y’hear ?”
I could only nod through my fear, and Charles ambled back to our bedroom. I was frozen in my shock for a second before the pain seeped through. I sobbed, and the tears streamed down my cheeks, landing in cold drops on my hands.
I knew it. I knew it. I knew he would hit me. With a trembling hand, I touched the side of my face that he’d struck, and it was tender. The sobs rocked through me, and I covered my face with my hands.
After a long time, the sobs died out, but I still trembled, the fear still strong in my veins. I was too terrified to get any closer to Charles than I already was, much less share the same bed.
I slept on the couch that night.
After the first strike, Charles seemed to be a new man--looser, less restrained. He now criticized everything I did--they way I styled my hair to which dresses I wore to the way I cooked and cleaned.
Panicked and frightened, I’d ran to my parents for protection, as I had before. And again, they offered no solace: Father thought I was just being a weak little girl and that I should toughen up, but Mother had pulled me aside and had told me to hush, to keep it a secret.
Keep my own suffering a secret? Was she insane--had she lost her mind?
“You will not shame this family with a divorce,” she’d demanded.
I’d started to protest, pulling up my long sleeves to reveal the blue and purple bruising, but Mother’s icy fingers had trapped my wrists.
“I don’t care, Esme,” she’d said, her eyes and voice as cold as her touch. “This is something a woman must deal with in a man’s world.”
She softened suddenly, her face collapsing in one moment in tenderness. She pulled me into a swift hug and kissed my cheek. “I’m sorry, darling, but we can’t help you.”
I could trust no one, then, in this new world where husbands abused their wives and parents were of no help and everyone lied about married life.
Well, one thing was for certain--I still had my friends. Our new home was particularly close to Estelle’s, and Laura lived only a few blocks down. I hadn’t seen either of them since my wedding, and, besides, friends were always there to help in an hour of need.
Then again, so were parents.
We’d planned for a little get-together--the first time we’d seen each other since the wedding--and I was excited to see them again. I wore my oldest, most out-of-style dress I owned to cover every inch of my body--the bruising ran down my arms, and I could feel some on my back and shoulders; there were only one or two on my legs--and I covered my face with blush and cover-up--the mark on my jaw had not completely faded yet.
I walked to Essie’s home a little before noon, and she greeted me with a giant hug. I squeezed her with all my strength.
“Oh, how I’ve missed you!” she exclaimed, holding me at arms length to examine me. Her eyes traveled up and down my frame, narrowing as they noted the old dress and heavy make-up. She was about to ask questions, but I stopped her.
“It’s so great to see you again, Essie. You look wonderful. May I come in?” She hastily apologized for not inviting me in sooner, pulling me by the wrist into her small living room. I examined it carelessly: it was small--a handkerchief-sized room which bled into the dining area with remarkable ease. I took a seat on the worn sofa, and Essie went into the kitchen.
“I’ll start the coffee going. If the doorbell rings, I’ll bet you ten to one it’s Laura.”
Just as the sentence died in the air, there was a soft knock; I jumped up to answer it. Laura greeted me with a big smile and a squeal of delight, her arms closing tightly around me; I struggled not to wince as my newer bruises throbbed.
“Oh, Esme!” she exclaimed, letting go. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages!”
I only smiled, and we both settled ourselves onto Essie’s couch when she brought in our coffee. She pulled up a chair from the dining table, and we sipped our coffee. I took the moment to examine my friends, to see how they had changed.
Laura was positively beaming; she seemed to glow with happiness. Her long brown hair was shiny and wavy; her blue-gray eyes sparkled. She appeared more plump than I remembered, but the curves suited her.
Essie, however, seemed to be the opposite--her black hair seemed lackluster, her cheekbones more prominent than normal. There were large shadows under her eyes--shadows I couldn’t recall from my wedding day. What was with her--what had changed them both so dramatically?
I knew that they were examining me, too, just as I examined them--I knew my heavy makeup and shaky figure wouldn’t escape their gaze.
However, I was the first to speak.
“Laura, you look absolutely fantastic!” I exclaimed. “How are you?”
She flushed with pleasure. “I’m great, darling, perfectly fine. Thank you. In fact, I was feeling so ill last week; I’m glad to know that I’ve recovered my looks.” She let out a small pearl of laughter. “I was so nervous about it, I went to the doctors, and, you know, my old doctor just left town, and my new one, Dr. Cullum? He’s nice, but he’s just so young! I could hardly believe he was a doctor!”
Essie nodded in agreement, and they both laughed, but I was caught on the name. Cullum…why was that name so familiar?
“What about you, Essie?” I was interrupted as Laura began to ask the questions now. “What’ve you been up to? You look so much older than when I last saw you!”
“It’s the war,” she murmured. “Will just won’t stop talking about it! I--I get so stressed out. I’m so afraid that the draft will come, or he’ll enlist, or something else horrible like that.” She took a shuddering breath. “I just can’t get it out of my mind,” she added over the brim of her coffee cup before taking another sip.
There was a short moment of silence, but Essie broke it quickly.
“Well, Esme, we haven’t heard from you yet!” she exclaimed, the good humor suddenly back on her face.
“Yes! How’s married life? Do you like it?” Laura leaned forward, curious. I let out a sigh and set my drink on the table, trying to decide how exactly to tell them.
“I…I think it’d be easier if I showed you, rather than tell you.” I stood up, and I trembled slightly. “Laura, could you do me a favor and unbutton my dress in the back?”
She nodded, giving me a confused look, as she stood. Her fingers moved swiftly from button to button, and I didn’t have to wait long.
Midway down, the fingers on my back stopped. Laura gasped loudly, backing away a few steps. I peeked a look from the corner of my eye and saw that both of her hands covered her mouth in horror.
“Esme….” she whispered, her voice muddled slightly by her hands. “What happened?”
“I think that one’s the time he pushed me down the stairs,” I said with remarkable calmness, pulling down on the shoulders of my dress.
I turned around for Essie to see my back as well; her eyes bulged. I pulled down the complete top half of my dress, my arms and abdomen in complete view. Tears trickled from Laura’s eyes as she stared at me with horror; Essie was silent in her shocked disbelief.
“Charles...he...did that to you?” she asked, incredulous. I nodded, and started to sob as I remembered the pain. I rubbed at my jaw, removing the makeup.
Laura let out a cry as she saw the bruise, and simply watching her break down was too much. I collapsed down on the couch, the sadness and anger and regret I had felt since my wedding overtaking me. Essie and Laura then had me in their arms, and we all sobbed together, crying out for the lost, carefree days of our youth where life hadn’t been so complicated.
It was nearly dusk when we really started to collect ourselves. I pulled my dress back up, because neither of us wanted to see my bruises anymore. They rubbed my back comfortingly, and I sighed, leaning on Essie. Laura petted my hair.
“We have to get you out of there,” she said, a quiet malice in her voice. Essie nodded feveredly.
“You can’t stay there.”
“What other option do I have?” I asked. “My parents won’t take me, and you both live too close. I’m not just going to run away.”
“What?” they gasped. “But you have to!”
“You cannot possibly survive in that household!” Essie argued.
I sighed. “I have to try.”
“Who knows,” she added gruffly, “maybe the war’ll take care of him.”
I was close to reproving her, but then I realized that I would sing with joy if he should be drafted.

Chapter 4: The War

I sniffed and stretched, groaning as my muscles pulled. “I should go home soon. He’ll be expecting me.”
Laura hugged me close. “The next time he ever so much as touches you, I swear to God….” she whispered, the rage shaking in her voice. I kissed her cheek.
“I’ll take care of myself,” I promised, but her eyes narrowed.
“It’s not you I don’t trust,” she growled.
It took about ten minutes for me to convince them to let me go home, that I would be fine. I let my mind meander over our earlier conversation, and I picked up a train of thought I’d dropped at the time.
Cullum…Cullum…how was that so familiar?
Just as I unlocked my front door, it hit me: Dr. Cullen, the man who’d fixed my broken leg when I was 16! Why, I hadn’t thought of him since my 19th summer, before Charles started courting me!
It was impossible to stop the surge of memories as I thought his name--his beautiful golden hair that gleamed in the candlelight; his warm, strange topaz-colored eyes; the kind smile he’d worn that whole night with me. The straightness of his features: strong jaw, broad forehead….The incredibly icy feel of his skin.
I was filled with an odd warming sensation that traveled in my bloodstream from my toes to the crown of my head as I thought of him. A deep longing accompanied it as well, and I absent-mindedly touched my jaw. If only I was married to him and not Charles! I knew nothing of this man, of Dr. Cullen, but I suddenly wanted to be near him again--I wanted to be Mrs. Cullen.
Suddenly, I laughed at myself. Such girlish thoughts! Thoughts I’d believed I’d left behind in my long-lost youth.
And yet, even as I laughed and reproved myself, I could not stop thinking of him. Even as I kissed Charles and welcomed him home, I thought of Dr. Cullen, of welcoming him home, instead--kissing his cheek.
And so my downward journey into sin began.
“Charles, could you get the mail, dear? My hands are sticky,” I explained, putting the rolls out on the pan as I heard the mailman pass our home.
Charles’s usual gruff “Humph” answered, and I heard the floorboards creak under his weight. The door opened, then closed again. A few more seconds, and it reopened. However, it did not close like expected, and Charles took a few steps into the living room.
Odd. I couldn’t hear anything after that. I paused--not even his breathing was audible, and he seemed to pant most of the time.
“Charles?” I called curiously, rinsing my hands and stepping into the hallway.
He held a letter in both hands, and his eyes scanned the first sentence once, twice, a third time.
He looked up to me, and I saw an intense fear on his face, something I had never before seen.
“Kiss me, Esme,” he said, his voice almost desperate, pleading. “I’m being drafted.”
I was stunned for maybe a half-second, the implications of this statement not sinking into my brain. When they did, however, I was besides myself with elation.
Was there a God after all? A kind, wonderful, merciful God who listened to the prayers of the sinned but not the saved?
The War. How could the War be so hated, but then so loved, all in the same week? Essie had prayed so hard for her husband, and when his letter came, she cried and swore and we cursed that the War was an unnecessary burden in people’s lives. Couldn’t the Europeans fight their own dammed war?
But now…now the draft was a godsend. Charles, away to Europe…and there was a chance he may never come home again…never hurt me again.
My heart was singing--I had to cover my mouth to hide my gigantic smile and suck in a breath to keep from laughing in this glorious relief.
I thanked my lucky stars that he saw this as a grievous reaction--how could I grieve with news as wonderful as this?--for I was just too happy to even think of faking heartbreak.
Charles advanced to me, and he took me in his rough arms, pressing his lips down on mine. I wasn’t thinking as my arms automatically wrapped around his neck, my mouth moving against his. I was too far gone in my elation to care.
It was the first time since my wedding that I had truly kissed my husband.
The year of 1918 was the greatest year I’d had in a long time. The first few months Charles was gone were strange, hopeful; I feared that he would be sent back home, unable to perform in the army for some reason. But then, as I got into the habit of living alone, it was so peaceful, so happy. The dark bruises faded, the purple turning blue until fading completely back into my skin.
How odd it was, in the summertime, when there was no mark left on my arms! To wear short sleeves again! And my back--how gloriously blissful to bend and stretch!
I healed, mentally as well as physically. My hope was restored, my life rekindled. The dread and fear was no longer wrapped around my heart--I felt so light with this new freedom. I could eat what I wanted, sleep when I wanted, wear what I wanted. The only black cloud in this overwhelming happiness formed in a late December night.
Laura and Essie were over, the third time in a week. We were wrapped up in blankets, sipping some hot cocoa, when there was a knock at the door.
I got up easily and whipped open the door without hesitation. It was dark and snowing heavily; a man stood, holding out a telegram.
“Just came in,” he sputtered. “Thought you’d like to see it.”
I thanked him, took the paper, and asked him in. He refused, turning back to the cold night.
“Who was it, Esme?” Laura asked from the couch, and Essie looked at me curiously.
“Telegram,” I said, taking my seat again. I opened the envelope, and read the message from the firelight.
Only one sentence. Just one sentence for my world to end, just as one sentence had made my world begin.
The familiar fear, the cold, gripping fear abruptly encased me; my breathing and heart rate sped as the blood drained from my face.
“Esme?” Essie murmured, leaning over to me and rubbing my back, frightened by my expression. Frustrated tears caressed my face, and I ripped up the letter, letting out a cry.
“Damn them!” I screamed. “Damn them all to Hell!”
Just one shot. One little bullet was all it would take. A bomb. That was all that was needed. And yet, somehow, the enemies had avoided him, while so many other beloveds would never come back home. He had survived. Charles was coming home.
1919 was the year of my living Hell. The bruises returned, naturally--they seemed darker, more painful. I had grown so used to my regular skin--the purple and blue splotches were startling, the way they stood out from the cream color of my flesh.
Charles had changed nearly beyond recognition. The fat had melted from his body; he was lean, muscled. His brown hair was streaked with gray from stress, and his soft brown eyes were impossibly hard, icy. He had nightmares now, too, and he seemed to jump at every unexpected sound.
All of these changes, however, had no effect whatsoever on his treatment of me.
1920 was a year of happiness, despair, and reform. The hemline rose to the knee, making it nearly impossible for me to go out in the latest fashions. Laura gave us news of her pregnancy in February, and Essie’s husband’s status went from “Missing--believed Captured” to “Missing--believed Dead.”
Laura had been one of the lucky ones in our town to have her husband come home to her, although not necessarily in perfect condition: he was missing his left hand. She had been so happy last year, and this news had sent her into elation. She’d always wanted a child.
Oh, to have a baby! There was always a slight jealous pang in my heart when I saw her--a strong desire to have what she had. A baby would be so wonderful--a release from Charles’s constant nagging and abuse. A baby to love, to pamper, to take solace in. Yes, a baby would be wonderful.

Chapter 5: The Return

Essie was the rain cloud to Laura’s never-failing sun. She had so dreaded this war and its effects on her family, and, oh, had it destroyed her. The letters from Will had stopped abruptly in August 1918, and a month later she received word that his whole company had been captured by the enemy. Her older brother had returned safely around the same time Charles had, but Will remained missing. Finally, just this past March, he had been declared dead, and there had been a service for him. Essie had been beyond comfort.
How I longed for our positions to be switched--for Charles to be dead and Will to be where he belonged!
As it was, though, I tried to pretend that Charles didn’t exist--block him out of my mind. By 1920 it was a talent: I had trained my brain to not even feel the pain anymore.
It was Dr. Cullen who kept me sane. Simply the memory of him--the one, short scene of our interaction had been thought of so much that I remembered every detail. The smallest gesture, the most minute facial expression--all preserved. I had even recalled his first name: Carlisle. It was so pleasant on my tongue that I said it aloud to myself sometimes when I was alone.
I thought of him all the time--it was an obsession, a hopeless obsession that I nursed as I healed from Charles’s abuse.
This new distraction was especially helpful at night. Before, I had simply tried to clear my mind, to wait, or think of other things. But now, with Carlisle to think about, to imagine him touching me and kissing me and holding me…I was actually enjoying myself.
How disappointing to wake up next to Charles every morning.
I was cold: terribly, terribly cold. I was standing on the edge of a tall cliff, the wind tearing at my hair and dress, biting against my exposed skin. It was dark, too, and I was immensely lonely.
Suddenly, I could see a pinpoint of light on the periphery of the lake, getting bigger as it soared higher into the sky. There was a face in the light, and it was as familiar as it was magnificent. As it rose, it grew brighter, and when it was far enough in the sky, Carlisle’s full figure was visible. He raised a hand and held it out to me, his warm smile beckoning.
He was so far away! I tried to stretch, tried to call to him--he remained across the water.
There was only one way to reach him. I jumped off the brink, and I fell onto the rocks below.
I gasped awake, my eyes shooting open. I panted, and my sheets were stuck to me from sweat. My heartbeat echoed in my ears, and I tried to ease the panic that was ensnared in my heart.
These dreams, these horrible nightmares! So intensely vivid--each one so colorful. And each one with that cliff, the same damned cliff! The reasons for the jump changed each time, but it did not change my reaction to them once I was awake.
They had started late last month, where I had jumped to flee Charles; now that Carlisle was in the picture, it gave the dream a whole new mood. Where Charles had been someone to escape from, Carlisle was someone to escape to: the sunshine to my darkness, the company for my loneliness.
I rolled out of bed, frustrated as my stomach lurched. I had been queasy for the last month, and I was sick of it, no pun intended. I stood still, waiting for the feeling to pass. When it didn’t, I rushed for the bathroom, reaching it just in time.
I groaned. If only this virus would just go away!
I wiped off my lips, flushing everything away. I pulled myself up to the mirror, surveying my appearance.
I looked gaunt, the circles deep under my eyes from lack of sleep--and even when I hadn‘t dreamed, I was still so tired. There were small spots of acne all over my forehead, and it was strange, because I had never had that problem before. My hair was dull, flat--I hadn’t washed it in a while, and I didn’t care much. My face was so thin--as hungry as I felt these days, I hadn’t been able to keep much down. I looked horrible, and yet I didn’t care.
Although Laura had brought me back to reality two months ago, I had gone back to my own dream world quickly. It was a release from the pain, and I really didn’t mind as I lost touch with the real world. And I really didn’t care much for my appearance nowadays, anyway--the new dress code revealed my bruises, and it would look odd to see a floor-length dress in the middle of all the short skirts.
“Are you still sick?” Charles bellowed from the living room, irritated.
“Yes,” I called back, slugging out into the hallway, nervous I’d suddenly be sick again.
“You should go see a doctor,” he grumbled. I came into the living room and leaned against the wall, sighing.
“That’s a good idea.” I stared at him for a while, collecting myself before turning back to the bedroom. I dressed mechanically, wearing one of my older dresses and throwing my hair up, hoping it looked more clean than it was.
I sat patiently in the doctor’s office, swinging my legs back and forth as I waited. A short thought ran though my head, and I smiled--how grand would it be if Carlisle walked through those doors instead of Dr. Albano?
The door opened then, and Dr. Albano entered with a warm smile on her face. Her brown hair was wavy, and her skin was a pretty tanned color. She held out her hand, and it was warm. “Hello, Mrs. Evenson!” She glanced at her chart for a second before looking at me with big brown eyes. “It says here you’ve just been feeling badly for a while. Can you tell me anything more? When did you notice this starting?”
“Around August. The end of it, mostly. Maybe even the beginning of September.” I shrugged.
“Is there anything other than nausea? Any sores, rashes?”
“Umm, no. No, I’ve just been very tired. I’ve had some headaches, too.”
Dr. Albano gave me a light smile. “Well, I have an idea, but I can’t be sure. I’d still like to give you an examination just the same.”
I released an internal sigh when I didn’t have to raise up my skirt or my sleeves--I really wasn’t in the mood to explain my situation. It was a simple examination--pulse, heart rate, hearing, sight. Dr. Albano went out into the hall for a minute or so, and I returned to swinging my legs and daydreaming of Carlisle.
She returned much more quickly that I’d expected; her face was glowing. I wondered mildly what had made her so happy.
“My first suspicion was correct, Mrs. Evenson.” She paused for dramatics. “You and Mr. Evenson are expecting.”
That one word, the soft, unexpected word, pierced through the protective layers of my heart like a dagger. All the defense I’d built around myself, the defense to keep Charles out, was shattered instantly by the term, and it was like I was seeing the world for the first time. My feelings seemed fresh, new--how long had I locked myself inside my mind?
A baby. My baby. My own sweet little child to hold and carry and love. Suddenly, I understood Laura’s words from that hot August morning: I loved him the second I knew he existed--loved him so unconditionally and completely. He was mine, my sweet darling. And I, like Laura, would gladly die for him. Automatically, I cradled my stomach and looked down, as if expecting to see a bump already.
But Charles. Charles as a father. Oh, God, no! The thought filled me with an indescribable terror, a terror so much worse than when I had feared simply for my own safety. No--one little punch, a short fall, and I could miscarry like Laura. And I had had so much misfortune in my life already: I would not survive a miscarriage. And even if my baby did survive those nine months--one little cry, a whimper, and Charles would forever silence him. I nearly screamed at the thought.
I had to get out.
These thoughts and feelings flickered across my face all within a second or two of each other--elation for a baby, fear of Charles, and my sudden determination to escape--and Dr. Albano was looking at me curiously. I gave her a slight smile, hopping down from the bed.
“Thank you very much, Dr. Albano. I--I’m glad to know that I don’t have the flu.” I laughed lightly, trying to show here that I was fine. She smiled back at me, and I could see the relief clearly on her face.
I left the hospital, and I wasn’t sure which feeling was stronger: my joy for my pregnancy, or my overwhelming fear of Charles.
I meandered around town for a while, trying to think of a plan. I really did not want to go home--risk Charles hitting me and causing a miscarriage? Impossible! But I had to go home--I couldn’t just run away with the clothes on my back! And where would I go? Who could I flee to?
I was thinking in circles when I decided that probably the best idea was just to go to Laura’s house--my friends had to know that I was going to leave, and Essie’s house was just too close to Charles.
I pulled up in her driveway a few minutes later, and I ran to the door, praying she was home.
It seemed hours before the door opened
“Why, Esme! What a surprise!” Laura exclaimed, and without warning, I hugged her tight, tears coming to my eyes.
“Please call Essie!” I murmured in her ear. “I need you both.”
I let go of her, and she helped me into her living room, placing me on the couch. She vanished to make the call, and my tears continued to flow. I wasn’t quite sure why I was crying--I had so many excuses--but before I could really think about it, Laura was back and her arms were around me.
“Oh, darling,” she cooed softly, rocking me back and forth. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Is it Charles?”
I started to think, but didn’t have time to answer as I heard Essie’s car pull in behind mine. She let herself in, and she let out a soft, “Oh!” when she saw me. She came on my opposite side, her arms wrapping around me, too.
“Now, dear, what is it?” she asked. “We’re both here.”
I sucked in a breath and shuddered. “I’m going to have a baby,” I said through my tears.
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Laura exclaimed, squeezing me, at the same time Essie murmured, “Oh, that’s horrible.”
“Why, Essie! How can you say such a thing?” Laura asked incredulously. “A baby is wonderful--”
“Only when they’re wanted,” Essie interrupted coldly. “Do you think that Esme can truly raise a child in her household? With Charles?”
“Oh! Well, I…I guess I hadn’t thought of that,” she murmured quietly.
“Esme, I will not permit you to leave this house!” Essie was firm in her determination. “I--”
“But I have to go back!” I exclaimed through my sobs. “I can’t just run away--with no money, or clothes--”
“And risk going back into that house--risk the chance that Charles will hit you and you’ll miscarry the baby? Nonsense!” Laura was on Essie’s side now, seeing the light. “You saw what that did to me--I couldn’t stand seeing the same thing happen to you. And do you really think that we’d leave you as destitute as all that?”
I thought about it., and realized that my argument was losing. “Well, no--”
“Good. Now, what--”
“But where am I running to?” I interrupted, thinking quickly. “You both live too close; once Charles realizes that I’m gone, these are the first places he’s going to look!”

Chapter 6: Runaway Plans

There was a short pause. “Don’t you have a relative somewhere? Anywhere?” Essie shot back, desperate to keep me safe.
“I…” I thought for a second. “I have a cousin, up in Wisconsin--”
“Good!” Laura was pleased. “That’s not terribly far away--we could come and visit you sometime!”
My tears had stopped as our plans became more and more rational. “I can’t wire her to warn her that I’m visiting--Charles could find out.”
“It’ll just have to be a surprise, then.”
“But I don’t just want to live off of her kindness!” I argued. “I haven’t seen her in years, anyway--what if she won’t take me in? And if she does, I’ll just be an unneeded expense!”
“Esme, she’ll take you in, and you can’t worry about that. You’ll just have to live with her. No one would turn you out.” The grief of her husband’s death had made Essie’s brain analytical--everything she said was straight, to the point, and layered with logic. “And after a month or two, once this excitement has died down, I can move up to be with you--I’m not tied down here like Laura.”
Laura did not respond, although I knew she had been offended. Instead, she simply left the room; I tried to figure out where she was going.
“We’ll put you on the 5:20 train,” Essie continued, really thinking now. “We have to get you to her house as quickly as possible.”
“And I’ll go with you!” Laura exclaimed from another room. I turned around to look behind the couch, and she came back, dresses piled up in her arms. “Here, darling--try these. They may just be your size.”
“If she’s going, I’m going, too,” Essie said. “We’ll--we’ll make it look like we’re going on a trip.”
“Yes!” Laura agreed. “And we can just go up and make sure you settle down all right.”
Hastily, I tried on a dress, my heart singing with joy from our plan. It might actually work--I was going to escape Charles after all these years.
As planned, Laura, Essie, and I got on the 5:20 train headed to Cincinnati, and the two-hour trip was daunting to me. The original excitement and confidence that I had experienced in the beginning quickly melted into anxiety and doubt. What if someone should recognize me? The man in the suit, the woman with her daughter--I could’ve seen any one of them before!
“Please calm down!” Essie begged, irritated, as I fidgeted. “I don’t recognize a person here--it’s fine!”
She and Laura were sticking with me, and were going to stay until they were sure I was safe. I protested, reminding Laura of Max and Essie that it was bad for people to see us together, should they ever go back home.
“Max knows where we’re going--I told him we’d be gone for at the most a month. He can keep a secret, I promise, Esme!” Laura had assured. Essie just ignored my senseless worrying for the most part.
It was 7:30 in the evening by the time we got to Cincinnati; after stopping for a quick bite to eat, we headed for the next train to Indianapolis, a three-hour ride that left at 8:45.
I sat next to Laura the whole way there--Essie had wanted me as far away from her as possible so as not to disturb her with my frantic worrying. I knew she was joking, but either way I still felt better sitting next to Laura.
However, after only a half-hour of my constant nervous twitching and bouncing, I could tell she was getting annoyed, too.
“Here,” she sighed, pulling a book out of her bag. “Read this; it’ll help you calm down.” She handed the thick novel to me, and turned back to her own.
Jane Eyre. How was a silly romance novel supposed to calm me down? If only I could go back to my happy place, my imaginary world. However, it had shattered the second I’d learned that I was pregnant, and although it would’ve calmed me down and given me something to do, I was glad it had been destroyed, because, as chaotic as it was now, I was enjoying real life.
We spend the night in Indianapolis--I’d thanked Essie and Laura repeatedly for paying. I was finally starting to relax--although how I did, I wasn’t sure--when I realized something. The man in the suit--the man who’d sat across from us on the train to Cincinnati, and who kept looking at me in a funny way every so often--I’d seen him before! Yes! He was one of Charles’s friends--we’d had him over for dinner just last month! But what was he doing in Cincinnati? A memory surfaced and I recalled one of our conversations at dinner last week: “Remember I was telling you about that promotion trip yesterday?” I gave a quick nod; there was malice in his voice as he answered. “That son-of-a-bitch Scott got it! Now he gets moved up and gets to go to Cincinnati on the weekend!”
Oh God. Oh God. I’d seen him, he’d seen me--and no doubt recognized me! Once Charles realized I wasn’t coming home, he’d ask around, and that son-of-a-bitch Scott knew where I was--
I trembled from fear and tried unsuccessfully to stifle my sobs. Suddenly, our brilliant plan wasn’t so foolproof.
“Please calm down, Esme,” Laura murmured after I’d told her of my epiphany. She embraced me, and patted my back in what she hoped was a comforting way. “He only knows you’re in Cincinnati--they’ll never guess that we’re in Indianapolis now! And besides, he won’t be going home until tomorrow--we’re a whole day ahead of him!”
Try as she may to soothe me, it was a lost cause. I lived every second with the fear that Charles would find me and take me back--I was aware of pain now, and I wanted to avoid it of all costs.
In another attempt to distract me, Laura and Essie took me shopping. The dress I’d borrowed was too small in places, too big in others, and we had an hour to spare until our train would leave Chicago.
They spoiled me, buying me many dresses and books--I felt so guilty because I knew that if it wasn’t for me, they wouldn’t be buying themselves deeper into debt.
“Esme, please!” Essie sighed when I told her to stop buying me things. “You act like it’s a chore for us--we really don’t mind at all, dear.”
To their relief, I did loosen up and relax with all the pampering, and with an easy mind we boarded the next train.
We had to run to our Milwaukee-bound train; we barely made it, letting out relieved sighs as we sank into our seats.
“I can’t believe it!” I whispered to myself. “I’m finally getting away!” I had dreamed about this since 1917.
It was another easy ride to Wisconsin, and once in town, we got a cab to take us to my second cousin’s house, which I amazingly remembered the address of.
We were there in minutes--the house was just as I had remembered from the picture she’d sent ups a few years ago, after she and her husband had bought it. It was a two-story brick home with a sprawling front yard; a white picket fence showed the boundary of the property. There wasn’t another house for at least a mile; it was peaceful.
“Nice place!” Essie murmured in amazement. I nodded fervently, climbing out of the cab; I stopped when Laura started to climb out after me.
“No. I want to do this on my own.” They silently agreed, and I turned back to the house. They told the driver to wait a few yards away, incase my cousin should turn me down.
I faced the yard, staring at the front door. Silently I prayed my cousin would remember me from our last family meeting--she was my only hope.
I squared my shoulders and walked up the brick path. With a nervous gulp of air, I knocked on the white wooden door twice, hoping that she would answer instead of her husband.
The few seconds it took for the door to open seemed like forever, and my cousin Andromeda appeared in the doorway, a little child clinging to her shirt. Her light blue eyes widened in surprise before she enveloped me in a hug.
“Why, Esme Platt! What a surprise!” she exclaimed, squeezing me tight. “What are you doing way up here in Wisconsin?”
I sputtered for a second, shocked by her kindness and excitement--it was better than I’d dared hoped for. She then looked embarrassed and wrapped an arm around my back, pulling me into the house. “Oh, what a goose I am. Won’t you come in? I’m just so pleased to see you I’ve forgotten my manners!” She laughed lightly as she shut her door and led me into her parlor, a cozy little room with a big fire in the fireplace.
“I’ll get you something to drink. Tea?” she offered as I took a seat on her couch.
“Uh, yes, please,” I stammered. She smiled warmly before going into her kitchen; I waited until she was out of sight before running back to the front door. I yanked it open and saw that Laura and Essie were coming up the walk--I called to them.
“I’m fine here! What hotel will you be in; I’ll check on you tomorrow!” They smiled in relief as they told me; I made a mental note of it. I shut the door and ran back to the room, just as Andromeda was coming back.
“Now,” she said pleasantly, handing me a cup. “What exactly are you doing up here all alone? Just to visit me? Your mother told me that you were adventurous, but this seems a little extreme.” She laughed again.
I gave her a smile. “It’s a long story.”
Adjusting to life in Andromeda’s house was as easy as breathing. It was warm and nurturing--her husband, Peter, and their three girls welcomed me into their lives with open arms. My heart healed, and I couldn’t have imagined a better environment for me to live in. I adjusted to the life so well--almost as if it was made for me.
It was a cold December afternoon when everything abruptly ended.
“Esme!” Andy called from the front door. “Telegram!”
I ran down the stairs in response, curious. She smiled as she saw me and shook off the snow from her coat, handing me the folded envelope.
“I didn’t look--it’s just addressed to you.” I turned it around in my hands, wondering what it was. Oh, how great it would be to hear from Essie and Laura again!
I was excited, and I ripped open the paper. Three little sentences met my eyes.
“He knows. You have to get out. We’re coming up, but don’t wait for us.“ There was no name.
My whole body began to tremble, and my sight became blurred from tears. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t happening. Not again.
“What is it?” Andy cooed, startled. She tore the paper from my hands and read.
“Damn them!” she cursed under her breath. “Just when you’re getting settled here--Oh, you poor dear!” She wrapped her arms around my quivering figure. “It’s all right--it’s fine, shh, darling! Shh!”
I sobbed in anguish, the too-familiar fear creeping back yet again.
“Oh, sweetheart, come here.” Andy led my uncertain form into the living room and forced me down into the sofa. “You just sit here and I’ll get you some cocoa, all right?” I nodded feebly as I pulled my legs up to my chest, cradling myself together.
How did they find out? How could they possibly have found out? We left no clues--our trail had been spotless, Essie and Laura had made sure of it! Someone had been bribed, I was certain. There was no other logical explanation--and the scarier ideas would’ve made me feel faint to even consider them.
“Here, darling.” Andy came back and put my cocoa on the table; she sat next to me. “Come here, dear; cry on my shoulder.” I couldn’t deny such a warm offer; I cuddled up to her side and buried my head over her heart. She stroked my hair in a wonderfully comforting way; Andy had become a second mother to me.
“Now,” she said softly, pulling down the blanket from across the back of the couch and wrapping it around me. “We can’t have you stay here--I’m sure he’s on his way up to come and get you.” I flinched at her words. “You’ll have to move farther up north, up towards Canada.” I burst into new tears as I considered leaving Andy’s home-the home that had become so dear to me over the past two months.
“There, there, Esme, let it all out.” she cooed. “You’ve been through so much--more than any one person should ever experience.”
I cried myself out, and my eyes were swollen and red when we finally stood up again. Andy did most of my packing for me--my shaky fingers were hard to control. She even lent me some of her old dresses, promising that they’d be needed come February or March.
My things were packed and we pulled out a map of Wisconsin, looking for the most discreet town we could.
“There!” Andy pointed to a small dot at the top of the map. The town of Ashland was where I was headed, and after a last dinner, she took me to the train station. I started to cry again when the train started to move; I waved goodbye until Andy simply dissolved into nothingness.
I stepped down from the train with swollen eyes and a heavy heart.

“I want to go home,” I murmured longingly, observing Ashland for the first time. Everything seemed gray to me: the sky, the buildings, even the people. It was all dreary and depressing. The street was coated with gray slush, and it was hard to walk it. I groaned as I pulled myself down the first street, looking for any kind of hotel or “For Rent” sign I could find. I finally found one in the last home on the block, and simply the sight of it made me want to turn around.
It was a big house, but dark, too--stone, maybe. The shutters were battered, and the white paint was peeling from the windows and door. I recoiled at the signs of abuse and neglect.
For the baby, for the baby, I repeated in my head as I walked up the cracked concrete steps. I knocked on the front door with trepidation; an old woman answered and looked at me expectantly.
“I saw the sign--” I started to explain. Her wrinkled face seemed to light up then and she pulled me into the hall.
“Come in, come in!” Her voice was frail like her small figure; she hunched over as she walked, and with each step she seemed to tremble.
Mrs. Williams was a sweet old woman whose husband had died a year ago and left her the big house to manage alone. She was renting out the space--I was lucky because there was only one room left. There were two other women staying here, one a war widow and the other an old maid. They all seemed to get along well.
“What did you say your name was, my dear?” she asked after we shook hands. I had the room.
I hesitated before answering; I was afraid of being discovered. So I lied. “Anne.” My eyes flickered around the room, panicking slightly for a last name. “Firestone,” I beamed, looking at the fireplace. “Anne Firestone.” I could get used to people calling me by my middle name, right?
Mrs. Williams smiled. “Nice to meet you, Anne. And where are you from?” Another frantic second.
“Minnesota. My husband died a month ago--he lost his hand, and he developed gangrene after he came home. I had to leave--our home reminded me too much of him, and I needed a change. I might move to live with my aunt from Canada soon--I’m lucky enough to have one last memory of my husband, but I’m afraid that I won’t be able to raise a baby on my own.” I patted my slightly bulging stomach, my eyes wide with amazement. Where had that come from? Since when had I had such a good imagination? It sounded so convincing! And Mrs. Williams’ eyes were tearing up, too! I patted her hand, secretly cheering on the inside.
Getting used to life in the big house was okay--no where near as easy and as wonderful as life in Andromeda’s house had been, but it wasn’t too horrible. I stayed to myself, hardly leaving the house. Mrs. Williams cooked the four of us dinner each night, and it was the only other time I saw my housemates.
I was antisocial, but I didn’t quite know why. I felt so lonely here--no friends, no family, no nothing. I could’ve made friends, but that seemed like such an effort, when I would probably flee back to Andy’s house with the baby once he was born. I longed for that day with all my heart.
Ever since I’d learned the news of my pregnancy, my baby had never seemed like a person to me. I always seemed to think that I would just grow bigger and bigger until the baby would come and then I would leave; even the day I’d learned, I had given only a few seconds thought about my baby being a new being that I had created before I saw it as a chance to escape. I felt so heartless when I realized this--I didn’t want to think of myself being so cold and unloving.
In March, however, my opinion changed--my baby moved inside me. I had been examining my closet, looking for an outfit, when a little foot or hand skimmed across the inside of my belly. I had cried for hours after that, constantly rubbing my belly and thanking God for my child: the experience had seemed to open my eyes, to help me realize that this baby was another human being, and that soon I wouldn’t be alone anymore. Now I couldn’t wait to meet him.
My baby was born on April 26th, just a few days short of my due date. I had given birth in my room under Mrs. Williams' close supervision and midwifery--I was intensely lucky that the late Mr. Williams had been a doctor.
My baby was a sweet boy of six pounds and seven ounces; he fit comfortably in the crook of my arm. It was like I had been built to hold him--it was so natural, so comfortable for me. He rested at my chest, heartbeat against heartbeat, and I cried with happiness.
It was my baby, my son. Chubby cheeks and big eyes of soft brown--such a darling. I never wanted to let him go. I loved him more than I had ever imagined before--his happiness was my happiness, his sadness mine. Those nine months had connected us in an impossible and brilliant way, and I was irrevocably tied to him.
Mrs. Williams and the other women let me be in my secluded ecstasy as I played with my son. I tickled his tiny, wrinkled toes, and marveled at his perfect hands. I watched him yawn to sleep every night and blink awake every morning. Every cry was silenced within minutes--it pierced my heart to see my angel upset.
When the coughing started, I didn't think much of it--everyone coughed, right? I started to get worried when I caught Mrs. Williams staring at my son intently.
"Yes?" I asked, annoyed, as I shielded him from her gaze. Her eyes flickered up to mine, dead serious.
"Babies shouldn't cough like that."
"Oh." I looked down at my son and stroked his cheek. "I think he's fine, though--"
"How long has he been like that?" The question was quick, cold.
"A few hours, I suppose--"
"Give him to me," she demanded. I stuttered a protest, but I couldn't deny her long as I examined her face. It terrified me; I handed him over.
She cradled him in her arms before heading to her own bedroom--I'd never seen her walk so swiftly, so erect, before. I ran to catch up.
"What's wrong?" I asked, panicked.
"I'm sure he'll be fine--go back to your room and rest, Anne--you need your rest." She slammed the door in my face.
I slid down to the floor, numb. Had that really just happened? I hadn't hardly let go of him since he was born, and I'd just handed my son over so easily! I could still hear him coughing on the other side of the door, and my breathing sped in anxiety. What was wrong with him? I had never seen Mrs. Williams look so serious before now--even during my labor she had been smiling and relaxed. And if there was--God forbid--something wrong with my dear baby, well, I had to be with him.
I knocked furiously on her door.
"Go back to your room, darling, it's fine," her voice responded, but it seemed strained.
"Please, just let me see him! Hold him!" I begged. She ignored me.
"I'll call you back a little later," she promised a few minutes later. "Go rest, Anne."
"But my baby!" I cried, a few tears trailing down my cheek. I pounded again on the door, my anxiety at its highest.
She did not respond, so I fell, sobbing, against the door, waiting and listening. Every time he coughed, I knocked and pleaded to no avail.
Then, when everything was dark, it went silent. I caught my breath, straining my ears. I scrambled to stand up as the door creaked open slowly. Mrs. Williams looked incredibly empty. She did not hold my son in her arms.
"I'm terribly sorry, Anne," she apologized in a monotone voice, "Your son--he must've had an affection when he was born, something I didn't notice before. He--he couldn't breathe; there was liquid in his lungs. I'm so sorry, Anne, but your son has died."
I was in a numb haze as I meandered around town--it was cold and it was dark and I couldn’t quite remember how I’d gotten here. All I could think of was my son, my son--I’d lost him--I had to find him. He had to be here! I couldn’t live without him! What was I anymore if I wasn’t a mother?
Without thinking, I stumbled out of the city limits, clutching my jacket closely around myself, trying to keep the biting wind away. My caramel hair blew in my face and eyes, temporarily blinding me. My gray eyes searched for him--the soft peachy skin, the pudgy hands, the tiny feet. The fuzzy brown hair and soft brown eyes. Where was he?
Suddenly, I was at the cliffs, near the edge of Lake Superior. I could hear the gentle lapping of the soft current--it was soothing to the ear. Numbly and guided simply by the dim moonlight, I walked to the periphery of the cliff, my toes hugging the rock. I looked down: sharp rocks protruded at the bottom. I looked up, out onto the lake where I couldn’t separate the water from the night sky.

Chapter 8: The Transformation

I wasn’t sure how, but suddenly everything connected--I was alone. I wouldn’t find my baby out here, because my son was dead. Gone. An anguish sob escaped my lips, and I looked down to the rocks again. I was so alone.
And so I jumped. The rocks raced up to meet me; everything went black.
Death was like floating. There was no pain, simply a soft darkness that surrounded everything. I was relieved--maybe there wasn’t an afterlife after all. This was wonderful--I could stay here forever.
This was it? How easy dying was! Such an easy solution! I should’ve tried this years ago!
I thought of my son, filling my mind with his face. I remembered him without pain or regret or sadness--just soft remembrance.
I felt nothing--heard nothing--saw nothing. Nothing but his face. So wonderful, so peaceful. I did not miss my senses.
There was suddenly a pinpoint of feeling somewhere in this darkness--a warming sensation that seemed to grow and intensify as the seconds wore on.
I wanted to ignore it--I tried so desperately hard to ignore it--but it was coming for me, whether I chose or not. It was getting bigger and bigger, and the heat was like that of the sun.
Faster and faster, closer and closer it came. I discovered could feel my head and arms, and it was such a terrible, terrible pain--not like my broken leg, but like a fire. Like the sun was burning me.
It was burning me, igniting from the inside of my body. It was excruciating--I could not imagine any kind of pain that surpassed this, much less matched it. I so missed the floating death--where had this come from? Why was I experiencing this?
I could only think that this fire was the fire of Hell--it was the only conclusion I could reach. I was burning in Hell--I had reached the afterlife.
This burning--each surge reminded me of my sins. I hadn’t prayed in years; I had sworn countless times in the past years. I wasn’t particularly religious, but this pain just seemed to highlight every wrongdoing I’d ever done.
On and on it went--I was encased by it. My attention was fully toward the pain; I could not think of my son--I could not think of anything but it and my sins.
If it had been possible, my pain was intensified as it spread throughout my body, and I hadn’t realized that my body was so big. So much pain--pain everywhere. No release.
My sins--had I committed so many to deserve this? I had coveted--coveted Carlisle when I couldn’t have him. Cheated on Charles by wishing he was another man. I had not honored my father or mother--I had disobeyed their rule by running away. I had worshiped my son--he had been my angel. I had also worshiped Carlisle, my savoir--the one I had gone to in times of pain, and not God.
So many sins, so many wrongdoings--my burning went on forever. Hours and days, weeks and months--would my suffering never end?
I was so far inside the pain that I didn’t notice when I regained my sense of touch in my fingertips. But as the fire continued, I did realize how my brain seemed to expand--like I had more room to think in. I realized it, and with this sort-of epiphany, I realized I could hear now, too. I could only hear quiet breathing close to my side, and I knew that a cool hand was holding mine.
I also realized that it was me who was making the ragged screaming noise.
“I’m so sorry, Esme,” a soft voice sighed, regretful. “I’m so sorry, my darling.” My hand was squeezed and a cool hand touched my cheek.
That voice--so beautiful, so perfect--was so remarkably familiar. A memory came to the front of my mind before I had time to think of anything else.
I phased in and out of consciousness as the pain came in waves. My leg, just below my knee, was broken, and it couldn’t be moved. I knew that I was in a carriage--that the local doctor had been out of time and that we were headed to Columbus. The carriage was frequently jolted, though, and I was in a strange suspension of consciousness--not quite awake but not passed out.
We stopped, and candlelight flooded the carriage. I was blinded, and I covered my face with my hands.
“Is this her?" a soft voice asked; it was so harmonious, so gentle, that I had to open my eyes again in surprise. I could only see a tall, dark silhouette of a man, and he reached down over my mother to get to me.
“May I?” he asked politely, smiling. I could barely see his face, but I could see that his skin seemed to glow, reflecting the soft light. His hair was golden, and it was like a flame in the candlelight.
I could only nod, not quite understanding what he meant. His arms wrapped around me, and I gasped at the cold temperature of his skin. Gently, he lifted me up, balancing my weight just so, so that he didn’t jostle my leg.
He carried me into the hospital, and I observed him fully in the yellow light of the hallway--strong jaw, bone-pale skin, hair like spun gold. And so young! I couldn’t remember seeing a doctor as young as he. My doctor must’ve felt my gaze, and he glanced down at me, smiling kindly like before. My eyes widened as I stared into his strange golden-topaz eyes.
“Hello,” he said politely in that beautiful voice of his, and his breath was sweet, intoxicatingly so; I breathed it in eagerly. “I’m Dr. Cullen--I’ll be treating you this evening.”
I smiled back weakly.
“You would be Miss Platt, I assume?” I nodded. “And I heard you have a broken leg.” He placed me down on a cot suddenly, and I all but cried out in protest, wanting his arms around me again.
He moved down to my leg, examining it. He touched it lightly in certain places, and a jolt spread through me every time he touched me. He must’ve felt me jump, for he quickly apologized. “I’m sorry--my hands are always cold.” I shook my head.
“N-no, it’s fine.” My voice was barely audible, like a whisper, but I knew he understood. Dr. Cullen looked up at me skeptically before ending his short examination.
“This should be easy to mend. Unfortunately for you, however, I have to set the bone, and that can be particularly painful.” I tried not to wince, but I was sure he caught it--his warm smile turned sympathetic. “I’ll give you some morphine, and perhaps if you’re distracted, it won’t be so painful.”
Distracted? How was I focused when he was in the room? It was impossible to think of anything else as long as his golden eyes were on me.
Dr. Cullen sat down next to my feet. “Now, how did you get a break like that? Not quite a normal spill down the stairs, was it?” The smile never left his lips.
I shook my head, and when I answered, my voice was still quiet. “I f-fell out of a tree.” I could hardly hear myself, but again, I knew he’d heard me.
“How did you do that?” he asked, light amusement in his eyes.
“I-I was jumping down, but I, uh, landed wrong.” I flushed with embarrassment.
“Ah.” He stood up and moved to the counter on the side of the room, pulling out some linen and a needle. My heart sped as I looked at it in fear--I hated needles.
“I’ll give you some morphine now--it should ease the pain.” He put a liquid in the glass capsule of the needle and walked over to my left leg. He smiled again.
“This will just be a pinch….” He held my knee in his hand, and gently pinched the fat of my leg--I looked away as he jabbed the needle into my skin. I hadn’t even felt it.
A light numbness spread through my broken leg, and it was nice.
Dr. Cullen chuckled suddenly, and I looked back at him. The amusement reappeared in his eyes. “You know, I only just realized I don’t know your first name. Your father was too frantic with worry to tell me.”
“My name is Esme,” I said, my voice slightly stronger than it had been before. He came over to me, smiling, and outstretched his hand.
“I’m Carlisle,” he responded, and we shook hands. Again, I marveled at the ice-cold temperature, but it was strangely soothing.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, and he laughed lightly.
“The pleasure is all mine.” He sounded entirely sincere. He went back to my leg, examining it again. “Esme,” he murmured. “French, correct?” I nodded. “It means “loved,” too, doesn’t it?” I flushed, nodding again.
“A very pretty name,” he complimented earnestly. I was too entranced by his face--his hair, his eyes--that I didn’t notice when his hands touched my leg. I could hardly feel my leg any more.
“What do you want to do when you grow up, Esme?” he asked. It was an unexpected question, and I hesitated before I answered.
I did not have time to reply, however, when a sharp pain jolted through me as Dr. Cullen snapped my bones back into place. I blacked out.
“Esme?” Dr. Cullen’s voice called me back to myself, and he laid his hand on my cheek. So cool, but so sweet--I leaned into the touch, sighing. He chuckled softly and removed his hand; my eyes blinked open.
“You blacked out for a minute there,” he explained, and I looked down at my leg. It was wrapped up tightly, and I wondered mildly how long I had been out. “Your leg set wonderfully, and I’m positive that it will heal quickly. However, I’d like to keep you overnight, just for observation.” I flushed.
“You must be tired,” he said gently after I yawned unthinkingly; I nearly called out in protest--I didn’t want to lose a second with him.
He moved over to the counter, and pulled an extra blanket out of one of the many drawers. He pulled it out of the folds and threw it over me. Suddenly, I was very warm and very drowsy, and I struggled to stifle another yawn.
“Dr. Cullen?” I murmured as I turned on my side, closing my eyes to fall asleep.
“Hmm?”
“I want to move out west when I grow up,” I sighed, settling into the cot. He laughed softly.
“Goodnight, Esme,” he whispered, and abruptly the overhead light went out with a click!
“Goodnight, Carlisle.” And I fell asleep.
This was the memory that had been so abused during my numb years--so revisited and so worn out; I was surprised how quickly and how clearly I recalled it. And that voice--the voice of Carlisle, my personal savoir--had come from right next to me!
I struggled to pull my eyes open--I was so terribly curious. Was it him, truly?
Carlisle’s face smiled down at me with such kindness and warmth and love that, for a second, I forgot about my burning. So similar to what I had remembered--and yet so dazzlingly beautiful and perfect that it stunned me. Those same strange golden eyes, that same golden hair--all so gratifyingly similar.
His hand was still on my cheek, and he stroked it in response to my open eyes.
Completely satisfied, I closed my eyes again--squeezed them shut in response to the burning. Oddly, I realized that I was relieved--relieved that I wasn’t in Hell, relieved that I wasn’t dead (as excruciating as the pain was), relieved that he was here. I hadn’t made the memory up, and my eyes certainly weren’t lying to me. Carlisle, the man who had inadvertently helped me live through Charles’ abuse, was here. My angel was here.
Although it had started slowly for me, the burning pain stopped rather abruptly. I paused for a few seconds, waiting for it to return. The last part where it had taken refuge in my heart had been so intensely excruciating that I thought I would die simply from the pain. All that was left, however, was a simple aching in the back of my throat, like I was thirsty. I had survived, despite the odd, and now I didn’t know what to do.
Carlisle had stayed with me through all of it, and now he waited for me to move with bated breath.
I blinked my eyes open.
I did not take in myself or my surroundings--I only had eyes for him. His face, so apologetic, so warm and loving, was all I desired to see.
What could I say? Certainly, I wanted to say something, but where to begin?
Without thinking, I pulled myself up, using muscles I was sure I hadn’t had before. I was now closer to him, and I could smell the sweet scent that came off his skin.
Carlisle smiled, and started to speak, but stopped when I reached out to cradle his face in my hands. His skin was so smooth, so soft--what surprised me most was how warm it was, especially after remembering how cold it had been before. I caressed him, marveling at the feel of my skin on his. His eyes closed at the touch, and he leaned into my hands.
And with no hesitation in my movements, I did what I had wanted to do since that fateful day when I was 16: I leaned forward and I kissed him.
It was such a soft kiss, a gentle touching of my lips against his, and my fingers automatically tightening around his jaw as I held him to me.
The sweet sent of him engulfed me as my pursed lips touched his, and there was a shock between us--a warming kind of electricity that ignited down my spine. A memory spiked: this was how it had felt every time he had touched me that night. I shivered with pleasure as I realized the fact, and pressed my lips to his with more intensity.
His lips, which had been taunt at first, relaxed and seemed to melt into mind as the jolt passed between us: his surprise was gone, and now it was simple bliss that he kissed me with.
We both had been waiting for this--I knew it as his arms wrapped softly and comfortingly around my back. I felt safe in his arms: complete. There was no fear; no other man had held me like this, so softly and so lovingly. It stirred no past memories; I stayed within the moment, our lips moving hesitantly against the others. It was such a different experience: all my live I had only known a rough violence in the place of this soft loving--I hoped this feeling would never end.

I leaned my chin against my hand, letting my arm support my head for a while; it was an old human habit, but I had found myself doing it often. It was a human sign of boredom, and I had been bored for a while now. Edward was nice company, of course; anything was better than the solitude I’d been living with for I didn’t know how many years. But it was hard having a conversation when the other person knew what you were going to say as soon as you knew yourself.
I sighed, staring out of the side window. The wind was picking up; every gust hit the hospital’s outside wall with a bang. It was nearly four--I had only a half-hour to sit here before going home.
“Carlisle, we really don’t need you here tonight,” Dr. Johnson called, noticing my bored figure. I turned to look at him. “No one’s been in for the past few hours, and I’ve already sent Rob home. You don’t have to stay.”
I shrugged--it really didn’t mean much of anything to me, for Edward was out hunting; I would sit and mope at home anyway.
But I stood up anyway, suddenly missing the comforts of the new home. I had some books that I wouldn’t mind rereading; I didn’t have to stay here and think of ways to entertain myself. I may even join Edward in the hunt.
“Thanks, Frank. I think I will go.” I picked up my coat and threw it on, starting down the white hospital hallway and heading towards the morgue; it was the quickest way home.
Mid-way down the hall, an odd sound hit my ears.
It was a steady, if very weak, ba-bum, ba-bum.
And it was coming from the door to my right. The morgue. It was too weak to be a doctor or a nurse inside; I pushed the door open, curious.
The scent hit me like a brick wall. It was sweet, gentle. I would’ve recognized it anywhere.
The young girl I’d treated all those years ago for broken leg, down in Columbus: Esme Platt.
She lay, broken and beaten, on the last cot, a sheet soaked through with her blood laying overtop her. I went to her, and pulled back the sheet; I gasped in surprise.
Her face had only minor scratches, but her body was wrecked beyond recognition. She was still bleeding; I stopped the flow of air in my lungs. Some bones had come to the surface of her skin, threatening to penetrate. But she was still there; she was still with me. There was no way a mortal could live through this, but what if…?
Oh, Esme, I sighed. What has happened to you? I touched her ruined cheek. Could I damn another human to my existence? I had already taken one: Edward was enough. All the days I’d spent with Esme on my mind--I would not let them influence my thoughts. Only the bare minimum would do--did she deserve this life, this life of nothingness? Of never changing and never ending thirst?
I had no time--I picked up her broken body and flung myself out of the hospital. At this speed, we would be home in a matter of seconds.
I kicked open the door, making my way swiftly through the house. I laid Esme delicately on my bed, and permitted myself a few precious seconds to make up my mind.
There was no guarantee that she loved me like I did her. Was that the only thing stopping me from making this decision--the fear of rejection? This was a matter of death or--or whatever vampires had, damn it! How could I be so vain as to worry about her affections for me? Either this or she died--I had faired fine in my nearly 300 years; I could only trust that she would take this new life in stride. I just couldn’t let her die.
Frustrated, I leaned in to her neck, lavishing in the warmth that penetrated the air. I pressed my lips against her throat, and the throb of her veins were tempting. I hesitated, listening for a few precious seconds to her waning heartbeat, and opened my lips.
“Forgive me, Esme,” I whispered against her skin, and my teeth lightly tore the thin membrane of flesh; the blood gushed into my mouth. I withdrew immediately, spitting out the vile substance and rushing to the bathroom to rinse the taste from my mouth. It didn’t help much--it lay on the back of my tongue--but I could ignore it. I rushed back to her side, and was surprised immediately. She wasn’t responding to the fire.
She did not react at all--I resolved that she had to be too far inside her mind to feel anything. It took only a few seconds, however, for her to come back--she let out a piercing scream.
“I’m so sorry, Esme, I’m so sorry!” I whispered, taking her hand and holding it to my lips, kissing it repeatedly. “Forgive me, please, Esme. Please.” I wished desperately that she would open her eyes--that she would look at me again with those soft gray eyes--but her eyes were clamped shut as she contorted and cried in pain.
I murmured countless apologies, having to remind myself every few minutes why I had changed her in the first place after it was causing her so much agony.
As crumpled as her face was, she was still beautiful. The features that had been cute and charming at sixteen were now stunning. Her face was still soft, still warm--it was shaped masterfully into that of a heart, with prominent cheek bones and full, small lips. A small, almost button nose, and thin curved eyebrows--everything about her captured the eye. She looked so harmless, so delicate.
I examined her body, looking at the worst of her breaks. A broken spine, a leg and both arms--a terrible fall. I only examined by sight, however--I would not let go of her hands for all the world. The rips and tears of her light blue dress gave me glimpses of the rest of her body, but I could see no more injuries.
How had she gotten like this? These breaks were so hideous--her cuts still bled, if only slightly. I couldn’t understand--didn’t want to understand--so much pain for such a sweet girl.
I could tell from the way her back was broken that it was a fall--but how astronomical had that fall been? Only one thought seemed to come to mind--the cliffs, just outside of town. Had she fallen--had she been pushed? I rejected the latter as soon as it entered my mind, too horrified to think of it for very long. She must’ve fallen--that was the only thing that could describe these kinds of wounds.
Lightly, I rubbed her arm. Up and down, up and down. Could she feel this? I prayed so. I wanted her to know that I was here--that I would coax her through this pain.
What had happened to her? Why was she here? So badly I wanted these questions answered--I wanted to see her, to talk to her. I wanted to know her. Why was she here in Ashland? When had she moved from Columbus? Had her dream been accomplished--had she really moved out west before coming here?
My never-ending questions were abruptly interrupted by a loud bang! from downstairs. Immediately, I stood up, my hands still clasped around hers. Edward barged in the room not a half-second later, positively livid with fury.
“Who is she?” he hissed though his teeth, but before I could speak--before I could think--he continued. “Are you insane, Carlisle? Someone will recognize her! We have to move--change our identity--simply because you changed her! I can’t believe you’d do something like this.” He glared at Esme with disdain.
“Please, Edward--let me explain!” I pleaded, pulling up the memory of her for him to examine. A sweet, innocent girl of 16, with big dreamy eyes and beautiful rosy cheeks. I felt how she jumped as that spark of electricity passed through us every time I touched her soft, warm skin. I watched her as she slept, watched her dream for as long as I could.
I showed him my thoughts years later when I saw a woman in the street who’d reminded me of her--her hair had curled in just the same way, and it was the same shade of caramel; how I’d nearly run up to her, to see if it was Esme, but deciding against it.
I showed him the thoughts I’d had after that moment--the thoughts I’d had of this young patient years later, only months before meeting Edward.
He saw, and he understood. Edward’s eyes softened then, and he looked at me with pity in his eyes. “But, Carlisle,” he said gently, “she’s not the same girl she was at 16--she can’t be.”
I pulled in a breath and looked at Esme as I sighed it back out. “No, I suppose she won’t be the same,” I whispered, and I lightly touched her cheek. “But she might be.” Her skin twitched under my hand as she screamed again in agony, and I sat back down.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, squeezing her hand. “Edward--Edward, please tell me. Can she feel this? Can she feel anything?”
“No,” he murmured. “She can only feel the pain. She can’t understand--why she’s experiencing it. She thinks she’s in Hell.”
“Oh, my poor darling!” I kissed her hand. “I’m so sorry. You’re not in Hell--I’m so sorry!” At least, I don’t think you’re in Hell, I couldn’t help but add in my head. Maybe this new life would be a kind of Hell to her.
Oh, what an idiot I was! Doing such a permanent, life-altering decision like this on only a moment’s thought! I berated myself as she continued to thrash, to scream.
I didn’t notice as the days passed--I didn’t care. I stayed with her, holding her hands, murmuring to her frequently, although I knew she couldn’t hear.
Her spine had healed, and her bones were fixing themselves. However, I could see no other improvement. I had requested Edward to run up and tell me when her thoughts turned to something else, and every second I did I pray for that moment.
And suddenly, it came. Edward rushed into the room, his eyes wide. “Carlisle, she’s married.” I stood in my surprise, her hands still in mine.
“What?” I asked--I was too stunned for thoughts. I would’ve noticed if she was wearing a wedding ring--but I checked her hand just the same. There was nothing.
Edward’s eyes were closed when I turned back to him--concentrating.
“What’s she thinking?” I could only murmur.
“Her sins,” he replied, eyes blinking open; I couldn’t believe that someone as good as Esme could have sins. “She--she thinks that she’s coveted, because she wanted you more than her husband.” What? The idea of this seemed to make my brain explode; it was too good to be true--she remembered me? And remembered me in the way I’d remembered her? Her husband--who had been her husband?
“Charles,” Edward answered. “That’s the only name I get. She thinks she cheated on him by imagining him as someone else--she doesn’t say who.” Oh, how I longed to be the man she’d imagined! Within a second I was kicking myself for my thoughts--what a strange thing jealousy did to a reasoning mind! I was acting dishonestly--I was disrespectful. I struggled to keep my thoughts in check.
Edward continued on. “She ran away from her husband--she doesn’t say why--and she feels that she went against her parents for doing so. She--” Edward paused and looked at me anxiously.
“What?” I demanded in a tense whisper. “What else?”
“She had a son,” he murmured and looked down at the floor.
A son! Any previous happiness I’d felt for changing the beautiful Esme was shattered. A son. A child. A connection to the human world--a human son that she wouldn’t be able to see in at least another year if she decided to stay with me and curb her diet.
“A son,” I murmured in despair, my legs weak under me. I fell into my chair and pulled my hand to my head, holding Esme’s in the other.
Edward said nothing, and I knew he felt awkward in the situation I’d just placed him in. I told him to leave, and he did so gladly; I was left in my misery.
What an idiot I was! I knew nothing of Esme, nothing whatsoever, but here I was, clutching her hands as she turned into a vampire, an irrevocable curse I’d placed upon her. She had a child, a child who was now abandoned--a child who would eat and sleep and grow and die. And I--I had ruined his life. I had ruined Esme’s. What a monster I was! All that time and preparation to make me nearly immune to the sent of human blood--every single step I’d taken to prevent myself from being a monster--all destroyed. Burned into a crisp. Shriveled up and shattered--every destructive image flooded my head at once.
I was a monster for preventing a mother from seeing her son. I hated myself, and I would hate myself always.
Edward left the house around what I guessed was midnight--probably sick of my reproving, I was sure.
Esme screamed again--it seemed to be the first real scream I’d heard since this had all started. To me, it was not a scream of physical agony, but that of emotional desolation.
“I’m so sorry, Esme,” I sighed softly, regretfully. “I’m so sorry, my darling.” I squeezed her hand and leaned forward, cupping her cheek gently in my left palm. The screaming stopped if only for a few minutes, and I edged up on my seat, curious for why that had happened, temporarily distracted from my self-hatred.
With an intense struggle, Esme’s eyes twitched until squinting open. The sight of those wonderful gray eyes erased everything--all my regret and remorse and self-hatred--all completely vanished at the sight of those eyes.
I smiled down to her softly, tying to confess through my expression how much I truly cared for her. Her eyes widened in amazement, and lightly I caressed her cheek.
Her eyes shut with satisfaction and relief--her whole body seemed to relax simply from the sight of me.
And suddenly I knew--I realized she wouldn’t have reacted that way if she wasn’t pleased to see me--if she hadn’t recognized me. That thought filled me with such joy--I was overcome by it.
I brought her hand to my lips. “I’m so sorry, darling. I love you.”