What if Bella wasn't the first?

When he died in 1918, Edward left behind the girl he'd planned to marry. After he was changed, Edward was certain he'd never love again. But 100 years later, he meets Bella. With dark hair, a clumsy streak and a familiar sweet scent, she is remarkably similar to the girl he lost when he left behind his life for a new, cold future.


Author's note: I read Twilight to see what the buzz was all about. Honestly, I wasn't very impressed with the writing, the character development, or how it ended. I found it unrealistic, and not just because it was a story about vampires and werewolves.

But for some reason, the characters stuck with me.

And there were so many unanswered questions. Particularly: Why was Bella so appealing to Edward? Maybe it was just the way her character was written, but I found nothing appealing about her, and I couldn't see what it was that was supposed to have drawn him in. Other than her scent, she seemed to have nothing to offer.

So I wondered, what if it wasn't really about her? What if she simply reminded him of the girl he'd loved and lost so long ago?

This is my imagining of that story, the one that happened 100 years before Twilight.

For if forever is just the beginning, maybe the true beginning can shed some light on why there's a forever for Edward and Bella.


First Blush

When the Spanish Influenza hit Chicago in 1918, it hit hard. The hospitals filled first, then the morgues, and then the cemeteries. Mothers cried as their babies succumbed to the fever. Children were left to neighbors and far-away relatives when their parents didn't emerge from the sickness. Fathers, grandparents, brothers and sisters perished by the hundreds. People scattered to relatives' country properties—if they were lucky—or hid in their homes and waited for tell-tale signs of illness.

Few of us didn't feel the heat of the fever, and none of us were left with lives intact.

That's certainly my story.

. . . . .

At 17, I had the whole world at my feet. I had inherited from my mother my dark brown hair, ivory skin, pink lips and tiny stature that fortunately wasn't as frail as it appeared. Slightly clumsy and prone to biting my lip in nervous laughter, I was self-aware in a way that made people guess I was older than my years.

I'd known Edward since we were infants and had loved him longer than I could remember. We were born just days apart and our fathers were partners in a local law firm, so it was only natural when the sibling-like affection of our youth blossomed to romance.

. . . . .

Edward's father was one of the first victims of the invading flu when it reached Chicago. His secretary, Bess, a young and serious woman from a good family, sent word that her youngest brother was ill. Then, Bess and her parents succumbed. But she must have brought the illness to work with her, for Edward's father started showing signs of fever just days after Bess and her family. He died the day they were buried.

Edward was shocked by the sudden loss, and his mother, Elizabeth, was devastated. He stayed home with her for days, trying to dry her tears.

I wasn't as afraid as I should have been when Edward became sick. He was young and strong, and the doctor said his fever was low. If anyone stood a chance to pull out of the illness, it was Edward. And with our whole lives ahead of us, it was hard to imagine a future that was any different than what we'd planned. Still, I wasn't allowed to see him for fear of spreading the contagion. Instead, we settled for trading letters carried by couriers between the sick beds and the outside world.

His mother fell ill shortly after he did, but her fever burned hot and fast. She convinced the nurses to move her bed next to Edward's so that she could be with her only son; but as her fever increased, they moved her to a ward with the other, more desperately ill patients. Edward and I traded notes about her condition, and I mourned her as if I were losing my own mother. It never occurred to me that I should be just as worried about him.

For Edward would only outlast his doting mother by hours.

. . . . .

The town physician, Dr. Cullen, had a gentle demeanor and cared for each of his patients with a calm bedside manner. It was Dr. Cullen who rang the bell at my family's home late that night. I set down my needlepoint and stared at the door before opening it. I knew he could be bringing no news I wanted to hear.

"Elizabeth." My breath caught in my throat as I whispered her name, and I pressed my handkerchief to my lips. Tears threatened.

Dr. Cullen's liquid amber eyes held mine, and he closed them slowly and opened them again. He shook his head and reached for my arm. "Let's go inside," he pressed. He led me toward the sofa and motioned for me to sit.

My father stood and shook hands with Dr. Cullen, who turned and knelt in front of me. "Ella, I have some news. Elizabeth died this afternoon. But that's not what I'm here to tell you. It's Edward…" He looked to my father, who put his hand on my shoulder. My mother sank to the chair closest to the fireplace.

He didn't need to say anything more. I already knew. The gravity of the moment knocked the wind out of my lungs and pressed me to the sofa like a three-ton weight. I couldn't see. The room spun.

Dr. Cullen placed his hands on my upper arms, holding me to the present. He continued, "His symptoms worsened in the afternoon, and his fever spiked this evening. There was nothing we could do to stop the progression."

My future sucked into a vortex in front of me. Our wedding, our honeymoon, our future home with a white picket fence. Laughter and tears and the years we would never get to live together. I saw the faces of our children evaporate into nothingness. I watched the image of an elderly us sitting in rocking chairs on our porch crumble. The dreams of my youth—of our youth—snuffed out in a dark instant. Like my beloved Edward.

. . . . .

The next day, I put on my hat and walked through the eerily-quiet streets to the hospital. The nurse stationed at the front door wouldn't allow me inside. Instead, she told me to wait there while she found Dr. Cullen.

"Ella." His eyes were pained. "You shouldn't be here. Influenza is very contagious. You have to take care of yourself now. Too many have already been lost to take chances like this."

He stepped out of the door and guided me back toward the street.

"Let me see him." I choked the words past my gritted teeth.

He tightened his jaw. "You know that isn't possible, Ella. It's a risk we can't take."

I stepped forward, so close that my chin almost bumped his chest. I took a breath and squared my shoulders. "I didn't get a chance to say goodbye. You're the only one who can let me do that."

Dr. Cullen's eyes stayed shut for a long moment while he breathed in deeply. His cold hand rested against my shoulder. "No." His calm answer was firm and echoed in my ears. "You need to go home and rest. Your taking ill will only make this tragedy worse. Please, Ella." He gripped my shoulder tighter with my sharp intake of breath. "Please. I'll have no option but to send word for your father if you don't go home immediately. You need to take care of yourself."

Then he turned away from me, walked briskly back into the hospital and latched the door behind him. I saw him nod toward me as he gave the attending nurse directions. She looked through the glass and shook her head. My vision misted over as I pushed back toward the entrance of the hospital, tripping up the front stairs.

Edward was cold, but he was in there. I was desperate to see his face again. To seal it in my memory.

"Please, Dr. Cullen. I must see him! I cannot live without seeing him one last time." I clawed at the door, hysteria edging into my voice.

. . . . .

They buried his casket the next day in the family plot, beside the fresh graves of his father and mother. I watched the box sink into the ground and wished I would die, too.

. . . . .