Note: I do not own or have Rights to Twlight or its chracters.
*****
Summery:Esme and her daughters are still putting their lives back together Fifteen years after she divorced her abusive husband. Carlisle and his sons are still grieving four years after the loss of his wife to cancer. Will this group somehow form a family . . . will they become the Cullen Bunch?
This isn't exactly a crossover, but I did get the idea from the Brady Bunch.
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Esme
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Here's the story of the lovely Esme,
Who was bringing up three very lovely girls.
They were making a great life, with their mother,
Four very strong willed girls.
****
"Alice, hurry up your going to make your sister's late for school again." I shouted up the stairs. With traffic on the I75/85 connector through downtown Atlanta always at a crawl this time of the morning, the earlier we got on the road the better.
My other two daughters, Rosalie and Bella sat with scowls and folded arm on the sofa. Rose and Bella never had trouble getting it together in the mornings, but my Alice was the fashion queen of the Platt/Evenson household. She had to look absolutely perfect at all times, this in spite of the fact that she went to a private school and wore a uniform every day.
"You never know who you'll meet Mom," She told me one day. "First impressions are lasting impressions."
Alice was my middle child, Rose was my oldest, and Bella was the baby. It was Alice who was the spoiled one though, she'd been daddy's little girl when her father, Charles, and I were still married. I was five months pregnant with Bella when he and I divorced.
Charles was a brutal man, he beat me black and blue regularly and, like the door mat that I was at that time, I allowed it. I even excused it, saying to friends that he was just frustrated because, as an architect, I made more money than him. I was sure that once his general contracting business took off, his income would increase and he would feel more secure.
That never happened; his business went under just three weeks after he learned I was carrying Bella. He urged me . . . no, he insisted that I get an abortion, but I refused. The abuse got worse after that, until one day I showed up to a prenatal appointment covered in bruises. My OB/GYN, Dr. Green, took me into his private office and gently questioned me about the marks. I couldn't hold back any longer, and told him everything. He made three phone calls while I sat there, one to the local woman's shelter, one the Columbus police, and one to an attorney friend of his.
"There's one more call that, by law, I should make," I remember him telling me gravely. "I should call child welfare, but I won't because you're going to get those girls out of there. You're a smart woman Esme, there's no reason on earth for you to stay in an abusive marriage. No man has the right to put his hands on you. If he beats you, what's to stop him from beating the girls too?"
He was right, of course, and while I was scared and confused back then, today I give full credit to Dr. Green for saving my life . . . and my daughter's lives.
"Mary Alice Evenson," I called again, trying to sound angry, but it never seemed to work. Still, she hated it when I called her Mary Alice, and it usually got her moving.
While my girls all had their father's surname, I went back to my maiden name, Platt, after the divorce. The things he accused me of in court and the threats he made against me outside of court made the name repulsive to me. For the longest time I couldn't even say Evenson without shuddering involuntarily.
I also took the divorce as an opportunity to move away from Columbus, Ohio. To get a fresh start as it were. Jessica, one of my sorority sisters and close friends from Ohio State encouraged me to move to Atlanta. Her husband, Mike, owned an architecture firm in the metro and he made me an outstanding offer. So I packed up the girls and our husky, Jake, and headed south to the genteel home of Scarlet O'Hara and Coca-Cola.
The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs made me look up. Alice finally decided to join us. Like her sisters, she was beautiful. Of the three, she was the most petit; at just shy of five feet tall she looked like a pixie. She had dark hair and green eyes like grandfather, but she had her father's pale complexion.
Rose was taller than me, with a thick luxurious mane of hair that was the color of sun ripened grain, just like her father's. She was slim, but with generous curves exactly where ever woman wants them. I saw the way boys, and even grown men, looked at her and it worried me. It didn't seem to bother Rose in the least, she adored the attention.
Bella was the quiet one, my little bookworm. She was between Alice and Rose in hight. Her medium brown hair hung well below her shoulders and matched the color of her eyes. Charles immediately accused me of cheating when she was born because she didn't look anything like either of us. But actually, Bella was the spitting image of my material grandmother. The resemblance was so remarkable, it was spooky.
"Finally," Rose grumped. "I mean honestly, you're going to school, not a fashion shoot at Cosmo."
Alice stuck her tongue out at Rose and Bella rolled her eyes in disgust at the whole thing. Though they argued I knew my girls loved each other very much.
"Come on you three," I insisted as I picked up my purse and portfolio. "If I have to sing you in for being late again your principal is going to put me in detention."
"Don't sweat Mr. Sutton, Mom," Rose sneered as she led the procession of sisters out the front door. "I know what he does in the teacher's lounge during study hall. I have pictures on my iphone of him and Mrs. Jenkins doing . . ."
"Rosalie!" I interrupted, "That's quite enough. You shouldn't be spying on people, it's unladylike."
All three of them snickered in unison as we piled into the van. I could only wonder at the veiled meaning behind their laughter.
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Carlisle
*****
Here's the story, of a man named Carlisle,
Who was busy with three boys of his own.
They were four men, living all together,
Yet they were all alone.
*****
I was stuck, as usually, in the gridlocked of downtown Atlanta traffic. A recent study cited that Atlanta drivers spent more time stuck in traffic than any other commuter group in the nation. I could defiantly believe it. The commute from my home on the north side to my job at Grady Hospital, which should only take about forty five minutes, usually took three times that long.
I wasn't accustomed to such urban sprawl, my three sons and I moved here from the quite town of Forks, Washington three years ago. There was no traffic in Forks, except on homecoming night when the Forks High School homecoming parade snarled traffic on Main Street. I smiled as I remember the last one.
The blaring of a car horn from the lane to the right of me pulled me from my thoughts. I pressed hard on the brake to avoid the car trying to bully its way into the lane in front of me. I let out an angry growl and clutched the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white. It was then that my eyes focused on the necked ring finger of my left hand. I shuddered; not wearing my wedding band was still a shock to me.
Even after four years, it still hurt and I fought to maintain control of my emotions. Rebecca was the love of my life, and having her wrenched away from me was the most painful thing I'd ever had to endure.
Our initial meeting was the stuff of fairy tales. I was just finishing the 'easy' part of medical school and was about to begin my internship. Rebecca Morgan was a marketing major in her junior year. We met, or rather, we ran into each other in the library. I knocked her to the ground as I came around the end of a bookshelf. I was mortified, and to make up for my clumsiness I asked her out for coffee. Two years later, we were married.
In the years that followed, I became Dr. Carlisle Cullen MD and together we had three wonderful sons, Edward, Jasper and finally Emmett. Rebecca was a wonderful mother and the boys adored her. We were a happy family until five years ago when Rebecca was diagnosed with breast cancer . . . a year later she lost her fight with the cursed disease. Her passing left us all in a shambles.
I did my best, as a father to help my sons through the trying times that followed while, at the same time, managing my own grief. Edward, our oldest took it the worst, he was the apple of his mother's eye, her golden boy. Edward was in the middle of his eighth grade year when Becca died and he went from straight A's to straight F's almost overnight. He started skipping school and hanging out with a local bad boy named Sam Uley, from the Quileute reservation down in La Push. Before I knew it, Edward was getting into all manner of trouble. The last straw with him was the day my good friend Chief Swan brought him home in the back seat of a squad car.
Jasper wasn't doing much better; he was in the sixth grade and attending the same school as his older brother. While Edward rebelled, Jasper withdrew. My sensitive, creative, and witty son became quiet and sullen. He absolutely refused to talk, to anyone . . . including, or perhaps I should say, especially me. I later learned that he blamed me because I'm a doctor and the doctors couldn't save his mother.
Emmett, the youngest, was still in elementary school . . . a fifth grader. Em had always been big for his age, taller and huskier than his year mates. He stopped going outside to play with his friends and his appetite exploded, he ate everything in sight and put on considerable weight.
I was at my wits end. My own heart was broken, I was failing as a father, and I didn't know what to do. One night, out of desperation I picked up the phone and called an old friend and mentor from my residency days, Dr. Aro Veracini. He listened patiently as I told him my woes and when I was finished he offered his council.
"I know this is not what you wish to hear old friend," I remember him saying in his thick Tuscan accent, "But perhaps a change in venue would be better, for all of you."
"Where will I go?" I asked him. "My life and everything I know is here in Forks." I remember feeling lost, and wanting nothing more than for someone to take me by the hand and lead me.
"I am friends with the Chief of Staff at Grady Hospital, here in Atlanta." Aro's voice was calm and sure. "We are lodge brothers and he owes me a favor or two. Let me speak with him and I'll get back to you."
A month later we were moving into our new home in Gwinnett. Aro, his wife Sulpicia, and their twins Jane and Alec became our new extended family. We spent almost as much time at their home as we did at our own. The hardest part, for me though was leaving my beloved behind, Forks was her final resting place and I felt as if, in leaving, I was losing her twice.
Three years down the line and things are better now. Edward is a senior in high school with plans to attend medical school next fall. Jasper is a sophomore and Em is a freshman. They're healing, but I can still read the sadness and pain in their eyes.
My cell phone rang, forcing me from my reminiscing. I pressed the button on my earpiece and answered the call.
"It's just me, Carlisle." Suplicia's warm voice filled my ear. "Aro told me to be sure to check up on you today, because it's . . . well, that is, he wanted to make sure you were ok."
"It's mine and Rebecca's wedding anniversary." I supplied for her, she seemed uncomfortable saying it herself. "I know, and thank you for your concern, but I'm fine."
"You know Aro, he worries." She explained.
"Yes I know tell 'Mother Veracini' that I'm fine and I'll call him around lunch time."
"I will." She hesitated a moment and then asked, "Are you and the boys still coming by for dinner this evening, I was going to make cavatini."
"My dear Sulpicia, wild horses couldn't keep me away from your cavatini." I told her plainly. It was true; the woman's cooking was simply amazing. "We'll be there at seven thirty and I'll bring the wine."
I hung up the phone just as I pulled into my reserved space in the employee's parking lot.
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Footnote:I've seen several last names for Aro in a number of differant Fics, but I don't recal one from SM's book. If you know of one, tell me.