Hiiii. I warn you this is probably full of historical inaccuracies. Google only helps so much, so I apologize in advance. Otherwise, I hope you'll enjoy and review. This took me a long time to finish (there will be maybe five chapters, because it ended up being a pretty long one-shot). And yes I did consult The Twilight Saga: The Official Illustrated Guide while writing this story. :)
The History of Alice
.:November 1919:.
Mother braids my hair in the morning, pinning it with her gentle fingers and tying it with worn cotton bows. She dresses me up in a cute white dress and stockings that itch at the seams. The neighbors are always kind to me, and one even hands me small little candies every day. So when we go into town, Mother and I, I don't understand the way people look at me. They look so angry with faces twisted into such dark expressions. Sometimes the children there hide behind their mother's skirts or point and stare and call me insulting names. I don't understand. Why are they afraid of me? Why do they hate me? Have I done something wrong?
It all changed so rapidly and even now, years later, I wonder why it mattered at all. All I ever tried to do was help people. My entire life revolved around other people's problems and I tried – oh I tried! – to save them. Maybe if I didn't, I would not be where I am right now, sprinting in the chilling darkness, with no coat, no shoes.
It is in vain that my feet keep moving, till my lungs burn when I exhale and my legs ache with exhaustion and my pounding heart beats twice for every step I take, which is too fast. I hurt, but I don't stop running.
The vision came too late. If it hadn't, perhaps I could make it in time. Maybe I could have the chance to save her. But I know I don't, and I feel at fault, though rationally it has nothing to do with me – or maybe it does. I have no clue anymore. All I know for certain is that I am too late to stop the event from happening; too late to warn anyone about it; too late to realize what this might mean for my future. I am simply too late.
Yet, I run as if the nightmare is only just beginning.
.:January 1919:.
"Happy birthday!"
Mother sings this while entering the room with a beautiful Lady Baltimore cake in her hands - the grandest, most delicious dessert I have ever had the pleasure of tasting. She sets it on the table in front of me as a chorus of 'Happy Birthday' rises from around the dining table. The room is warm from the heat of the over-used stove and smells of butter, sugar, and the sweet, fruity odor familiar to me - Mother's Citrus Orchard; our backyard.
The swirled frosting, rim of crushed walnuts training the edges, and dab of whipped cream in the center of eighteen glowing candles certainly adds to the beauty of the cake - and my craving for it. No wonder Mother spent nearly the entire day in the kitchen; working by herself - as she insisted upon - she must have jumped through hoops to round up the ingredients for this cake, let alone to bake it and decorate it on her own. I feel a rush of admiration and am grateful that she went through that burden simply because it is my birthday today, even if she did not have to. But of course she would. Mother loves to indulge me and Cynthia in "unnecessary luxuries" - words Father would use - because we are her daughters, the most precious people in her world.
Though I will say that added with the pristinely decorated house, Mother went overboard, as usual. I smile, knowing that I sometimes complain to her about it, but deep down admire her constant enthusiasm for life. I only wish I can be as surprised about this gift as she means for me to be.
But I knew about it the moment she decided.
The singing is finished. Cynthia hops up and down in her seat, which rocks back and forth due to the chip in one of its legs; Mother would normally chastise her about proper behavior for a young lady and lecture about pristine patience. I somehow know my seven year-old sister is waiting for this also, but Mother does not seem to notice, or care. All attention is on me; or rather, the Lady Baltimore cake. I close my eyes and make my birthday wish; I've had it planned since yesterday, and have been anxious to cast it. When my eyes open, I blow out the candles and everyone claps.
The cake tastes even better than I imagined it would. Mother is delighted by this and insists everyone have a second slice; there are no protests. I don't know what amazes me more: Mother's elaborate preparations for today, or Aunt Louisa stealing the recipe for the cake and claiming it as her own in a month's time. She'll get away with it, too; Mother won't care, and I don't dare mention anything for fear they will inquire as to how I know.
Knowing things I should not be aware of is unacceptable. Even if it is natural for me, I will certainly get in trouble if I ever speak to anyone about the things I see; the pictures in my head; the visions. I try not to think about them when they come; instead, I look around the room at the people I am most thankful to have in my life, here on my birthday (some only here in spirit), and I think for all the hidden troubles I have in my life at least I have people who care about me.
There are my friends: Lottie, Edmund, and Mary Beth, who has been my friend the longest. Luther Hayes came late, but he is here; red-cheeked and excited, I invited him yesterday morning, even if I was not supposed to know about the little celebration until the next day. Virginia Robinson and Lucy White appeared unexpected, but as charming as ever, if only to edge their way into my family's home. By the fluttering eyelashes sweeping in Luther Hayes' direction, it may be safe to assume the reason for their sudden friendliness toward me.
A postcard arrived two days ago from Uncle John. He lives up North, and doesn't always get along well with Mother ever since his choice to move, abandoning their father's business in the process. My grandfather's business, as I recall, took a turn for the worst when Uncle John left, and is often the explanation given about my grandfather's suicide… The subject is taboo, but the reality of it has left a rift between Mother and her brother, and had left my grandma alone. Luckily Grandma was a strong woman. I loved her - still do, even though she's passed on. I remember knowing about it before I was told. I cried and cried all through the night. When morning came, Mother and Father discovered the news and I cried some more. It had been heartbreaking.
In any case, Uncle John does not visit often. But I do appreciate my other family members who came.
Aunt Louisa, Stella, Scarlett and Ruth, and the dog Stella spoils, who I count as another cousin because he is too adorable not to add. Phillip is here, too, even if he has to take hours off work. I like Phillip. Out of all my cousins he is the one who acknowledged me pleasantly in public back when the stories began to spread about me and my visions. He said once that he sees me as another little sister. He spent weeks saving up for his gift to me. I am happy that I ended up genuinely surprised by it, that nothing was unintentionally given away by my premonitions. I do not choose what I see, or what I do not, so I'm glad that, for whatever reason, I missed this particular present: an expensive, solid gold locket, molded into the shape of a heart. It is beautiful, and I hug Phillip with all the strength I can muster until he complains he can't breathe, but he laughs.
I don't guess any of the other presents I get today, either. I try not to, yes, but at the same time I don't see much ahead of time these days. When I was younger, as early as four years – maybe even earlier, though I can't remember – my premonitions came frequently. It wasn't until much later that I started to reign them in, control them. And it wasn't until just recently that I decided to ignore them as best as I am capable. It isn't very easy sometimes, but I am determined to never make it obvious that I know something I should not have the power to know.
The party continues fabulously, with loud stories and humorous banter followed by raucous laughter, and Luther Hayes' thighs pressed against mine as we sit side-by-side on the sofa. By the time the last person leaves and I am helping Mother and Cynthia clean up, I am brimming with so much warmth and happiness that I can barely contain it. I sing and skip as I sweep, while Cynthia giggles in the background and Mother smiles fondly.
It doesn't even upset me anymore that Father could not make it home in time for my birthday.
My father is a jeweler and a pearl trader. He buys the pearls from local divers and then moves the pearls inland to be sold in more profitable markets away from the coast. His job keeps him away from the family for days at a time, and this year he happened to miss my birthday.
He makes up for it when he returns two days later by bringing me home a pearl bracelet. It glitters in the sunlight as he places it on my wrist. He kisses my cheek and wishes me, "Happy 18th Birthday, sweetie."
And when Luther Hayes' stops me in the market the next day and tells me he had a nice time at my party and hopes he'll see me around more, I think this is the year – this is the year my life becomes something greater.
OoOoOoO
I have never been popular. With my past problems regarding my accurate intuition, ignoring and avoiding Alice Brandon had become a hobby of sorts, when they weren't pointing fingers and whispering rumors.
Rumors began affecting my life at five-years-old. Nothing extreme, but enough to thwart any hopes I had of making long-lasting friends, of being invited to parties. I've always been a very social creature, and I didn't like being lonely. So by the age of ten, I began to stay quiet about my premonitions. No one ever seemed comfortable when I shared them, and if they turned out being wrong I felt embarrassed. Now, I think, those times when I had gotten something wrong were the ones that saved me; people could laugh off my accurate predictions as lucky guesses when they realized that, no, I didn't know everything, that I wasn't…psychic or something abnormal or dark. I was just abnormally lucky, was all.
I am not lucky. But I pretended to be.
Friends still didn't come easy. Mary Beth has been my best friend since we were children. She and her friends are the only people who talk with me for a longer period of time than just a second to say a passing 'hello'. I always felt frustrated by that, but I never stopped smiling in hopes that one day people would see how friendly I was. Aside from a few exceptions, the people in this town were always polite to me. The numbers increased the longer I went without mentioning the future. Eventually, people started smiling more genuinely around me. They probably think I was helped in some way or it was just a phase or even that they had simply misjudged what I'm capable of and I'm really not that threatening. Whatever the reason, this past year has been the best in that regard; memories are waning, and I am actually beginning to feel normal.
If normal is the same as right, I don't know.
If acceptance is the focus of a happy life, then maybe.
And if Luther Hayes is anything to go by, well, then I'm okay with being normal.
OoOoOoO
Luther Hayes has these eyes that are icy blue and hypnotic, turning my knees weak with every glance. He has this hair that is dark chestnut and soft, and when he sweeps his fingers through his feathery bangs I swoon. He's all quick wit and cute smiles, with broad shoulders connected to firm muscles. The way he dresses is fit and handsome and more expensive in taste than anyone else in this little Mississippian town – something I've always admired. He's well-known, well-liked, and confident in himself. He likes who he is, and so do I. So does everyone, I think, for many girls have a crush on him, including Virginia Robinson and Lucy White, who sometimes go out of their way to sneer at me, even after coming to my birthday party. I can't help but smile when thinking about his popularity, because there are girls as lovely to look at as golden-haired, green-eyed Virginia Robinson, yet right now Luther Hayes is sitting in a tree in my mother's orchard next to me.
Maybe I am lucky, after all.
"So…" Luther picks an orange from its branch – the only fruit ripe this time of year – fiddles with it, then tosses it in the basket. I don't tell him it's not precisely the right color yet to be picked. "I'm headed up north once school ends here. Been accepted into a university in New York."
"New York! There are supposed to be great shops there."
He laughs at my enthusiasm, and also my priorities. "I don't care about the shopping, Alice," he says.
"Oh, right. College. How excited you must be to go back to where you were born?"
One of the great things about Luther: he didn't know me before. He moved to Biloxi not even two years ago. By then, the witch rumors had died down, nearly forgotten entirely. I didn't have to try extra hard to gain his attention, to disprove things he might have heard. To him, I'd always been an ordinary girl. It's something I appreciate every day, and today especially.
"Living in New York was wonderful, Alice. The houses, the food, the people – everything about the city!" Staring at the sky, he sighs wistfully. I can tell he misses his old home, loved it very much, speaks of it passionately. It must have made him sad to have to leave it when his parents died. If I had been there to save his parents, to have maybe seen ahead of time— No. I don't even want to think it. I remind myself I'm grateful he doesn't know anything about what I sometimes do.
"Returning will be strange at first," Luther continues, "but worth it. School there will be nice."
"As will the pretty girls, I imagine."
Taking his eyes away from the sky, he focuses on me and smiles, not missing a beat. "There are pretty girls here, too."
Heat fills my face; so does a smile.
"Maybe…" Luther clears his throat, eyes focusing back on the sky, blue on blue. He seems nervous now, a tint of pink on his cheeks. "Maybe you'll come visit me. Take the train or a cab. I'd pay your fare for you, to have you come."
I didn't think it could happen, but my smile widens, grows almost too big for my face and my cheekbones begin to ache.
When I don't say anything right away, too happy to form words that will make sense, Luther says hurriedly, "We can go visit those shops that you get elated about. Maybe go see a play or two. You do like plays, don't you? Most girls like plays…"
I can't help the giggle that escapes me, which causes the red in Luther's face to deepen.
"I am very much a girl, Luther," I say, hoping my tone is playful enough that it disguises my giddiness while easing his nerves at the same time. It seems to work. He visibly relaxes and his smile comes out easier.
"Well," he chuckles, "most girls wouldn't climb a tree, yet here you are."
"Here I am."
His eyes sparkle, and I figure mine must be also. And if he's looking at me like I'm looking at him, perhaps he feels it too. Perhaps he feels this strange, warm sensation that blankets me blanketing him. It lights my body on fire and ignites something fuzzy in my stomach and I feel like if I wasn't surrounded by tree limbs I'd be floating away with the clouds. I don't know how something can be odd and new yet feel safe and perfect at the same time, but that's how it is, right now, staring into Luther Hayes.
It takes several moments of silence – both of us lost in our own jumble of fantastical thoughts –before Luther finally blinks back up at the darkening sky and says he should probably get back home before his mother puts dinner on the table. I want to be sorry that my time with him is coming to a close, but I am overflowing with joy. If I open my mouth at all, I am sure I will only be capable of squealing, which I am most certain is not proper behavior. I only risk nodding at him.
Before dropping back to the ground, he leans in and kisses my cheek. He smells wonderful, better than the orchard's mixture of blossoms and fruit. He tells me he'll see me again, jumps down, and waves up at me with a grin that melts my heart before heading off. The spot on my cheek where his lips touched my skin burns something wonderful.
I lean back and hold an orange to my chest, over my heart, and pretend it is the embodiment of my feelings for Luther Hayes. For the first time, I feel that everything I want is in my reach. I can have Luther Hayes and I can escape this town that knows too much and too little about me and I can have extravagant shopping adventures in New York, of all places, and buy gorgeous gowns I can presently only dream of owning. Who knows where the future may go afterward? The world doesn't always have to be predictable. And if not having premonitions gives me what I wish, then I'm better off suppressing them.
I lay up in the nest of citrus-scented branches with my dreams and my smile and my orange, until the sun sets beyond the horizon.
OoOoOoO
As it turns out, suppressing any visions or feelings I have is hard. A lot harder than I would have liked to believe.
It's just… if I see something happen and I can (try to) stop it, shouldn't I? Is it my responsibility? Am I morally obligated to help? I don't know the answers to those questions and getting them wrong scares me. All I know for certain is that if I didn't help I would feel awful. And so I can't help it when I "accidentally" bump people in the market and they miss the car that would have hit them around the next corner. And I'm not sorry when I make up stories just to chat peoples' ears off to spare them a few extra minutes that, if they were on time, would have gotten them mugged. I figure as long as I'm not being obvious about what I'm doing, as long as I'm not directly telling them what I see will happen, then it's alright. Ignorance is bliss (and knowing what I know, I truly believe that).
But I am content this way. Helping people isn't a bad thing. If I must hide it, I will; but I am not pretending I am ashamed for what I do behind their backs.
Things get complicated, however, at Mary Beth's wedding shower. Her long time suitor proposed to her and she was having a small party with her closest female friends and family to celebrate the occasion before the big day, after which she would be leaving Biloxi for a town further north. The fact I was invited at all is surprising enough; the fact people came knowing I was coming is even more shocking.
The thing with parties that makes me uncomfortable sometimes is that I love them, and I love going to them, and I love planning them, and I love dressing up in something special just for them… yet I've only ever been to one. Nobody invites me, or nobody ever comes to the ones I throw (so often that, up until my 18th birthday party, I hadn't planned a single party since I was eleven). Growing up, all I ever heard was how fun Ruth's bash was, how beautiful Virginia's ball gown turned out to be, how excellent the food was at Theodore's place. They were events I was never welcomed to, because I was 'creepy', 'weird', 'strange', 'abnormal'. The rare time I was invited, it didn't turn out so well for the poor person who so bravely insisted I come.
"Where is everybody?" I asked Mary Beth at her thirteenth birthday.
We sat at the dining table with Lottie and Edmund, staring at the platters of delicious food, impatient to serve ourselves dinner. I was the only one formally dressed, as it had instructed on the invitation; apparently, Lottie had convinced Mary Beth to change it to casual attire at the last minute, without informing me. I didn't mind – we were young, and it was my first chance to dress so nicely. I was so excited. I sewed my own gown, even going so far as to adding real flowers to it – Father said I smelled lovely. But when minutes passed, Mary Beth decided nobody else was coming and started cutting herself a slice of pie – it was her birthday, she could have dessert before dinner if she wanted to. At first, I thought she was being funny. Then I noticed Lottie giving her a pointed look. Even Edmund looked knowing, though he stayed silent, as usual. Mary Beth's parents glanced at me, and continued to do side-eye me the whole night, whispering at each other. After we ate and couldn't think of any game to play with just the four of us, that's when the depressing realization struck me. I pulled my friend aside.
"Mary Beth, I'm sorry," I said. "It's my fault, isn't it?"
She raised her eyebrows at me, feigning confusion. But I knew she was acting.
"Your fault? I don't understand what you mean."
"It's okay, Mary Beth. You don't have to pretend for my sake. You talked all week about your big party and how the whole class was coming, but the other kids don't like me."
She seemed taken aback by my straightforwardness, but I saw no reason to beat around the source of the problem.
"It's not your fault, Alice," Mary Beth finally said, placing her hand on my flowered shoulder and smiling reassuringly. "I shouldn't have invited you. But it's okay, we can still have fun. You look pretty, by the way. Now, come on."
She had giggled and pulled me by the hand back toward our friends, like she hadn't said anything wrong. And maybe I could have called her out on it, that it should not have mattered what the other kids thought because she was supposed to be my friend, but I figured she was just being honest. Mary Beth's never one to bring a subject up, but once it is she has never been the sugar-coating type – whether it's because she's straightforward or merely ignorant, I never cared. I wasn't in the position to turn down a friend, let alone a friend who invited me to her party, even if she did come to regret it. And I knew that she had every right to regret it, even if it wasn't my fault, either.
It was never my fault. Mother always told me it wasn't. Grandma always told me so, too.
But maybe it was.
Maybe it still is.
So as I sit on Mary Beth's floor, my legs bent uncomfortably under me, crowded into a circle of girls who have their envious eyes on Mary Beth's right hand, while Mary Beth herself announces her wedding is next Saturday afternoon, I should feel delighted to be a part of it.
I am not.
It's crowded and stuffy and I've been ignored by everyone but Mary Beth since I arrived, which I had been afraid of. To make matters worse, the moment Mary Beth gave me the date of her wedding it triggered something in my gut. Something immediately felt off.
This wedding, I feel, is a bad idea.
"Is it not the most gorgeous rock you have ever gazed upon?"
Mary Beth now has her engagement ring displayed out to her audience: a shimmering white stone embedded neatly onto a ring of silver. It is beautiful, all glistening gray and translucent rainbows. Costly, too. It's obvious many girls wish they were in her position – engaged and with a diamond as brilliant as the one being shown off. I wonder if they would want to be in her place if they knew her future husband is not all he seems. Because, yes, I see it now. In a matter of seconds it's gone, but I get a glimpse of the problem my instinct was warning me about just moments before. The man Mary Beth has chosen to marry has a secret, and even he may not be aware of it.
Suddenly, everyone is standing, heading to the kitchen. Mary Beth's mother must have called us in for the desserts she's made.
When the room is cleared out, I remain sitting, alone and faced with an awful dilemma. My fingers worry at my bottom lip. I take a second to gather my thoughts.
There is something in Mary Beth's fiancé's history that has not been confronted, something potentially dangerous. It is still unclear to me what exactly the problem with him is, but it is a permanent problem as far as I can tell; the only way it will change is if Mary Beth backs out of marrying him entirely, which she won't consider because - why should she? She doesn't see the things I do.
It isn't my business. It isn't my business. It isn't my business.
Oh, it's never my business! But what can I do?
It isn't safe to exchange vows with that man. But on the other hand Mary Beth won't want to hear it. My parents will be angry if I say anything. It's been a few years since I last mentioned a single premonition out loud to anybody. Years! If I say anything to Mary Beth now, it may ruin everything for me.
But if I don't – everything may be ruined for her.
I let out a heavy breath and head for the kitchen, my decision made.
What kind of friend am I if I ignore my instincts and let her deal with it on her own, simply because it is easier for me?
Easy isn't my way of doing things, anyway.
In the kitchen, I'm the last to grab a plate and fill it with a variety of cookies and cakes from the assortment Mrs. Carter has set out. Mary Beth makes room for me at the table. She goes into wedding details – the cake, the invitations, the dress – all things I wish I can enjoy properly. My mind is too distracted and I can't think straight. I only catch snippets of the color theme she wants, only enough to comment that lavender would look best with a light green or beige, rather than a darker hue; she accepts the advice well enough, and I get the feeling she'll actually listen to me. I don't want to jinx it, but that is a good sign – Mary Beth can be stubborn.
As the party nears its end, my palms start to sweat. My heart beat rises, begins playing the music of the anxious. I ignore all conversation around me. I may seem rude, but I doubt anyone is paying me much attention anyway. Mary Beth is arguably my only friend (excluding Luther Hayes, if I am so bold) so I need to warn her in a way where she won't be frightened off. My warnings have never not alarmed their respective recipients, but I like to be optimistic.
Before I can come up with a concrete way to gently bring the topic up, Mary Beth is thanking the last guest for coming and seeing them out. Again, I am the only one left in the room. My time has run out. Mary Beth turns to me.
"Thank you for coming, Alice—"
"Mary Beth, I need you to know something," I blurt before my nerves make me ill. Being cautious never has suited me, despite all the times I must be.
My friend blinks at me, tilts her head in curiosity. She waits.
"How much—How long have you known your fiancé?" I decide on asking. It's innocent enough.
Mary Beth taps her cheek in thought. "Mmm, oh it's been quite a few months. You should know that, Alice." She laughs lightly, and starts collecting dirty dishes.
I help her as I talk. "Well, marriage is just a big step to take, I'd think. I was wondering how much you knew of him."
Plates drop harshly into the sink, so hard I am afraid some may have been cracked. Mary Beth pierces me with a harsh gaze. I know that look – it is suspicion.
"What are you trying to say, Alice? You know I don't care for guessing games. Either tell me what you want to say or go home. The party is over."
"I just want what's best for you," I reply. "You're my best friend. I care about you."
There is a pause. Mary Beth asks, "And?"
"And… I have a bad… feeling. About him."
The silence that ensues is awkward at best – at worst: intimidating.
I've been holding back any form of preternatural warnings for so long, this simple confession brings a disconcerting sense of vulnerability. The slow recognition contorting Mary Beth's face does not help ease my trepidation. I fiddle with the hem of my blouse, winding and unwinding my fingers through the ribbon. I debate whether to say something more; eventually, I do.
"Oh, please, Mary Beth, postpone the wedding at least. Just a little while. Get to know him a little more – his family, his history—"
"Alice."
"Mary Beth, I—"
"No. Do not. Don't you dare say another word. I hope for your sake that I am wrong about why you are telling me this. Please leave." I don't move. "Go, Alice."
I know Mary Beth well enough to see when the conversation is over. No words of mine will break her resolve; if anything, I made her more determined to stick strongly to her engagement. So I nod, and I step out of her home. Before she closes the door behind me, I say, "See you at the wedding?" It comes out more uncertain than I wanted.
Mary Beth continues scowling at me. Then she closes her eyes with a sigh, affirms with an incline of her head, and closes the door between us.
OoOoOoO
In spite of my appeal, Mary Beth is adamant to marry the man I foresee has some sort of problem in his life that will undoubtedly affect hers. There is nothing left I can do.
Well, there is one thing. And I think about it as I wash up and change for the wedding that is today. It's something Mother taught me a long time ago:
Keep my business to myself, leave others to theirs, and simply be there to support them as they fight their own battles.
I can support Mary Beth. Most definitely I can.
And, oh, do I hope it's enough.
Mother and Cynthia attend the ceremony with me; Father has left for another week of trade. I am happy, at least, to see her colors are light and floral and matching – at least I helped her do something right.
In church, Mother leads us into a pew. The benches are hard and uncomfortable. Music fills the hall and soon Mary Beth is parading down the aisle holding her father's arm and for a moment I am genuinely smiling; she looks beautiful, with her dress and the happiness that reaches her eyes. It is only when she reaches the alter that I remember her happiness will be short-lived. I find it hard to enjoy myself after that.
It is hard to appreciate the exchanging of the vows when I can only picture a foreboding future for the marrying couple, so I appreciate Luther Hayes in his tuxedo instead, sat a row in front of me, four people over. I dance with him at the reception an hour later and it is the highlight of the evening; Mother quietly teases me after, but I know she likes him.
Out of politeness and support, I join my family to wish Mary Beth and her new husband a happy life together. Mary Beth may or may not hear the unsaid warning behind my congratulatory words. If it makes her uneasy, she doesn't show it.
It's the only time I talk to her all evening.
As I watch the newlyweds drive away at the end of the night, both peering out the back window of their cab to wave at the friends and family being left behind, I whisper against the cheers, "Good luck, Mary Beth. Stay safe."
Soon the cab disappears, and I wonder if I will ever see my best friend again.
OoOoOoO
