(Okay, so, I know this is a really long prologue and prologues aren't usually lengthy, but the rest of the story takes place four years afterwards so I didn't want to make it a chapter if the actual story doesn't happen til later. If that makes sense. :P)
Anyway, hi. Long time no see. I haven't published anything in a while. I know I said I was working on Flightless Bird but my motivation for that went out the window for some reason. I fully intend on getting back to it eventually but at the moment the new version is still in the early stages; I haven't exactly done much with it in six months. Somehow I ended up with the idea for Bumps almost a month ago, and here I am. I really love this story so far and I'm proud of myself for actually writing it and enjoying what I've written, and I hope you like it too! As the summary suggests, it's a rocky love story, so bear with me. Enjoy for now!
PROLOGUE: August 22, 2010
Bella
I still remember the day she was born like it was yesterday. And in a way, it was. At least for me.
On my due date, August twenty-second, 2010, my water broke at three in the morning after a long day of mounting contractions and complaining (I still tease my father about making it up to him since he had to stay home with me all day and probably hated every second of it). I woke up to an unpleasant gush of fluid between my legs and a particularly violent contraction hit me a second later. I yelled for Charlie and he barreled into my bedroom straight away.
"Call the hospital," I gasped, the small room spinning. "Let them know we're—we're coming. Ohhh…" I moaned. Ouch.
Too panicked to reply, he ran downstairs two at a time and made a brief ruckus in the kitchen (I think he tripped over his own damn shadow, the poor guy). He spoke hurriedly into the phone for thirty seconds—I timed it along with the next contraction—then I heard him rush outside to start the car. I forced myself to sit up, cautious and slow, racking my brain for memories of my birthing classes and how to breathe properly. Perched at the edge of my bed, I waited for my heart to stop pounding, holding my belly instinctively. Despite my fear and the anxiety brewing inside, a couple little nudges against my palms somehow made me feel better. I was gonna take care of my girl and she was gonna take care of me.
"Hey." Charlie walked back in, red-faced and panting. I took one look at his wide, nervous brown eyes and totally lost it; tears burned my vision and a sob ripped its way from my chest. I dropped my face into my hands, frightened to death.
Naturally, Charlie grew even more concerned and came to sit beside me, putting an arm around my tense shoulders in an unexpected (yet welcome) fatherly gesture. "What hurts?" he demanded. "What's the matter, Bells?" His voice shook.
"I'm so scared," I wept, leaning into him helplessly. Wet trails dripped down my cheeks and I tasted salt on my quivering lips. "I'm so fucking scared, Dad. I've had nine months to—to get ready for this but now it's finally happening and I just don't know what to—to do—God, what is wrong with me?!" I punched my knee angrily. "Why did I have to go get knocked up by some drunk loser—"
"Shhh," Charlie soothed, tucking a loose lock of hair behind my ear. "That's not important right now, honey. Look at me." He tilted my chin up with his finger and tapped my nose like he used to when I was little, which only made me cry harder for another reason. We had a weird relationship back then, about as weird as a teenage girl and her single father could have. Not to mention getting pregnant only seemed to alienate me from him entirely even though he tried his best to be supportive and understanding. I'd lived with him in Forks since I was twelve after my mom and her fiancé died in the car accident that permanently altered my life. I only saw him during the summer up until that point, so you'd think five years of being together after that would eventually bring us closer. We did at first, I think, and we were getting somewhere in our coexistent relationship—but then a damned pink plus sign popped up and I reverted back to feeling alone and lost.
So for Charlie to be near me and to treat me like I wasn't a fuck up like everyone else I knew, I was surprised. I shouldn't have been, though—I knew he loved me with everything he had and wasn't about to disown me. All he cared about, all he ever cared about, was the safety of his daughter and grandchild. Even if things were happening too soon and before I'd even graduated from high school, we were his first priority. That would never change. Not in a thousand years or a million.
"It—it's okay to be scared," he continued quietly, slightly uncomfortable with having to give a Paternal Pep Talk. "I am, too. But—but we shouldn't let that stop us from being excited for what's coming. Sure, I always thought you would be a bit older and in a relationship before you started having kids, but what's done is done and we'll just have to accept that. I love you anyway." He cleared his throat and blinked rapidly; apparently this was emotional for him as well. "I love you anyway," he said again, squeezing my shoulder. "And—and, yeah. You'll be fine. You're both healthy, you can do this."
I laughed through my tears, dabbing at my cheeks with my shirt sleeve. Just like that, Charlie went from sentimental and dad-like to giving one final awkward piece of encouragement. But I was grateful, more than I could ever say. That meant a lot.
Charlie remembered to pick up my hospital bag, which had been sitting below my rocking chair for three weeks, and he led me gently down the stairs, patiently yet anxiously. My contractions felt like really strong menstrual cramps; I tried my best through the pain to count how many seconds or minutes they lasted during the drive to the hospital. I held onto my father's hand, probably crushing his fingers, but he didn't seem to mind much. He kept looking over at me, uneasiness etched onto his face.
I felt a wave of nausea as we rolled into the parking lot. The building suddenly seemed bigger than I remembered. For a moment I imagined thunder and lightning cracking over the roof like we were about to enter a villain's dark creepy castle.
I had to waddle carefully alongside Charlie as we walked, gripping his elbow and hoping I wasn't about to pass out from pain. The nurse manning the front desk glanced up when we came in, offering a kind smile when she recognized me. It's a smaller hospital so I guess she must have seen me around after my weekly doctor's visits at some point. Charlie told her my name and that I was obviously here to have a baby. Without a hint of judgment in her maternal gaze, she nodded and looked me up on her ancient computer. I paid attention to every little sound around me, like the clicking of her nails on the keyboard as she typed. Phones rang, doors slammed, wheels squeaked, doctors conversed. A loud baby cried.
"Okey dokey, Miss Swan," the nurse said in a chipper voice, turning towards me and smiling again. She reminded me of my mother, innocent blue eyes and all. My throat tightened; the birth of my child wasn't supposed to happen without her—and yet, here I was, accompanied by Charlie and no one else. Grief replaced my embarrassment. I wanted my mother.
The nurse told us where to find my room. Charlie guided me down a couple of long hallways until we reached the doors to the maternity ward. I pointedly avoided looking at the nursery when we passed, afraid of possibly seeing a baby in a glass incubator with tubes and wires connected to its fragile body. (I know now that sick babies would actually be in the NICU but I wasn't going to take the chance that the one time I arrived to give birth, they had switched things around.) Nausea hit me once more at the thought of something happening to my baby—Jesus, no. I told myself to think positive instead.
My room was tiny, but cozy. Charlie turned on the light and set my hospital bag down on a chair in the corner under the television mounted on the wall. Troubled, I eyed the heart monitor and other mysterious labor-related machines next to the bed for a minute or so, my mind racing. There was a small table with a white padded blanket draped across it—my baby would be there soon, wriggling and wailing as the nurses weighed her and tended to her vitals. Holy crow. It's happening.
My favorite nurse, Tabitha, walked in, breaking my trance. She was about my height, skinny and petite, with smooth skin the color of coffee and thick dark hair that fell in small ringlets to her shoulders. She waggled her fingers at me, grinned at Charlie, then stepped forward and offered me the pale pink gown she carried in her hands. She smiled apologetically.
"You know the drill," she joked as I took it, pretending to be disgusted at the thought of putting it on. She laughed. "It's okay, babe. This is one of our new gowns, and it's never been worn by anyone else. I picked it out for you." She winked and my mouth fell open in surprise. She didn't have to do that. I got emotional, touched by her thoughtfulness. It almost seemed too good to be true, like things were about to take a turn for the worst and I'd wind up with an awful doctor who laughs at and shames seventeen-year-old pregnant girls. (Although I was the only seventeen-year-old pregnant girl at the time. I knew that for sure because Forks is a small town with just one high school so naturally I was a hot topic all year.)
Maybe I exaggerated earlier when I said people treated me differently when I got pregnant. I did get lots of funny looks, could hear my classmates gossiping under their breath, and generally wasn't as well-liked as I used to be. But nobody I knew was ever like, "You're a dumb slut, we can't be friends anymore, you make us look bad." They saw me as a new person rather than clumsy, studious old Bella, but over time my small group of friends just wanted to look after me and defended me against others who weren't so kind. My closest friend, Angela Weber, often took me to my appointments and helped me keep track of my weekly changes in a mini calendar and notebook. I thought of her now, thankful for her kindness above anything else. She was definitely the first person other than Charlie who I wanted my daughter to meet.
I changed into the silky hospital gown and gingerly climbed onto the bed, cuddling up beneath the thin sheet, freezing. I closed my eyes and breathed through another contraction while Tabitha strapped the baby monitors across my tummy. It picked up my girl's heartbeat immediately and I gasped softly when the hollow thumping met my ears. It was amazing.
"Is she okay?" I asked Tabitha, who was getting an IV ready. I spotted the needle in her hand and felt like crying again.
"Yup," Tabitha responded cheerfully. "Everything looks good. I'm gonna check your dilation in a minute, though, okay?" Great. As much as I liked Tabitha and knew it was her job, I didn't exactly want her poking around down there. My own heart skipped when I tried to remember the last time I shaved. A week? Two weeks? Shit. Poor Tabitha.
Charlie stared out the window silently, shoulders stiff and jaw tense. A stream of apologies fell from my lips as Tabitha looked. She shut me up by telling me over and over, in her naturally easy-breezy tone, that it was fine. (I was still upset, though.) Thankfully Charlie wasn't paying attention at that moment or else we both would have been an awkward mess. My nurse put my legs and the sheet down and patted my foot. I noticed I didn't have socks on; no wonder my toes were so cold.
"Four centimeters," Tabitha announced brightly, and my eyebrows jumped to my hairline. Already? Was that normal? Or had I not been paying as much attention to my contractions as I thought I was? Oh well. I assumed it didn't really matter. I was four centimeters closer to meeting my baby girl, so I comforted myself with that realization. Six more to go, Bella.
It was a long night. I urged Charlie to get some rest, and it broke my heart when he started snoring in that chair and I got a good look at his tired face. He had shadows under his eyes and I started feeling guilty, mad at myself for putting him in this position. No father wants a grandchild at forty, especially not when said grandchild doesn't have a dad and its mother is still in high school. As much as he told me he had accepted it and would always be there for both of us, he didn't have to say it out loud for me to know this wasn't what he wanted for me. My mom wouldn't want it for me, either.
That's what hurt the most. Not the staring in hallways and classrooms, not being the youngest pregnant girl in Forks, not the sacrifices Charlie was making for me. No, the fact that Renée would be disappointed in me hurt more than anything. She might have had me at nineteen, but she and Charlie were married. I wasn't conceived by a drunk dude at a party who I don't remember meeting or seeing ever again. Renée raised me on her own with help from my grandmother, but at least I had a relationship with my dad. At least she knew who her child's father was and that I was created out of love. Renée was done with school when I was born. She'd already grown into some sort of woman. But me? I was seventeen. Barely an adult. More of an emotionally mature child. I'd been the grownup in my time with my mom but that did not mean I was supposed to be irresponsible enough to drink and have unprotected sex with a stranger. God, some first time that was.
Well, I don't actually remember it since my brain was fried by alcohol—I mean it went so hard that I wound up pregnant. Just my luck.
I suppressed a sob and stared at my belly. How could I regret something I already loved so much? It was hard not to be in love with my baby. It came automatically to me. My love for her was necessary like breathing. In the beginning I might have tried not to get attached, but everything changed the first time I heard her little heart beating and saw her inside me—now it was hard to believe that was only several months ago. Now she'd had enough of her comfy home in my tummy and wanted out. I was thankful I had Charlie and my friends to support me; thankful society didn't shun me as terribly as I imagined, thankful I didn't get kicked out of the house. Now the desk in my room had been pushed to the side to make way for the same crib I slept in seventeen years ago. I'm grateful Charlie kept that, as well as the zoo animal mobile my mom made herself.
Tabitha came in every thirty minutes to check on me and to see if I'd progressed. Contractions got stronger, longer, and closer together as the night wore on; I kept watching the sky, waiting for the sun to peek out from behind the clouds. If I were to be graced with a visible sunrise on the day of my daughter's birth, that would be something akin to a miracle. We had gotten nothing but rain and gray skies all summer. It bugged me to think the darkness wouldn't clear, even on today.
I was thankful when Tabitha gave me an epidural; my lower back and hips were killing me. I slept for a bit around seven when I gave up hoping the sun would come out. I had reached nine centimeters by eight (which was pretty impressive; I dilated almost to a ten in just five hours). I spent most of the night glancing absentmindedly at the television, biting my nails, and trying to get comfortable in the bed. I wished I had brought pillows from home. Eventually I wasn't allowed to eat anything except ice chips, and I could only drink juice or water, which was fine—I felt like I'd just throw food up anyway.
Charlie was surprisingly levelheaded when he woke up. He went down to the cafeteria to grab breakfast and we talked a little about names for the baby while he ate. I had some cute ideas but wasn't going to decide until I saw my daughter. I fleetingly considered calling her Renée after my mom, but that didn't feel right. I don't know why but I had a sense that it wouldn't fit, at least not for a first name. I also didn't want to be constantly reminded of the person and life I'd lost every time I said my child's name.
A lot of things started happening at once as soon as Tabitha confirmed I was at a ten. Two other nurses walked in, soon followed by my OBGYN, Rachel Larson, who greeted me with a smile and a warm "How are you?" as well as an apology for "being so late." I assured her we were doing good and told her she didn't have to be sorry for anything. She and my dad shook hands and Tabitha brought her and the other ladies up to speed about the last six hours since I checked in. I said a silent prayer to whatever god was looking out for me that day, since I half-expected a different (and male) doctor to be delivering my baby if she couldn't make it on time. I trusted Rachel with all my heart. She had my records and was as gentle and kind with me as she would be towards anyone else, which I appreciated. I'd have (hypothetically) died if I ended up with a doctor who rolled their eyes every time I saw them and later told their colleagues about Chief Swan's slut of a daughter.
"Okay." Rachel turned to me. "Tabitha says everything looks great. Baby's in position, she's engaged and ready. What about you, sweetie? Are you ready?" No. Of course I'm not ready. I'm almost eighteen years old and I'm having a baby. I'm the furthest thing from ready that you can imagine. I didn't say any of that, though. I held back my tears and nodded.
"I know you told me you've gone to a few birthing classes, but if you want, we can go over some stuff right now just to refresh your memory," Rachel suggested, already slipping on a pair of latex gloves. I couldn't answer her because I was too paralyzed by fear, the anxiety from earlier rushing back and restricting me from doing or saying anything. My heart picked up speed and my baby moved sharply, like she sensed something was wrong with me. Tabitha rushed to me to see if I was having a seizure or a stroke or whatever, but I jerked myself out of it in time before any of them could panic.
"I'm fine," I whispered hoarsely. Tabitha rubbed my shoulder comfortingly. Charlie took a step back, watching me warily. "Um, yeah, we can talk," I said to Rachel, embarrassed now. I honestly couldn't remember those classes at the moment, so it was nice to have Rachel remind me of the important things I'd learned. I paid attention as much as I could, wanting to seem like I was retaining all the information she was repeating. But I kept worrying on the inside, afraid I would screw it up. The one thing that scared me more than my daughter being harmed during birth was being the one who hurt her—if my sweet baby girl got hurt because of something I did or didn't do, I'd have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.
When Rachel was finished telling me everything I needed to know about giving birth, there was no denying it any longer: this baby was coming and she was coming now. I couldn't stall, couldn't wait til later, couldn't keep it from happening—I was finally having my child today. Her father might not have been present, but mine sure was. I had been blessed with a team of nurses and a doctor who weren't going to stand there and judge me. I was certainly too young, but I had to be a big girl, I had to be a mother, and pull through for my daughter. She needed me, depended on me to get her here safely.
You can do it, I told myself as they positioned my legs in the supports connected to the bed. Charlie came to sit beside me on a short stool, rolling close to me, holding out his hand. I looked at him tearfully, gripping it tightly in my trembling fingers. He smiled slightly, eyes crinkling at the corners. He wasn't a man of many words, his quietness a trait I inherited from him, but in this moment it seemed like he had a hundred things to say but not enough time to speak his mind. I am so sorry, Dad. All I wanted to do was apologize.
"Okay, Bella," said Rachel, bringing me back to the task at hand. "When the next contraction comes, you're gonna push as hard as you can." At least I have an epidural. At least this is happening at the hospital. At least my baby has her doctor. I didn't really care what happened to me.
Giving birth the usual way wasn't as liberating for me as it might be for most women. I just wanted it done—I just wanted my child in my arms. I wanted it to be three big pushes and then a screaming baby is placed on my chest. But nothing is that easy or quick, at least not for me. No, poor little Bella Swan doesn't catch a break. She doesn't get to stop working or fighting for her child just because it's uncomfortable and she can't take it anymore. I felt like a bratty six-year-old who is throwing a fit in the middle of the grocery store because their parent won't get them a toy. I felt like a bitchy, mean girl on her sweet sixteen getting mad at her parents for not buying her the shiny car she wanted. I felt immature and stupid. I was embarrassed beyond belief. Seventeen years old and bringing a new life into the world. What had happened to me?
It spoke volumes that I felt like a kid in that moment. A sad, lonely kid who had lost her mother—yet was becoming one. Because I was still just a kid. Seventeen bordering on eighteen is older, yes, and I may have seen myself as the adult for most of my life, but that wasn't an excuse for getting pregnant and being a mom so young. It really changed everything.
But another thing that said a lot about me as a person was the fact that I never considered giving my daughter away. My baby would stay with me and Charlie and I'd raise her. There was no doubt in my mind that she was going to be my daughter forever.
"You're doing so good, Bella," Tabitha and Rachel kept telling me, but it was like the pushing would never end. They let me catch my breath when I needed to and offered encouraging words whenever I started crying. The nurse named Leslie kept track of the baby's heartbeat and the other—an older, stone-faced woman—Marge, had a warm towel ready to give me when Rachel handed me my daughter. Justifiably traumatized, Charlie said nothing—but he was being strong for me.
I'll keep the rest of the gory details to myself. I wouldn't know how to describe them anyway. A couple more pushes and a bit of excited cheering was all it took to get her out; everyone in the room lit up when she gave her first cry. It was loud—more of a screech than anything. Immediately Rachel laid her on the towel across my chest, her pink face scrunched. I stared at her, speechless, as Marge gently rubbed her down, unable to believe my eyes. I was so wrapped up in looking at my crying baby that I grew blissfully unaware of my surroundings. It was just me and her, finally. Us against the world.
I didn't want to let her go—no, I couldn't. But they clamped and cut the cord and had to whisk her away to the measuring table. I never took my adoring, watery eyes off of her. Tabitha informed me she weighed six pounds, eleven ounces and was seventeen inches long. They let me pull the top of the hospital gown down to let her rest on my flushed skin; it was, without a doubt, the most amazing thing to hold her for the first time, her cheek on my breast. Her cries softened to little whimpers and eventually faded to silence as she fell asleep. I gave Charlie the honor of slipping a cap onto her itty bitty head. He had wet trails on his face, as well as the happiest smile I had ever seen. My heart overflowed with love for him.
"Proud of you, Bells," he whispered quietly, kissing my forehead, making me cry again. I didn't deserve a father like him.
"Thank you for being here," I murmured sincerely. My chin quivered. "Really, thank you. I love you so much." It had been a while since I meant those words with every piece of my heart.
He couldn't speak. He simply nodded, gave me a look that said I know. I know you do. I love you too. My daughter and I would be okay as long as we had him. He was going to be the best granddaddy in the world to my little girl, just like he was the best father to me.
"You were great, Bella," Rachel said, seeming proud of me, too. I smiled at her and mouthed my thanks. She patted my leg with a wink. Maybe certain doctors' and nurses' love for people and desire to help them overrides their first thoughts about them and their situations. Or maybe I simply got lucky enough to have this particular bunch of women on my side.
"Have you thought of any names?" Tabitha asked curiously, taking the monitors off my less-round stomach. I looked at my daughter's tiny face, still squished and rosy. I sighed, pursing my lips, remembering the conversation I had with my father earlier about that exact subject. He liked the name Kathryn—Katie for short. He also liked Willow and Mackenzie. Those were cute. I came up with Piper (mostly so I could just call her Pip because it's adorable as hell), Beatrice (kind of old-fashioned but Bea was endearing), and Tate. Tate held no significance to me; I liked it since it was short and sweet. I stared at my baby girl for a while, placing those names to her existence. It almost seemed like any name wasn't lovely enough to give her, like she was too precious and beautiful to label forever by a phonetically pleasing jumble of letters.
"I changed my mind," Charlie declared suddenly. "I think I like Tate the most now. It's different." I laughed. Great minds think alike.
"Tate," I repeated warmly, and my mouth turned up at the corners. "Tate" was the smile on my lips and my daughter was the ray of sunshine I'd been waiting for. I glanced toward the window, and wasn't surprised to see the sun had finally come out.
That wasn't too bad, was it?
Thank you so much for taking the time to read! Leave a happy friendly review telling me what you think and if I should continue posting. If this gets a good enough reception, expect the first chapter on January 2nd! As always, constructive criticism is welcome, but please be respectful.
That's all for now! Thank you again, and happy holidays!
(Also, I gave a good friend of mine a subtle shout-out somewhere in here. You know who you are.)
