Hello Readers! I understand that is has been a long time since I've been in the FF game, so review and critiques are highly appreciated. This is a story that has been fighting to come out for a few months now, having lived through a few tragic experiences of my own. I hope you all enjoy, new chapters will be posted weekly.
Dust is an interesting metaphor for the passage of time. It can mark time silently and unobtrusively; easily recognized by all cultures, and just as easily washed away. So when I found the letter tucked into the side table of my mother's dresser, I knew by the amount of dust covering the front that a significant amount of time had passed since it had last been touched.
My mother had deliberately kept my father's death from me. Not that I really knew him, He left him when I was just a toddler. I have only vague memories of him, nothing to truly mourn. Which is why I couldn't understand why I was shaking so bad as I unfurled the letter from the Fork's Police Department. He had died in the line of duty, a heart attack chasing down a suspect. I tried to picture his face, anything about him, but only shapes remained.
When I confronted her about it, my voice took on this strange strained quality, like I was trying to speak through a muted microphone. My face felt tight and flushed, and the shaking of the letter was audible as I struggled to keep my hand still.
"Mom," I said, grimacing at how upset I sounded. "What is this."
She was sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through a People Magazine. She looked lazily over her shoulder, seeing the letter in my hand. If she had any reaction to it, I certainly didn't see it.
"Issy, why are you looking through my things." She spoke to the glossy pages, rather than to me.
"Why didn't you tell me Charlie died." It wasn't even a question, mostly because I didn't expect an answer.
"Bella, he wasn't a father to you!" She turned around now, facing me with her blazing angry eyes. "Where was he when you graduated high school? When you had your ballet recital? When you started kindergarten? He was not your father! He left you!" There was no point in arguing when she got like this. It had always been me and her since I can remember. We've always been a team, so it surprised even me when angry tears started to fall from my eyes.
"Yes Bella, get upset, because that always solves everything." She scoffed angrily and turned back to her magazine. "Get out of my face." Her low voice in contrast with the explosive anger scared me, and I scurried back upstairs to my bedroom. The letter was still clutched in my sweaty hand.
I closed the door quietly behind me, and swiped at the tears in my eyes. It would do no good to cry. I laid the letter reverently on my bedspread, and sat with my head in my hands. I knew nothing about my father, or my former father I suppose. I only knew he had come home one night and ordered my mother out of the house. She packed what she could carry, fearing for her life and mine, and in the cover of night we were gone.
With slowly drying eyes, I gazed out my window onto the Phoenix suburb we lived in. The sun was just beginning to set, and an orange glow cast into my bedroom. I wanted to know more, I needed to understand why a man who had never been in my life was suddenly gone.
I was 18 now, a senior in high school. I had school in the morning, and my packed backpack sat at the foot of my bed. I reached down to pull my homework out, and before I realized what was happening, I had emptied it completely. My school things on the floor, I stood and walked to my closet.
I am not sure why I did it, or why the compulsion to learn more about my father was so strong, but within a few hours, I had packed my backpack with a few outfits, my MacBook, and a book, and was making my way downstairs. I had the letter from the Forks Police Department stuffed in my back pocket, and my phone out, buying a flight to Tacoma, Washington. I stood at the bottom of the steps, watching my mother for a few moments, she turned around to face me.
"Where are you going?" She asked, a current of anger still vibrated under her words.
"I'm going to go study with James. We have a quiz on Mansfield Park tomorrow." The lie rolled easily off my tongue, as it had for so many years. When I pulled the front door shut behind me, I idly wondered when I would see her again, and was surprised to find out that I didn't care.
It took two buses and a couple miles walking to reach the airport, which gave me time to reflect on my decision. Panic rolled through my chest at what I had just done, my mind was racing, and it was still a few more hours before my midnight flight. I think the nice woman who checked me in noticed how bad I was shaking, but she didn't say anything, thank god. I felt like any moment I was going to crack and run back home, apologizing to my mother, and promising to never speak about my father again.
I settled down at the gate for my flight, and pulled out my copy of Jane Austen's Mansfield Park. I truly did have a quiz tomorrow on it, whether or not I actually made it to class. It eased my mind some to identify with poor Fanny, leaving the only home she'd ever known to go live with complete strangers, and by the time my flight boarded, I was beginning to feel better about my choices.
It didn't take long for me to fall asleep, and before I knew it, I was waking up over San Francisco for my first layover. It was early, the sun was just starting to rise, and I spent my short moments in California gazing out the massive bay windows watching planes take off and land. I wondered where these people were going, and whether they felt as awful as I did.
I'm not one to make spur of the moment decisions, more often than not I overthink things to the point where I have talked myself out of it. Even in San Francisco, a thousand miles away from my mother's home in Phoenix, I was still uncertain if I made the right decision. I pulled the thin MacBook from my bag and checked my email while I waited for my flight to board. I was curious if my mother had reached out to me, as my phone had remained silent thus far. Nothing. I checked one more time to be sure and put it away.
I was still sitting on the crumpled letter in my back pocket, and I pulled it out once more to inspect it. It was typed on official letterhead, and it skillfully conveyed the condolences of the entire department, signed in a messy script by an Arthur Nylund. I hadn't really given much thought to what I would do once I arrived in Forks, but the return address on this letter seemed like a good place to start.
The gate attendant called my boarding group, and I hastily stuff the letter back in my pocket before grabbing my bag. I probably should have packed more, or brought something bigger, but I was so thankful when I saw people trying to stuff oversized luggage into the overhead compartment. For the second time in 12 hours, I fell asleep before we had even taxied down the runway. Running away is exhausting.
It was a warm overcast afternoon when we finally landed in Seattle/Tacoma. I was able to escape the airport quickly, not having checked any luggage. It was going to take two long buses to travel the five hours up the Olympic peninsula to Forks. I was thankful that I never got carsick, and pulled my battered copy of Mansfield Park back out. I delighted in hearing about this large but loving group of relatives that lived in the country side. I daydreamed that I would be able to find the happiness that Fanny had, living in the attic above the park, surrounded by her books.
It was hard to read for too long, the road out to the peninsula was breathtakingly beautiful. I spent a good portion of the ride with my forehead pressed against the window, trying to take it all in. At some point, my thoughts drifted to what it would have been like to have lived with both my father and my mother. I reached up and touched my face to find it wet.
There was never a point where I wished for a normal family. My mother and I were a team, we always had been and I never wanted anything different. Sure, we had our hard days, any parent and child did, but it was just fine. I spent most of my time alone, and I liked it that way. I was always more interested in books, than other people. But now, I was aching for a man I didn't know, for a life surrounded by a big loving family. For someone who cared enough to call me when I didn't come home for 24 hours.
Renee was never the touchy freely type, we expressed our love in the form of adventures. We spent every summer break and school holiday on the road. Recently, as I focused more on high school, it became harder to travel as much as we used to. It felt good to be on the road again, regardless of the fact that I was alone.
By the time I finished crying, the bus was slowing down, and pulling into an empty depot. This was it, the end of the line. As I stepped out, I wish I had thought to bring a heavier jacket, drizzle landed in my hair in delicate drops and I didn't have a hood to cover it. I pulled the letter out again, shielding it under a bus shelter, reading the return address on the envelope. According to the map application on my phone, it wasn't far from here. In fact, nothing was far from here. Forks was absolutely tiny.
I set off, stuffing my headphones in my ears to block out the noise of my doubting mind. The walk to the police station was stunningly gorgeous, and for almost dinner time, the town seemed to be buzzing with pedestrians. By the time I had reached the station, three people had already smiled at me. Christ, small town people were weird.
My heart was racing and my ears were flooded with the sound of my pulsing heartbeat, and by the time I pulled the door open I was a wreck. The interior was small, a few cubicles and a receptionist sitting at a beautiful redwood desk.
"Can I help you?" She asked kindly, and I stared at her like an idiot, Arthur Nylund's letter hanging damply in my hand. It took a moment before my stiff, awkward legs carried me to her desk.
"Um, I'm Bella," I began dumbly, "Bella Swan, and-" I didn't get the next sentence out before a flash of recognition crossed her face, and I flinched at her grief.
"You must be Charlie's girl." She said, her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears, and I didn't think it was possible to be even more uncomfortable than I was in that moment.
"Let me go get Arthur, just...just uh, take a seat." She said, motioning towards the orange plastic chairs that lined the wall. She was out of her seat and returning with a tall, balding man before I even had a chance to sit down.
"Arthur this is Bella," she reached her hand toward me, and then added in a softer voice, "Charlie's Bella."
Arthur gave me a knowing, sad smile before reaching out to take my hand.
"Bella, it's so good to see you." He griped my hand like it was a life line. Although he didn't say it, I heard a silent 'again' at the end of his sentence. I was beginning to panic again. What happens next? Did I come all this way just to shake hands with a man who wrote me a letter about my father? I didn't have courage to ask him anything, so I nodded, smiling so he wouldn't think I was weird. My mind was racing, and my pulse was faster and louder than I ever thought was possible.
"Bella," he snapped my out of my dazed state, "would you like to come with me for a moment?" He smiled a kind smile, the kind of smile I imagined a father would give his daughter. Logically, I just met this man, and I knew nothing about him, getting in a car and going anywhere with him was not the smartest idea. Then again, neither was flying 2,000 miles to the Pacific Northwest to see a town that a man I didn't know lived in. I nodded, not trusting my mouth to speak.
"Nance, will you let the boys know where I've gone? I'll be back in a few." Arthur said, placing a hand on my shoulder and leading me out of the office. The teary eyed woman nodded, and returned to her seat with a heavy sigh.
Arthur led me out of the small police station and into a cruiser parked in front of the building. We drove in silence for a few minutes until the awkwardness got to be too much for him, and he cleared his throat before speaking.
"I'm sorry about my wife," he said gently, "Nancy can be a bit emotional at times." He glanced at me, I assumed to gauge my reaction.
"You've grown so much since we've seen you." He continued, and I fought to keep back a grimace.
"Uh," I had to clear my throat of emotion before continuing, "Thank you."
"Charlie was a good man," he said, his face seemed pinched in pain. I had to close my eyes to keep tears from spilling out. After a few short moments, I felt the car begin to slow, and I opened my eyes. We slowly parked in front of a modest Victorian home, with a rusted orange truck parked in the driveway. The house looked like it hadn't been touched in a long time, paint was chipping off the siding, and at least two of the window shutters were hanging on one hinge. It was surrounded on three sides by majestic Douglas fir trees, and I felt a weird pull in my chest.
"Is this..." I trailed off, hoping Arthur would understand what I meant. He nodded.
"We've left it the same, we weren't sure what to do with it." I got out of the cruiser, my legs felt numb and wiggly. The driveway crunched under my feet as I reached the rear of the old truck. I placed a hand on the beast, almost lovingly.
Arthur plodded up to the front porch through wet grass, and unhooked a key from a large key ring.
"I supposed this is yours now," he said handing me the key, "you were the only family he had."
I slipped the key into the lock, and turned, opening the door slowly. A smell unlike anything I could describe reached my nose, the only word for it was home. I turned to Arthur, who shuffled awkwardly on the porch.
"I'll uh, leave you to it." He said. "If you need anything, me and the boys at the station as available anytime." I nodded, still silent.
He turned to walk away, and only made it off the first step before turning back. "Everyone loved your father Bella, we are all so sorry to see him go." Tears immediately spilled from my eyes, before I could stop them. The emotion of the last 24 hours were so overwhelming that it took everything I had to remain standing. Arthur Nylund closed the distance between us and pulled me into a hug. He patted my back awkwardly, trying to console this crying teen in his arms.
When he finally pulled away, I wiped at my eyes. "Thank you." I said, my voice stronger now.
"Call if you need anything," he said, "we'll be around."
With that, he returned to his vehicle and pulled away from the house. I stood on that porch for a long time after he left, not ready to go inside. It seemed insane to me that at the same time yesterday, I had been standing in my mothers kitchen, holding a letter that said half of who made me is dead. I was never a person who made irrational decisions, I didn't do things like this. Yet, hear I was standing on a strangers porch, waiting to go inside and find out who my dad really was.
"Well," I said to myself, "here I am." I stepped across the threshold.
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