Chapter One
Every night was the same.
"Tell me a story, Daddy!"
I would make a big show out of it, grumbling and sighing and whining. Although there was nothing I wanted to do more than read to my daughter, Nessie loved it when I pretended that I didn't want to.
"Please please please please!" She would twist her face up in the most adorable pout.
"Oookay, but only one!"
She would scurry off to the bookcase that housed our favorite characters: Amelia Bedelia, the Bernstein Bears, Madeline, and all the Whoos in Whooville. She would always totter back in with at least three books, more if she could carry them.
I would lift her into the bed beside me, books and all. Her punishment for bringing back too many books was an attack by the tickle-monster, and if she brought back a lot of books, I would blow on her stomach, which she loved and hated.
As soon as her giggles quieted, she would snuggle against me in the crook of my arm. Even after two years of this routine, I still marveled at the fact that she fit so perfectly against my side, as if the spot had been molded specifically for her to curl up against. She would hand me the first book, and I would begin reading until she fell asleep from the steadiness of my voice echoing in my ribcage.
I would close the book gently, kiss the top of her head, and the carefully slide myself out from under her.
"I love you, Renesmee," I would whisper in the silent room. Then I would turn off the lights and shut the door while my baby slept.
But tonight was different.
"Tell me a story, Daddy!" she said, right on cue. She knew her lines as well as I did.
"Do I haaaave to?" I complained, illiciting a giggle from my little curly-haired moppet.
"Please please please please!" she begged, her eyes shining and her mouth down-turned in a pout.
"Ooookay, but only one!" I pretended to relent.
But tonight, instead of running off to the bookcase, she stayed beside me in her little bed.
"Aren't you going to go pick one?" I asked her, confused at this sudden change in the act that we had played for as long as she could remember.
"I know all of those stories already!" she told me, with an exasperated sigh that made me laugh.
"Well, we can pick out some new books tomorrow, but for tonight we will have to read an old one," I compromised.
"No!" she cried. "You can tell me a story!"
"What? I don't know any good stories," I offered as an excuse. But it was a thin one, and she was bright enough to know that. She also knew as well as I did that I could never say no to her when she begged me to do something.
"Uh-huh!" she said, adding an emphatic nod to encourage me. One sight of her eyes open wide, and her curls bobbing with assurance, and I was sold.
"All riiiiight. What do you want to hear about?"
She looked me straight in the eyes and said boldly: "Tell me about Mommy."
I could feel my throat closing up. Because it was just the two of us, Nessie and I were dependent on one another. She probably didn't realize the strength that she provided me, but without her, I would have nothing. And even though some of her mannerisms reminded me irresistibly of her mother, I loved Nessie all the more for it. Even so, the subject of Nessie's mother was taboo. I told Nessie enough so that she wouldn't have questions, but never anything more. This sudden interest bewildered me; Nessie hadn't brought up the topic for years now.
"Mommy uhh..." The words were getting stuck in my throat. I had carefully constructed my days so that I would never have to think about Bella; I poured all of my concentration into Nessie. Willfully surfacing the memories of Bella was even worse than drowning them out, my whole body was being flooded with Bella's presence. I could smell the freesia of her hair, hear the tones of her laugh, feel the smoothness of her cheek, taste the sweetness of her kiss, and, worst of all, see every detail of her body. Three years later, and she is still completely alive within me.
"Mommy loved you very very much, Nessie," I finally choke out. "When you were born, she cried because you were so beautiful. You already a couple curls on your head and your hands were so tiny and perfect. She loved you so much that she would barely let me hold you after you were born; she wanted you all to herself."
"But, Daddy, I know this story already too!" Nessie interrupts me. "I want to hear something new about Mommy. I already know all about Mommy and me. I want to know about Mommy and you!" she demands.
No amount of begging, however persuasive, would convince me to breach that subject with her. Even all of these years later, it was still too hard to remember that time in my life. Maybe if things were different, if Bella was still here, then I could tell Nessie more. But I can't release that part of me, because if I do, then I fear that it will begin to fade away. But if I keep it close and keep it secret, then I can hold onto Bella forever.
"Not tonight, kiddo. Maybe when you are older," I tell her. It seems like the right thing to say, like something a good father would say. But it pains me as I shut out her light and close her door that for the first time, Nessie refused to let me kiss her goodnight.