PART I: EDWARD
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The flight from Birmingham to Seattle has been silent. Somehow, as if we had been struck dumb by a bolt of lightning or an earthquake, we perched uncomfortably at our seats, avoiding looking at one another – dad hid behind a fishing magazine, as some British dads in period movies hide behind their copy of The Times; I watched the clouds around us, twisting my hands in my lap, knees pressed together as tightly as if I was wearing a skirt.
I used to love wearing them, skirts. I loved the freedom of movement they offered, the way I felt the fabric flow in the breeze, touching my legs. I used to love wearing knee-length skirts the colour of field poppies, shaped like they were formed of their petals, with a black waistband.
But that was gone. Now it was jeans for me.
xxx
It began raining outside as we were passing through the dense old forest, overgrown with moss; I smiled at it. I had almost no memories of how Forks looks like, but I remembered the forest and the many times I got lost in it, daydreaming, reading, singing and dancing in the surety no one sees me, running away to its arms for comfort.
"You remember Billy's old red Chevy truck? The one in which you used to play with Jacob?"
"Vaguely, why?"
"Billy's left it with me to sell it since he ended up in a wheelchair and has moved with Jake to Hawaii, so I thought I'd buy it for you, if you want," Dad grunted and I felt a pang of horror in my heart.
"Billy's ended up in a wheelchair? How – when?" I remembered Billy; so full of life and jokes, just like his son Jake. It felt unreal.
Dad sighed. "Some moron ran him over when he was shopping in Port Angeles. Now he's paralysed from the waist down. Nothing to be done."
"God." I wrapped myself up in my arms tight. Poor Billy. Poor Jacob. Stupid cars. Stupid, stupid cars. "How's he taking it?" I asked after a while.
"Pretty good."
I thought of how Billy once fixed my skinned elbow and persuaded dad not to force me to go fishing with them after I cried seeing them kill the fish; when I pictured Billy, I saw only warmth of a good man. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right.
"So what do you think?" Dad asked after a moment of silence.
"About what? Billy?"
"The truck."
"Oh, sure. The truck. Sorry." I bit my lip and looked on my lap. "That's great of you, Dad. Really. Thanks so much, wow, I appreciate it. But... well, to be honest, I don't feel like I need a car just to go to school. There's sure some bus, right?"
He shot his eyebrows up at me, in a sort of grumpy puzzlement. "Bus? Not sure about that, Bells."
I looked ahead at the trees surrounding us left and right, crumpling my coat in my hand a little. "Or I can just walk. It's nice here. Will be nice to take in the scenery as I go." I pulled the window down an inch and reached out, to let the rain touch my hand. As it did, it made me smile. "It's so green here," I whispered, cuddling with the rain. "It reminds me of the Peak District."
I blinked, swallowing, and breathed in the air, fresh with rain and the scent of fir and pine needles, of wet leaves and grass. It felt like a caress inside my lungs. I smiled again. Then I realized Dad was watching me. The moment he caught my glance, he looked back on the road, the same unreadable gruff expression as ever.
"You sure you don't want it? It's one old beast, but it runs great."
I was silent for a moment. "I don't have a driving license, dad."
He puckered his brows. "I thought you can drive in the UK since you turn seventeen?"
"Yeah. But I didn't want it."
He frowned harder, shaking his head a little. "Well, suit yourself. Just if the weather gets real nasty or you're sick, I'll give you a ride, okay?"
"Yeah, thanks."
And the silence butted in again, heavy, oppressive. What do two strangers say to each other in a situation like this?
"Dad?" I peeked at him, my heart beating hard.
"Hmph?"
"Thanks for taking me in."
He glanced at me and cleared his throat. "You're welcome." After a moment, he added in a gruff voice, staring ahead: "I'm glad to have you back, Bells."
I hoped that was the truth.
xxx
Dad helped me drag my bags and suitcases up the stairs to my room and then left to let me settle in. He wavered at the door and looked back at me, opening his mouth to say something – and then he just hung his head, looked away and shut the door behind him.
"Dad-"
But the door was already closed.
I rubbed my eyes and glanced around with a slight unease. So this was it. My room. My old childhood room, which I'm sure he took great care to update for the needs of a high schooler with a desk and work lamp from IKEA, to make nice, to make inviting. But it wasn't. It was all somehow angular, modern, impersonal, somehow it all screamed of IKEA and Target and Walmart, the bedding, the curtains, the waste bin, the nightstand, all as if picked by a man who was at loss what to choose for a teenage daughter, picked because it was in store or in a catalogue, because it was functional, because it was within his budget, regardless of the lack of cosiness it created when put together, the lack of a personal touch. The sickly pale green walls dejected me. The room seemed to me in its coldness and with its sharp edges a personification of the wasteland that is depression.
Still the view was from another world, with the bay window overlooking giant mountains covered with forests exuding filmy white mist. I watched the breathtaking mountains and the looming storm on the horizon beyond them as if transfixed; then I sat down on the bed, pulling my knees to my chin, and stared on. There was peace in that sight. And I wanted to cry, now that I was at last in private and could, but no tears came, much as I searched for them– somehow I was empty.
Downstairs, Dad was surely grieving, too, in his own way, alone, making a pretence of watching a football game maybe as he did in most of the evenings in England – and I did not know how to make it easier for him.
Tired, I curled up on the bed and fell asleep I have no idea how; I jolted awake at the sound of a thunder and but for the lightning bolts the sky was all dark. I like hearing the elements go wild, especially when I'm safe in a warm home and can just watch it through the window – but this time it did not lift the tension I felt all through me. I could still hear faint noise of the TV downstairs and wondered for how many hours dad had been glued to that screen, like each evening year after year, in complete loneliness unless Billy stopped by or he went fishing with him or the Clearwaters.
I went to my backpack and took out of it a framed photo of mum, my best friend Julia and me laughing above my birthday cake with fifteen candles flaming on it. I put it on the desk and caressed their happy faces with my finger. My hand shook and I went to the bathroom to splash some icy water on my face and to drink.
I tried to unpack some more; but the buzzing of the TV downstairs kept tugging at my ears.
Slowly, carefully, clinging to the handrail, I went down the stairs and leant over the railing to peek at dad in the living room. Then I gathered my courage and went over to his couch, where he was sitting with a beer can in his hand and just as I thought, still staring at the TV screen.
"A good game?"
He cleared his throat. "Nice enough."
"So... is your team winning?"
"So far," he grunted and drank up.
I shifted the weight on my other foot and tucked my hair behind my ear.
He cleared his throat again.
The fans roared inside the TV at someone's foul.
Dad waved to the place beside him. "You wanna... sit and watch along?"
I nodded and perched at the spot he indicated.
And so our first evening alone in his home after eleven years, we just sat and watched a football match, in silence.
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Author's note: Thank you very much for reading, I hope you enjoyed:-) I'm not a native speaker, so I would really appreciate it if any of you native speakers could point out any grammar mistakes I've made so that I could correct them. Sorry it took me so long to edit this, RL is really busy, unfortunately - but, fingers crossed, new chapter should be posted relatively soon. Just a few tweaks left! Reviews are love and thanks to everybody who's sticking with this story. Silversimon, Kochabilka, NicNick et al... you guys rock:-)
PS: Updates on progress with this fic will be on my profile.