The next couple of days passed without much incident, and still no sign of my father. I stayed up in my room working through my lesson plans, trying desperately to dissociate the words on the pages from the man who wrote them in an often-futile attempt to avoid the fits of tears that would bring my mother to my side, tissue in hand, before I'd even realized I was making any noise at all. Other than rushing to my side at every perceived need, Mom seemed to stick around the kitchen, cooking and freezing more food than I'd ever seen at once; or she would read on the mudroom couch – I don't know how she could stand that nasty old thing, but she said it reminded her of home. It was here when we moved in, all brown plaid, scratched wood, and old, wet dog smell; I didn't want it around and neither did my Dad, but two against one didn't matter when the "one" was my mother – he'd always cede to her wishes eventually – and so there it was, out in the mudroom, surrounded by boots. It was one of the few things they ever fought about.

"We can't get rid of it; it's just like Charlie's!" She crossed her arms, and steeled her gaze.

"Bella, darling, it's unsanitary. We have no idea what's living on that thing! We can have a new one custom made – scratches and all." He smiled and stretched a hand out toward her, but she wouldn't meet it.

"I'm not sure you're hearing me, Edward. I am keeping this couch," she slowed down and almost snarled the words at him. "It...reminds me...of my...dead...father's! And that's just that!"

I watched from my perch on the doorstep as my father let out an audible huff and gripped the bridge of his nose, relieving the headache he would have were he human.

"Funny how I don't remember Charlie letting any filthy mutts on his furniture."

I gasped as I watched the white flash of my mother speeding outside, leaving our front door smashed and splintered in her wake, her guttural, wordless bellow echoing across the empty landscape. My father told me to go up to my room and play, and he would see me shortly, and as soon as I stood and turned, he was outside calling after her.


The third day after my father left, I woke up with a grumbling stomach after a dream about bacon – piles and piles of bacon on huge silver platters resting on tables and nightstands and unused chairs. Oooh, oh that's because I smell bacon. I wonder if I'm the only person who has such insipid dreams; Joseph dreams of Egypt's future, Jacob wrestles an angel that turns out to be God and wakes up with an injury, and me, well, I smell food in my sleep and it shows up in my dream. Wow.

My mother was cooking again. I looked at the clock: half past six, not the worst time to wake up, I suppose. On went the robe, and downstairs went the Renesmee. Holy dork, Batman. And then I heard the humming; my mother – serious, subdued Bella Cullen – was humming Heart and Soul in the kitchen, off key. I stepped into the room and she turned and threw a big smile.

"Morning, pancakes?"

"Huh?" Oh, right, the flipper's in her hand. "Oh, sure. Sure, I'll have a couple." Time for my smile. I sat down at the table to a huge glass of milk, another of orange juice, six bacon strips, four sausages, and at least four eggs scrambled, and of course, a couple pancakes on the way. I immediately shovelled into my breakfast, washing down big, beastly mouthfuls with milk and juice until I felt my mothers eyes on me. I swallowed hard and wiped my face. "Sorry. Pretty sure you didn't have me in a barn. S'really good, though." I poked a small piece of egg with my fork and brought it to my lips the way Dad insisted I eat – dainty, now, sweetheart.

My mother's brow furrowed as she cocked her head to the left. "Good God, you're well-trained!" She righted herself. "How did I never...?" She always seemed to think I couldn't hear her when she muttered.

"How did you never what?"

Brow-furrow again. "It's nothing, just," her face softened again and she shrugged her shoulders, "eat how you want. Who cares?" She turned back to the stove, picked up the frying pan and brought it back to the table, where she plopped my pancakes on my plate and sat down across from me; I resumed gorging myself on her amazing food. How can someone who doesn't eat know just what to put in these eggs? "So, I've been thinking."

I stopped and looked up at her again. "OK? Thinking what?"

"Well, you never knew Charlie, your grandfather. I was thinking we could go see him?"

Oh, crap. She's gone crazy, she's off her rocker and I'm alone out here with her! "Uh, mom?" Gentle, gentle. "Charlie's, um, he's, uh," Gulp. "Well, he's been gone for a while now." I sucked in a deep breath as her eyes widened. It was official, she was about to fall off the deep end and I had no idea what to do.

She laughed, clear bell-tones bouncing off the walls, and now my eyes were widening as all my options ran through my head: run away; grab a phone and run away; scream for Daddy, hoping he was nearby to hear me. What was going on?

Mom stifled her laughter in her hands, and shook her head. "Jeez, Renesmee, I know that, at least! How crazy do you think I am?" I opened my mouth, but she cut me off. "Don't answer that." I smiled again. "I just meant, I've never paid my respects and you've never seen where I'm from. I want to go back to his house and say goodbye, you know?"

Maybe I did sort of get it. "I think I do." Her hand was on the table, so I reached mine out and placed it on top of hers. Then I noticed the frying pan sitting in her lap. "You know, if you want to wander among the living, you can't do things like that." I pointed to her bare legs with a still-warm pan resting there.

"No, I guess I can't." She got up and started to do the dishes – I would have offered to help, except that she could do them so much faster than me, or whatever other reason I could insert here – and finished them before I was done eating. I took my last bite, and she grabbed my plate from under my nose. "So, girls' road trip, then?"

"Whatever you need, Mom. You're the boss."


"Aren't you supposed to have heightened senses or something? Like a never-get-lost superpower?"

"You know, you really aren't helping here, Renesmee. Hand me that map again?" I dug in the glove box, until – success! I should just keep this thing out at all times.

"'Sense of direction.' Yeah, that's a sense. Why isn't yours heightened?" Mom just sighed. "Or is this the heightened version? Scary stuff." I shook my head over-dramatically until she looked over, when she rolled her eyes and smiled. "Whoa! Eyes on the road, hands at ten and two, you crazy woman driver!"

"I don't know where you learned to be such a smart-aleck – certainly wasn't from your father, or me. I think we lived with Rose and Emmett for a few too many of your formative years."

"Yeah, Mom, you're practically perfect in every way."

"Listen to yourself, do you hear that?" She let out a chuckle. I'm the smart-aleck? Uh huh.

"Hey, about Dad. Do you, uh, do you think he was really going to hurt me?" I blurted out, unsure of just where it came from.

Mom stiffened and locked her eyes on the road. "Yes and no. I don't know, really. He wouldn't – I mean, the person Edward really is – he couldn't dream of hurting you, but, inside of him – all of us – there's this thing, this darkness maybe, that pulls us in one direction, and we have to fight against it every day." She let out a breath. "Here's the turnoff, see? I'm not so useless on the road, after all, huh?"

"Yeah, you discovered the longest highway in the country; you're like a modern-day Lewis, Clarke, and Sacajawea wrapped up in one short, cold little package."

"Ha, ha. Very funny, miss."

The signs passed: Danger de Nuit with a charging moose; Ouest; Sortie. I wrung my hands while I wondered if I should bring it up again, but I had to know if she knew what Dad was going to do, if she knew what was going to happen now, if anything would be normal again.

I cleared my throat. "So, if you don't want to talk about it, that's cool, I just–"

"I don't really want to talk about it." She kept her eyes on the road. "I'm sorry."

Back to hand-wringing, then. I dug through my purse for gum, read a chapter of my book, and watched the reflectors on the cement barriers go by. They passed too fast for me to count, but I could see them individually for longer than others could – at least that's what everyone told me. I had to be careful how much detail I described things with in public, I was always told. When I was eighteen months old – four years old in whatever-I-am years – and we were living outside of Whitehorse, we had to go into town for supplies and we stopped at Tim Horton's because I wanted a hot chocolate. As soon as we stepped through the doors, I could smell everything around me, where the scents were coming from and drifting toward. There was chilli twisting up over the counter, snaking away from the doors and right over my face, so I opened my mouth and I could taste it; it was delicious, and I told my parents that.

Mom's nervous giggle. "Oh, sweetie, you're such a good little actress; let's go out and warm up the truck for Daddy while he gets our drinks, OK?"

"But I want my hot chocolate inside; it's yummy in here!" I pulled the smells up into my nostrils and twirled around. "I wish you could taste it, Mommy."

I snapped my gaze back to the roadside; "Ontario: More to Discover." Two provinces down, three or four more to go, depending on where we planned to cross the border. I yawned and pulled my blanket up to my neck as I propped my feet up on the bench seat of my mother's monster of a dirty, blue, '79 F250. As I drifted to sleep, I felt Mom's icy little fingers on my calf.

"Whatever you're worrying about, don't. He's loved you from the moment he heard you, and he'll never stop."

I wasn't totally sure what she meant, but it was exactly what I needed to hear.