Chapter 36 - Facade

To the outside world they presented a neat facade. A happy family whose blended lives made up for the sorrow they all once faced. They were an example to others proving the human spirit could survive and yes, even thrive in the face of insurmountable tragedy and despair. A distinguished doctor and his wife. Their five children, all fostered and cared for with great love and an open heart, proving blood did not make family, but rather empathy and emotion which tied together the human race.

Except they were not human.

Selfish needs pervaded their every thought. A process instilled in them as surely as the blood of their maker. Desire of the flesh, want and greed... the sins of a mortal life amplified ten-fold through vampire eyes. Their lives were a myriad of iniquity, yet from the outside the envy of many.

It was what drove Esme Cullen to do what she did.

In life she had been a wife. A woman of happiness on the cusp of motherhood. Even now, more than a hundred years later, she could still feel the phantom quickening of the child which once grew in her belly. A son. A beautiful boy who would have his father's eyes and his mother's smile. A child she would name for his grandfather, Jonathan. A strong, sturdy name. One that would serve him well in life, sure to be written in the history books when the world discovered his greatness.

The disease which ravaged her poor body in the seventh month of her pregnancy stole the child's breath, leaving her bereft and comfortless.

Days and nights passed in a blur. Weeks became months. Esme crawled inside of herself to a secret place where pain and loss could not touch her. Madness began to creep in, blotting out the truth of what had happened from her mind.

In a nursery painted with yellow walls, beneath a frieze of circus animals parading joyfully around the room, she sat day after day in a rocking chair, humming a lullaby to a child who did not sleep in the small befrilled bed. In her hands was clutched a soft bear, a gift for her boy prince whose eyes would never see the world and whose heart would never love.

Try as they might, her family could not reach her. They would come to her daily, speaking to deaf ears and gazing into blind eyes. Her beloved husband wept for the loss that was his wife, beseeching her from bended knee to come back to him. Yet, she did not.

Anger took hold, its roots twisting and planting themselves firmly in his heart. It was on a stormy afternoon when he strode into the nursery, drunk and cursing wildly at the hand they had been dealt in life. His fingers tore the fine lace on the crib to shreds, then yanked the sweeping curtains from windows. Drawers of tiny garments, baby gowns and small trousers were dumped unceremoniously onto the wooden floor. Still, she did not stir.

Esme continued to rock, clutching the bear to her heart, humming a soft lullaby.

The man became enraged. The full measure of his desperation bubbled over. He was jealous. Jealous of a child who had never lived. A child who had taken away his life. They had become a family destroyed. He seized the bear, pulling it from her hands and began to tear the limbs from its body. Cotton stuffing flew across the room, falling gently to the ground like snow.

It was then that she screamed.

A long, piercing shriek that woke the dead... and the woman inside. "Get out!" she cried, grasping the oil lamp from the small table beside the chair. "Get out!"

The man ran from the room, feeling only fear instead of the relief he so longed for. From the window of the destroyed nursery, Esme watched her husband stumble down the street, in search of another whiskey to drown his sorrows.

Her own reflection in the clean glass panes startled her. The long dark tresses she had so carefully brushed each night lay limp and lifeless, dirty from lack of care. Traces of tear stains, unwashed from her pale skin, spoke of nights spent in weeping. There was a haunted look about her now. The rosy, glowing beauty of motherhood gone from her body and spirit.

Of their own accord, her feet moved to the door, leading her across the hallway, down the wide stairsteps, out of her home and into the street. Later, neighbors would say that they saw her walking barefoot in a white, muslin nightgown blowing behind her in the breeze, a ghostly apparition of her former self. Her feet did not stop even when they became raw, cracked and bleeding. They carried her across the wide field and to the top of a small cliff with a lighthouse overlooking Lake Michigan. The frigid waters below churned wildly, foaming against the shore. As if stepping over a threshold, Esme leapt to her death with all the grace and beauty of a prima ballerina performing the Grand Pas d'action to an absent audience.

The lighthouse keeper was mooring his boat when he saw the figure of a woman go over the cliff, the fabric of her gown billowing around her like a cloud. With fear racing through his heart he dove in after her, sure that her body would be broken to pieces over the jagged rocks. Yet, when his gnarled fingers clutched her body, pressing her chest to his old ear, he found there was life in her still. A heartbeat, so faint it was like the beating of a butterfly's wings.

In a county hospital, she languished in the morgue, waiting for the last bit of her life to extinguish and join the other souls whose bodies rested on cooling boards. That night, the angel of death paid her a visit. Three days later, she woke as a vampire, carrying with her the madness that still lived within.

The ease with which she accepted this new life, her destiny as she liked to call it, was startling. Carlisle was pleased, ever patient and loving when she stumbled through the first few years, unable to fully control the bloodlust that drove all vampires. He knew of the vagrants she attacked, the hapless souls that wandered across her path on the days when hunger gnawed in her belly. Each time she wept immortal tears, begging forgiveness for her sins.

A few years later, fever swept the country. The Spanish influenza, usually referred to as the grippe by the older generation, was indiscriminate with its victims, decimating the population, ranging from the newborn infant, strong and healthy, to the elderly. Pleas for help could be found in every newspaper. Just as many quarantine signs hung on household doors. It was the duty of every good doctor and each able-bodied woman to nurse these souls back to health.

With that in mind, they relocated to Chicago, blending in with the vast city of people. Carlisle tended the sick, Esme often by his side, wiping fevered brows and whispering soothing words of comfort to the dying. They were a worthy pair; an esteemed doctor with an angel's face and a nurse bearing all the love and patience of a saint.

The hospital was cold and drafty. Esme often pulled the folds of her shawl closer, feeling the icy wind penetrate the red bricks of the building. Though she'd left her human life behind, she swore the physical reminders never went away. Only her imagination, Carlisle assured her. Nothing more than a phantom reminder that would fade over time. Yet, somehow she knew it would never leave. Perhaps it was the gift of immortality. There were those who had been bestowed with such things, although to her, it felt more like a curse. Destined to walk the earth reminded of all that might have been; a harsh reminder of what she had lost.

The stench of disease and death permeated the cloistered walls. It was not permitted to open a window, for fear that air would steal the last breath of the sick. Each night, Esme stripped, ridding herself from the stench by burning the clothing she wore in the fire of their small apartment overlooking the Chicago river, then bathed herself with water so hot it would have burned the sensitive skin of a human being. On nights that could be spared, her husband would wash the foul disease from her long dark hair, perfuming her body with rosewater glycerin before making love to her until the dawn. Such nights were a rare occurrence.

Those struck by the epidemic flooded the hospital in waves, desperately seeking a salvation. There was none to be given. Quinine was in short supply and morphine only given now to ease the burden of passing from this life to the next. Prayer was the only absolution... and that too often performed as the sacrament of last rites.

Rain beat against rooftops, washing the windows and blocking all view of the outside world one darkened night, giving the hospital a claustrophobic feeling. Almost a disconnection of sorts. Outside the world revolved but tonight, encased in those four walls, death was all around her. The froth of blood bubbled over too many lips, causing Esme to feel helpless and alone. It was the one sad gift of this disease. The rot of death laced in blood dulled her thirst for days. She worked with a sort of frenzy, wishing it were possible to use her prenatural speed to ease the moans of agony that surrounded her.

Moving from room to room, she administered the morphine sparingly, knowing that soon there would be none left to give. Late into the night, the wails began to still, but Esme knew it was not a sign of rest. It was in the last room down a long stretch of corridor that she found a mother, laid side by side with her son. The look of this woman startled her. For all the world they could have been sisters, forcing Esme to wonder if they had been in another life.

Emaciated and weak with fever, the fingers of one hand twined with those of the boy laying next to her, she clutched at Esme's with the other. "Please... my son... help him..."

"Sshh... there now..." she soothed, wiping the sweat from the woman's brow. "The doctor will be here soon. Rest until he gets here. Save your strength," she whispered, silently finishing the sentence in her own mind. So that you can tell your son goodbye.

For the rest of the evening, Esme sat at the woman's bedside, giving her what small comfort she could. The boy next to her was dying. Already her sensitive ears could hear the fluid consuming his lungs. If he were to pass before the mother... the thought of it wrenched her heart with pain. The loss of her own son was a wound that never healed, forever bleeding from one life to the next.

Eventually Carlisle found her on his rounds, telling her it was time for them to leave. They must keep up the charade. Just then, the mother woke, choking from a paroxysm caught in her throat. Fluid began to seep from her mouth, first tinged in pink and then staining her lips with crimson froth. This was to be her last moments before forever shutting her eyes to this earth.

"Edward... save... my son..." she begged, using the last of her strength to clutch at Carlisle's white coat. "Please... anything... save him."

Blood tears pooled in Esme's eyes, her own fingers clutching the wrist of her husband with so much force she could feel the bones beneath his marble skin begin to shatter. "Carlisle," she murmured, "save him. If he were my son... he can be my son."

It was the last time the good doctor and his wife were ever seen in the Chicago hospital. When the dawn broke three days later, Edward Mason's green eyes were forever changed, awakened to his new life as a vampire. Another monster to roam the earth for eternity.

There was a melancholy that settled around him. He had been but seventeen years old at the time of his death, but was considered a man by the standards of the time. His attitude was a relic of the Victorian era, never quite catching up with the sunrise of the modern world. Along with immortality, he was gifted with being privy to other people's thoughts. They crowded his mind until he held the sides of his head to keep it from bursting. On him, Esme lavished all the love and motherly affection she would have given to her own son. In time, he called her mother, and defied both she and his father in ways only a true monster could.

There was nothing either would not give him, but it would never be enough. The teenage nature of rebellion bore heavy on his shoulders. He left them several times in those first few years, stealing the lives of those who sought out victims in dark alleyways. These were acts that he justified with long-winded dissertations on the decline of morality, claiming to be saving the world one criminal at a time. When the newspapers in New York began to flash headlines of a new Jack the Ripper in America, they knew something must be done.

Carlisle moved them to the vast wilderness of the uncharted west, finally settling in a small town on the far reaches of the continent. Forks, Washington was small. Too small for a person to go missing and not be noticed. There were also less human minds to invade Edward's thoughts. Here, he could learn to control them. Esme was certain that with time, he would overcome his demons.

It was there that they gorged themselves on the abundant wildlife, teaching Edward how to stave off his thirst for the good of their family. Others had joined them over the years. Another child had joined them before they departed from New York. A blond-haired angel, a daughter to call her own. Rosalie and Edward regarded each other with as much contempt as any human brother and sister ever could, while at the same time providing each other with the loyalty that only family could give.

It was in Forks that once again, Edward's melancholy took hold. Once more, Esme mothered him, swearing to do all that was in her power to keep him from leaping over the edge into madness.

They were not the only supernatural creatures to be found in that part of the world. They soon discovered the existence of shapeshifting men in the local Native American tribe. Selfish by nature, the Cullens refused to leave. Carlisle cited the good he could do for the growing community, though the tribe demanded they leave. Their presence there would only cause more of their warriors to change. Son by his side, Carlisle struck a bargain with the chief of the tribe, ensuring their safety from an unprovoked attack.

The shapeshifters were not the only mysterious creatures to inhabit this land. Over time, Esme's attention focused on a woman whose ways seemed to be cloaked in as many secrets as her own. There was something about this woman that called to her. Esme longed to taste the blood which flowed beneath her skin. She was enamored with Marie Swan. It was only the small boy who frequently clung to his mother's skirts that saved her from a vampire's insatiable hunger.

Carlisle found the peace of the nearby forest relaxing, the air was good for the mind he claimed. So he threw himself into study, the scholar in him blowing the dust off many volumes of books, penning notes about their kind, determined to learn as much about other vampires in America as possible. He and Edward often disappeared for weeks at a time, chasing the rumor of a gifted immortal, eager to learn more about the secrets of their kind.

While they were gone, Esme found ways to amuse herself. Often following Marie Swan for many days and nights. Soon she came to learn that the woman held more than just secrets. She held power. Power that Esme did not know existed among mortal men.

Marie Swan was a witch.

At least, that was what Esme believed. For many months she watched as the woman went deep into the woods, worshipping the moss and the trees, the softly falling rain and wind that caressed her cheek while chanting words in an ancient language. She began to disappear behind the invisible line the Cullens swore never to cross upon threat of death by the Quileute tribe.

In the winter of their second year, Carlisle and Edward departed Forks for the busy streets of Chicago once more. An old colleague and fellow vampire had written him of an unusual case. A child gifted in this life with extraordinary talent, imprisoned in an asylum out of fear and distrust. Mad to be sure, but powerful all the same.

Two days after their departure, Esme watched as Marie Swan seemed to be seized by an invisible force taking over her body. When it was over, she collapsed on the forest floor, gasping for air. Rushing to her side, Esme was desperate to help, to save this woman from whatever evil had befallen her. The moment she dropped to her knees beside her, one cool hand reaching out to help, Marie seemed to regain her senses. Golden fire shot from her palms, sending Esme reeling backward in fright.

Whatever Marie Swan was, she would be the destruction of them all.

When her husband and son returned, there was a new, hard glitter that shone in Edward's golden eyes. One that frightened her beyond all comprehension. It was a wickedness, a lust that drove mortal men to commit crimes so heinous, that they often met their end hanging from a rope. When her husband told her of what they had seen, the perfect mate for their son and the possible doom it spelled, Esme's blood ran cold.

Fear and morbid curiosity caused her to follow Marie Swan deep into the woods. Since the day she'd collapsed, the witch appeared to be weakening.

One fall day, a loose parchment fell from the pocket of her weighted bag of herbs. With infinite patience and nothing but time on her side, Esme hovered in the treetops, waiting patiently for the woman and infant child to disappear from sight. Finally she crossed onto Quileute lands and Esme dropped down from her hidden perch in the spruce tree.

The paper was covered in strange writing, indecipherable and mysterious. She bent, ready to snatch it and speed homeward before being discovered. The paper shimmered. No more than a trick of the eye, she told herself. Yet, when her hand touched the paper, fire rose from the lettering, searing the tips of her delicate fingers.

Esme's eyes widened in fear. Scanning the document she searched the images and letters for something decipherable, anything to tell her what power this curse held over their kind. In the bottom corner, the miniscule drawing of a wolf with his fangs clamped over the neck of a vampire while a woman watched from beside them.

Edward.

Her own son. The witch meant harm to her child, something Esme would not allow. Summoning all of the immortal strength Carlisle had bestowed upon her, she sped home, pausing only to wrench a heavy pair of leather gloves her husband kept for show. Relief washed over her when she arrived back at the place where the parchment had dropped. Voices echoed in the distance. Someone was coming.

Ripping the paper in two, her eyes scanned the woodsy clearing for a place to hide. Finding none, she rolled one piece up tightly, then pushed it into the hollow of a long fallen tree. The other clutched in her hand, Esme ran, tearing past the edge of town where half-erected buildings and the lumber for new homes lay spattered with mud. Desperately searching her mind for a place to hide, her eyes lit upon a nearly completed house hidden partially by the trees.

The witch followed not far behind. Esme scaled a tree behind the new construction, concealing herself from sight, waiting like a spider for the woman to be caught in her web.

Pale and shaking, she appeared like a weak ghost, hardly a breath drawing into her lungs. Seizing the moment of opportunity, Esme Cullen swung from the branches, raking her claw-like nails across the woman's translucent flesh.

Not long after, word spread that the witch was missing. Search parties fanned out in all directions, unable to find a single trace. Yet, Esme knew that day in the forest would not be the last time their paths would cross.

Now, almost one hundred years later, she had again seen that hard glitter in the eyes of not only her son, but also in her daughter. The time was soon coming. Clutching the spot where her unbeating heart lay in the cold confines of her marble chest, she knew. Fate was ready to once again intervene. They would do whatever it took. No matter the cost. Esme would see to it.

Bella Swan would become her daughter.

Alice would come home.

Without warning, she snuck off into the night to search out what would be and destroy anything that might prevent it.