21.
Charlie,
First and foremost, I'm sorry.
I never intended for things to go the way they have. Not with your daughter, not with you, not with our family or our community. I can't deny what I'm feeling, can't deny who it is I'm meant to be. I've fallen in love with someone else. It was out of my control and I feel powerless to stop it. I never thought it would happen. I thought that the arrangement you made with my grandmother was infallible, that we would find our love in time just as my parents before me, as you and Bella's mother once did. But it didn't happen. Though Bella tried, it didn't happen. And then I met Sarah and I knew that what Bella and I have is wrong, not just for me but for the both of us. It's unfair for her to be tied to me when I feel this way for another. She should be with someone who loves her fully, with her whole heart, as I do Sarah.
With that said, I'm leaving. Not just Bella, but everyone. I need to start over someplace far away, someplace where I can cut all ties. Know this has nothing to do with Bella and entirely to do with me. By the time you read this, I will have already left and I will be unreachable. Please don't come looking for me or for Sarah. We have gone together. I hope you will find peace in this and I hope you can forgive me, that you can forgive us. I hope you can understand. When Bella brings this to you to read, please don't give her the sordid details. As a favor to me, as your former son-in-law, please let her know that she was faultless in our relationship, in our marriage. She deserves more than what I can give, what we all can give. We both know that.
She deserves to be free.
Thank you and goodbye,
Jacob Black
x
There is handwriting on the back of the photograph. Hasty and scribbled, it reminds me of Jacob's. The one on the fridge with the magnet. The way the paper felt in my hands, the rough, ripped edges, the pen pressed too firmly into the lines. It is very familiar, yet different. It's strange. I can remember his handwriting but I cannot remember his hand. Where were the veins? How did they spider? The calluses? His thumbprint? A scar at the hook, is it real or imagined? There is no Jacob, there is only his letter. His curse and his gift. His entry hole and his exit wound. My opportunity, my destiny. The open door, an endless highway, a country built for the automobile.
I flip the photo back over. It is a polaroid, the sheen dulled over time, the film near liquid beneath my touch. I found it in the bottom drawer of my dresser once Edward's dresser, stuck in the crack of the wood. In it, Edward's face is younger, hazy, less defined. Cloaked in shadow. He doesn't look at the camera but, instead, at the girl next to him, atop him, his gaze focused entirely on her face. The cut of his jaw isn't as strong as today but it's still prevalent, a hard shadow, a straight line. His green eyes are bright, his expression open, youthful, unburdened. Hair long, brushing his shoulders. The woman with him is aware of the photographer. Her striking attitude turned completely to the lens, dead on. One arms drapes generously over Edward's shoulder, her body perched atop his lap, leaning in slightly, a casual angle, an acute triangle. Her hair is long, wild, wavy, not quite curled and not quite straight. Dirty blonde. The flash goes off, their faces bathed in light, over-exposed. Focused and exultant. Serious and carefree. She wears a leather jacket rolled up at the cuffs and she is happy.
The writing on the back: John, Tanya 2009
I slide the photo into my pocket and walk down the stairs. It's early morning, the sun not quite up. I've agreed to help open the coffee shop with Angela. Edward is asleep on the couch, one arm dangling to the floor, the other looped across his bare chest, blanket pooling near his hips. I try not to linger, try not to stare. The fine muscles normally hidden beneath his flannel, the surprising youth, the necklace that dangles down on a string. If I didn't know better I would think the man asleep before me and the man in the photograph were two different people. Unstudied vs harrowed. Chaos vs stability. John vs Edward. Edward vs John.
"Bella?" Carlisle's soft voice from the kitchen. His beard has grown an inch, blonde interspersed with white and gray, a winter beanie pulled tight over his head, layers of plaid, flannel, jeans, boots. In one hand, he holds a mug of coffee black is fine thanks. On the counter is another, steam wafting upward under the yellow lights of the kitchen. Reluctantly, I pull myself away from Edward and take up with Carlisle in the kitchen. He's added cream and sugar to the coffee, nutty and warm, bitter and sweet. I sip it, reintroducing myself to the taste and the aroma. The cheap stuff, Esme calls it. I leave the fancy, overpriced shit for the shop.
Carlisle gives me a soft smile, his signature. I find comfort in the acceptance there, the acknowledgement without expectations, the pure and unadulterated joy. I see it most in the inconsequential moments, the in-between times. When he's reading with Esme on the couch at night, her feet curled up in his lap. Or when he's mowing the lawn and a bird flies down to land on the fence, chirping and flapping. He pays these things special mind, these moments without meaning, these stories within stories. He gifts them his smile.
"Ready to go?" I ask in a whisper. There's a shuffle of fabric as Edward turns on the couch, repositioning. Carlisle nods and we're off, out into the early morning dew, the soft rain, the wet grass moist and sinking underfoot. I've worn my best jeans and long shirt, yet another purchase of Esme's, one designed to be professional yet comfortable when worn while working. Working. A foreign, empowering concept. A little girl trying on her mother's heels and stumbling, clacking down the hall. An impersonation. A preview. I shift in the passenger's seat, reach into my pocket, fingertips brushing the edge of the polaroid there. I wonder if I should ask Carlisle about it. About her. I can feel the words in my mouth, dancing around on my tongue. Who is Tanya? Who is Tanya and why has he never mentioned her? Is Tanya a lost girl? Is she now and was she then? Who is Edward to Tanya? Who is John to Tanya? Who is Edward to John?
I've lingered too long in my reverie and we've pulled up to the shop, a quaint place I've come to feel comfortable, all glass windows and aerial ivy, wooden tables and cork board sign. It's still dark inside, waiting for me, waiting for Angela. I snatch Esme's keys from atop the dashboard and throw Carlisle a smile, thanking him for the ride. I cannot drive but I want to try. I picture myself with Carlisle, with Edward. A parking lot in a mall. Circles and circles. Stop. Start. Break. Go. Macy's. JCPenney. Nordstrom. Kohl's. Both a premonition and a memory.
I unlock the door and step inside the shop, start the morning ministrations, the steady beat of it, the considerate tempo, the familiarity, second-nature like a heartbeat, like a foot on a gas pedal, like driving north in a country built for the automobile, steady as she goes. Angela arrives a few minutes later, flustered and apologetic for her tardiness. I don't mind talking to Angela. She's sweet and she's kind and she reminds me of someone I met once when I was with Jacob. Her name was Sarah. She worked at a store in the nearest town, one of those gas station types with the candy and the beer and the chips and the $20 cash for station 4, unleaded. She was sweet and she was kind. I imagine she is happy.
I take the order and I listen to the Muzak. The whirr of the steam in cold milk turned boiling, make it extra hot would you, hon? The drip of espresso into shot glasses, singles and doubles. The flush of the toilet. The squeak of the rag as I drag it over the wooden tables, the scratch of the chairs pulled out and in and out once more. By mid-morning, after the before-work rush, my feet are aching from standing for so long, my hands raw and red from the hot liquids and speckled with burns from my haphazard process. It reminds me of home, of washing clothes in hot water, of pans over red coal fires, of working from sunrise until sunset during the long days of summer, the scrapes and splinters as I helped chop wood, skin game, repair clothing, mind the animals, harvest the eggs. I stretch, pop my shoulders, chat with Angela.
"Hey," she says as Mike enters, tying his apron around his neck and back, "Bella and I were going to take our break together. You good?"
"Nice. Lady time," Mike replies, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Angela sighs but smiles indulgently. She treats Mike as an over-excitable puppy. I'm surprised she hasn't placed the shock collar on yet.
"Sure, Mike," she says, and together we're out in the mid-morning of downtown Tacoma. The rain has let up but the sky is still a muted gray, painted in one swatch, the first layer before the shadow and the highlight can be added. I follow Angela in silence as we walk to a nearby sandwich shop lightly smattered with people. We make it an early lunch, splitting a basic meat and cheese concoction onto two separate plates.
"So," she finally says after swallowing a few bites. "How are things going? You know, here? For you?"
"At the shop?" I ask, brow pursed.
"Sure, yeah. And here in Tacoma. Are you liking it?"
"I guess. I mean, it's fine. You are really nice." I add the last part hastily, suddenly rusty at interpersonal relations. All the words stick in my mouth. Angela chuckles and ducks her head in a blush at the compliment, her long dark hair cloaking her pale features. I see the resemblance again, the girl before me now and that other girl, her smiling face not so long ago. Ducking her head. Shy at the compliment.
"And you're close with Esme's friend Jo… I mean, Edward?" Angela cuts herself off halfway through, the old name almost out of her mouth. John vs Edward. Edward vs John.
"I like him, yes," I say slowly, not sure what she's getting at. I have the feeling that conversations are being had behind my back, ones I don't know about or understand. I remember the heated one turned mute between Edward and Esme, the words I never heard. Eyes that meet across the table, questioning and judging. His face in the polaroid, his face on the driver's license. Him but not him. Speaking but not speaking.
"He's really great. Pretty quiet, though. He comes around sometimes when he's in town. He's a truck driver, right?"
"Right," I reply, struck with a thought. If Angela knows Edward, perhaps she knows his history, knows the photograph. "Hey, do you know a girl named Tanya? Or have you heard of her?"
Angela doesn't answer but her spine stiffens like a rolling tide, from the base of her back up to her neck until every part of her is an unbreakable line, a stopgap, a barrier, a bay's break. She opens her mouth and then closes it, looks away. I am tired of all this pressure! I am through with holding back! I am about to retaliate, to unleash, the dam about to break, the face on the milk carton, this is what she looks like when she wants to know the truth, no matter how much it hurts. When she wants to know it all.
"Look, Bella–" Angela begins before I can explode and say the things I regret. She's about to continue. I can see it in her eyes. But those eyes drift from me to the door, to a presence I feel standing above my left shoulder. I turn and he is there as if summoned by the conversation itself, an act of witchcraft said three times then materialized, back from the dead. His hair is mussed from sleep, pressed down in the back. His clothes are wrinkled, the shirt tight enough that I can see the lines of his necklace beneath the fabric. I remember his bare chest on the couch, the slow and heavy breathing, relaxed, open.
"Edward," I say in surprise.
"Sorry to interrupt. I came to the shop, your... Mike said you were here," he explains after two moments of silence, hasty and raw. Angela just waves her hand. We were just talking about you, her face says. "Bella," he continues, turning to me, "Can I borrow you for a minute?"
I can't help it. The pressure is still inside me, now to be unleashed on the source. The conversations about me, about us. Esme's sleuthing glances, Carlisle's tentative care. Edward's disappearance then return, his desire to leave and his need to stay. Jacob's letter, taped to the refrigerator. The words I recognize. Sarah. Goodbye. Forgive. I'm sorry. An exit wound and a chance at more, and now I have it, here before me in a town where it always, always rains.
"Who is Tanya?" I ask him and watch as the color drains from his face.
x
for some reason i can't respond to reviews again, i'm sorry. i read every one though! thanks for sticking with me :)