A/N: I don't own Twilight but I do own Marley
Surprise! To celebrate the first day of the last month of this trying year I decided to share the first chapter of 2.0. I can't wait to see what you think of the changes and additions.
Now to thank my village!
My prereaders deserve gold medals I swear. AushaPasha, my person, thank you for your constant reassurance and your fierce loyalty. Mayplestyle, your unwavering support and violent threats are always appreciated. anhanninen: My longest fanfic friend. If you're reading this there are much better things you could be doing like writing me SitN. Sally! Alice's White Rabbit, thank you for making everything legible for me. You rock my socks one "make this one paragraph at a time". Angela, addictedtofic, without you embarrassing me in that zoom that night I wouldn't be taking on this project. JA Mash, my best bitch made me the beautiful banner.
EPOV
We're stuck at a red light when I look up and catch her staring at me in the rearview mirror. Head tilted to the side, her icy blue eyes that have owned me since day one are inquisitive, searching, and studying. If you ask me, much too serious for a four-almost five-year-old. They draw me in and make me forget that we're in the middle of traffic.
To lighten the mood, I cross my eyes and stick my tongue out at her and watch those baby blues roll in the back of her head. Her rose-tinted lips form a toothless smile, a painful reminder of her accident last week when she lost not only her first but second and third teeth in succession. Marley versus a stray twig while we were enjoying a day at the park. My clumsy girl didn't stand a chance.
I've always deduced her inability to walk across a flat surface as a hereditary thing. Her birth parents must have had four left feet between the two of them. There are days when I think wrapping her in bubble wrap would be beneficial, but my parents and all the parenting blogs and books assure me she's a kid and that bumps and bruises are to be expected.
My four-and-a-half-year-old knows most of the ER staff on a first-name basis, and not just because her pawpaw is the chief surgeon of the hospital.
My girl is a danger magnet, and she definitely keeps me on my toes.
"Daddy, the light turned green." She giggles. "Dork."
"Hey now!" I chide.
She blows me a kiss with an impossibly tiny hand and signs, "I love you," before turning her gaze out the window. She loves to play punch buggy—a game my best friend's husband recently taught her.
When we pull up to our usual Wednesday night haunt, she's telling me all about her day at school. She got to hand out invitations to her birthday party and was excited.
Marley gets two parties.
One on February second, her actual birthday, where all her friends from school are invited to celebrate. The second is a more private family gathering, February fourth—the day she became a Cullen.
Also known as the best day of my life.
The conversation segues to her class's Show and Tell.
"Jacob, a boy in my class, got a kitten for his birthday and got to bring it in," she babbles. "It's so cute and tiny. He named her Marshmallow 'cause she's white and soft and fluffy. But she don't smell like a marshmallow; she smells like Uncle J after he goes to the gym—" Her sentence is cut off by loud and infectious laughter that fills the car and makes my heart swell. "She pooped right under Miss Aimee's desk—"
I carry my little hyena into the pizzeria and set her down at our usual booth while she continues to laugh like a maniac and talk at the same time. "—and she didn't even know."
"All right, Muffin. Time to calm down before they kick us out." I chuckle, kissing her baby-soft cheek and sitting on my side of the booth. "I'm glad you had a good day at school."
"Oh, I did." She nods, her long brown hair flying all over the place. "We got to play with Marshmallow and Victoria's mommy brought in a real snake." She shudders. "I didn't like that."
"What about your show and tell?" I ask.
"Everyone liked my special blankee. They think it's just so cool 'cause it's made from clothes I used to wear when I was a baby."
I smile. "That's awesome."
The server stops by to get our order, and Marley takes over, like always. We start off with an order of fried mozzarella sticks with extra dipping sauce, a pink lemonade for her, and a Dr. Pepper in a big boy cup for me.
"You need to stop growing up so fast," I comment, tweaking her nose.
I wish I could vacuum seal her at this age. Four and a half, with not a care in the world, and cute as a button.
Time flies. It feels like just yesterday she came into my life.
Our drinks and appetizer arrive, and Marley orders the pizza. She settles into making a giant mess with her food.
"Daddy, I know what I want for my birthday," she comments as she drowns a cheese stick in marinara and takes a big bite.
I know where this is going but ask her, anyway.
"And what's that, Muffin?"
There's red sauce covering her mouth, and she holds up one stained finger as she chews and swallows.
Her face is hopeful and I know exactly what she's going to ask for.
"I want a puppy. A great big puppy with black fur and no barker. Because that scares me." She nods matter-of-factly. "I want to name him Pooka even though he don't look like him. We can play fetch in the backyard, and I can lie on him for nap time."
I sigh and proceed to break my baby's heart. "Marley, sweetie… we've talked about this." Her shoulders fall as does her smile. "I don't think we're ready for a big commitment like a puppy."
The rest of dinner is spent in disappointed silence. She doesn't fight to sign my credit card slip for me and insists on strapping herself into her booster seat. My usual chatterbox doesn't entertain me on the drive home. Instead, she sighs loudly multiple times and eventually falls asleep. I have to carry her limp body up the front steps, grabbing the mail on the way inside. Marley wakes up when I deposit her on the couch.
She's still upset, but I know it won't last long. Grudges aren't her thing, and we've had the dog conversation at least a dozen times just this month.
I rifle through the mail as I walk to the kitchen, knowing Marley is going to want ice cream to soothe her broken heart. Bills, an early birthday card from Aunt Carmen and Uncle Eleazar, and a regular everyday run-of-the-mill envelope addressed to one Mr. and Mrs. Cullen. I snort because there's never been a Mrs. to my Mr. It's always been just Marley and me. Just the way we like it.
The jalapenos from my personal pan pizza have given me indigestion, so I pop a couple of Tums and open the bills first. Cable, cellphone, and utilities. A satellite dish company is offering me a great deal. It's the envelope addressed to me and my imaginary other half, that gets my attention.
The loopy handwriting intrigues me. The return address is a P.O. Bbox in Seattle, and we don't know anyone in the western half of the country.
I open it anyway.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Cullen,
My name is Isabella Swan.
Against my attorney's advice and insistence, I have decided to contact you personally rather than going through the legal course of action. I realize this decision has put me in a rather vulnerable situation, and that if you choose to ignore my plea, this letter could potentially hurt me, but I feel like this is the correct route.
This may sound crazy, ludicrous even, but please believe me when I say that I do not want to stir up any kind of trouble. I merely want what I feel I deserve and that's closure—peace of mind and reassurance—
"Daddy!" Marley calls. "Can you bring me ice cream?"
I knew it. I drop the letter on the counter and open the freezer. "What do you think this is, Marley Beth?"
She giggles, and I know that she's forgiven me.
"It's my house and my birthday is coming. I want ice cream."
"Still not good enough, Muffin."
She sighs. "Please, can I have some ice cream?"
There are three walls separating us, but I can hear the pout in her voice and the roll of her eyes. I'm a sucker for the pout, even if I can't see it. "Your choices are mint chocolate chip, lime sorbet, or pumpkin?"
"Pumpkin." She giggles. "Pumpkin ice cream for your Muffin. Get it? It rhymes."
No, it doesn't, but I won't correct her on account of she's incredibly adorable. She's still young, she has plenty of time to learn stressed and following syllables.
I dish out the ice cream and set Marley up with a throw pillow and dish towel so her hands won't get cold and there won't be a mess.
I'm whipped. I know this.
"Wanna watch Pan with me?" she asks.
"In a little while. I've got some stuff to do. Eat your ice cream before it melts."
I turn the movie on for her and hand her the remote. Marley likes to rewind and fast forward to watch her favorite scenes multiple times. I've sat through the Peter Pan Marley edition so many times I can quote every scene verbatim.
She's already giggling and talking to herself when I take my place back at the kitchen island, picking up the letter once again, and my heart falls into my stomach.
— it turns out that you happened to adopt the little girl I gave birth to. Due to unforeseen events that surrounded her birth, I was unable to make the mature decision about her whereabouts, and my father, who was my power of attorney at the time, signed away my rights to my child. A child I carried for eight months before my accident. A child I was told died due to the car accident that put me in a coma for six months.
Please, don't worry. I'm not looking for a custody battle or destroying a happy family. I'm simply asking for reassurance that she's happy, healthy, and well cared for.
I have information that could be beneficial to your daughter. The medical history of both the father and myself as well as other things.
I've spent the past four and a half years mourning the death of a child that I recently found out is alive and walking the same earth that I am. As overwhelming and emotional as this may be for you, a family that decided upon a closed adoption, most likely in hopes that something like this would never happen, please keep in mind that it's a million times worse for me. A mother's heart lives in that of her child, and while she is no longer mine, I would like to hear that she's alive, that she's happy, and that she's living the life that I gave her.
Should you choose to ignore my plea, trust me when I say that I will drop the matter. Like I said, I've mourned for almost five years now, and if you decide not to contact me, I will continue in the same fashion. As I said before, there won't be a custody battle; I'm not even asking for visitation rights.
If you do choose to contact me, my information is as follows:
Isabella Marie Swan
1918 Spring St.
Seattle Washington, 98103
Cell: (555)555-1988
Fax: (555)555-1000
Email: bswan at gmail dot com
Sincerely,
Isabella Swan
I stare at the letter in my clenched hands. My heart is racing. Is this what a panic attack feels like? Somewhere in the distance, I can hear Marley calling for me, most likely telling me she's finished with her treat but I'm freaking out. It feels like my head's underwater and my vision blurs. Somehow I manage to find my cell phone and hit speed dial number three.
After an eternity, she picks up. "Hey, babe," she greets.
"Can you come over?" I choke out. "I-I need you."
I appreciate all of you so much. Till next time.
XOXO Ashley