Chapter 5
In the quiet hush of Alice's departure, Carlisle sat motionless on the cold, wooden chair, his face as hard as stone and his gaze fixed on the creature in the bed.
Her smell, to him, was the only assurance that what he was seeing was real— so fragrant and so full, even through the dull taint of fear that still clung to her skin and her clothes. He knew that fear like it was his own— that cloying, noxious scent of cortisol and adrenaline, combining in the blood to ruin the aroma, the flavour. Of course, Carlisle had never tasted it to be sure, but he did not like the bitter smell that went against the very nature of this child that lay before him. This child, whom he had grown to love like his own. The child that his family had been prepared to keep.
The child they had so recklessly and thoughtlessly abandoned, when everything had gone so terribly, horribly wrong.
There were many times over his centuries of life that Carlisle was glad for the things he could do. He had saved lives before— some far closer to death than she was— and some with injuries so striking that it hadn't been so much an intervention as a reconstruction. He had reattached severed limbs to failing bodies, his impeccable sight and steadiness reestablishing blood flow in even the tiniest of vessels. He'd reset bones and carved out tumors. He'd held the very essence of life between his palms— a beating human heart— and marvelled at it, stricken by the sheer power of his ability, the breadth and scope of his knowledge.
That knowledge had helped him in his quest to do good. It had helped him overcome his own nature, the very purpose of his existence in this immortal form. He had chosen a different path than the one set out for him, one of kindness and goodness, and each time he gave himself over to his work he felt vindicated— a little more hopeful that perhaps, all was not lost.
He could not reconcile this compassion, on which he prided himself so strongly, with the horror he had created, lifeless and unyielding in the bed at his side.
Carlisle was not familiar with the sting of failure. He did not know what it was to feel this depth of guilt— to have erred so strongly that he felt it gnawing like an ache in his chest. He had spent so much of his eternal life trying to do right— trying, and succeeding, to be the very best of himself, so useful and so careful. He saved lives— brought loved ones back from the brink and reunited families whenever he could— and all in the hopes of saving his own soul, in desperate need of redemption if he ever wanted to leave this world for whatever waited in the next.
Behind him, the ventilator hissed and clicked with calming regularity. Her lungs, still swimming with seawater, popped and crackled with each influx of breath. The sight of her hurt him, made his old, unbeating heart squeeze with worry and with love, and he bent his head over her, his thoughts like whispers in the wind.
How had they gone so terribly, horribly wrong?
The realization rattled in his head, noisy and grating. It was the same realization that had come to him as he spoke with the nurses at the hospital, when he'd heard what had been allowed to happen after their move— their complete and utter failure. The humans did not see it this way, of course… nothing about their stories even hinted at blame towards the fine, handsome doctor and his respectable family. They did not see the connection between his departure and what had happened in the interim. They only knew enough to mourn the loss, the tragedy, of what they had dubbed the accident.
"The accident," they had murmured, faces full of borrowed sadness. "That poor, unhappy girl, and poor, poor Charlie…"
When he cut the thought short, his lips forming sounds, his promises fell on dead ears. He could not help it— they spilled from him like water, and the soft, impulsive kiss to her cheek only hardened his resolve. His words had no effect— she could not hear them, and might not have made any sense of them even if she had— but still, they were said.
"We will make this right, my sweet," he vowed. "I promise you, darling, I will make this right. We will not leave you again— not until you command us away— and I will not fail you again."
There was no choice for him to make. There was no alternative, no other possible recourse to take. The nurses had not shown Carlisle the medical file— that would have been an egregious breach of trust— but they were eager enough to share the details of what they knew, and what the papers had already reported.
An animal— something big, and something dangerous— and two rounds fired from his police pistol. A body, exsanguinated on the floor of the kitchen, left there for his daughter to find when she came home from school. His arm, torn to shreds, and his neck, almost completely severed…
And the wounds— great, terrible wounds— from the beast's claws across his chest and abdomen. Bones snapped, muscles torn. The sounds of his child— oh how she had screamed— when he'd been offloaded from the ambulance, long past help, and how she'd cried again when she'd awoken from her faint on a gurney.
Carlisle heard the tale with stunted horror. He had listened, with his heightened senses, as the scene was revisited in vivid detail. He heard the worry, the fear that hid behind bright eyes and unhappy smiles, before he heard another voice, eavesdropping from further off, that gave him pause.
"No animal explains those teeth marks," murmured Doctor Snow to a nurse in the store room. "No creature in the woods could have left those."
Carlisle had known in an instant what had happened there. He knew what it looked like when one of his own kind got carried away, when they played with their food before they consumed it. He knew why those two bullets had done nothing to hinder the attack. He knew why there had been so much damage to bones and tissues. He knew why those teeth marks, so odd and mysteriously human to any eyes but theirs, would have stumped a medical examiner, and why, even weeks later, it was still on his mind.
And he knew why the nomad had gone looking in that particular house. He knew the draw of his kind to their kin— the attraction of a large coven to provide safety and companionship. He knew the sting of loneliness, and how selfish one could be in an attempt to fill the silence, because he, too, had been alone once, and he recalled with vivid clarity the urge, the need, to fill the void with another living soul.
Their scent, lingering long after their departure, would have been more than enough to draw a traveller's attention, and this was yet another reason for his guilt to grow. He should have known. Edward should have known. They all should have known, and yet it hadn't crossed their minds, not even once.
In their hasty departure from Forks, they had not only taken a family that Bella loved, but now, her father, too, and perhaps her mother.
"Don't even bother looking for her," the nurse had spat when Carlisle had asked after Renee. "No one's seen hide nor hair of her. Didn't even show up to the funeral, and that poor girl was an absolute wreck…"
Carlisle closed his eyes, refocusing himself once again on the present, on the now. Beneath his hand, the girl still slumbered, unknowing and at peace. She did not know he was here, could not hear him, for the medications he'd given her were too strong, too potent. It was better this way, he knew, to keep her calm. It would help her body to heal. It would keep her safe.
Safe. He laughed out loud at the irony of it— oh, how badly he had erred.
Safe. That was the word that had driven their leave, their exodus from the home they loved and the life they'd built. It was the word that had convinced him to agree, no matter how reluctantly, to his son's scheme. Edward had made a convincing argument— her safety, her very life was endangered every single moment she spent with them, and it was not fair, not right for them to impose such risks upon her. She deserved a life. She deserved a family. She deserved anything and everything that the world could offer, except for him— except for them.
His had been the deciding vote— Esme, Alice, and Emmett a resounding no, and Rosalie, Edward, and Jasper calling yes.
Rosalie, he knew, was glad to have ridden herself of the burden, the worry, of having such a delicate, sensitive presence in their lives and home. She had never approved of her brother's mate, not even after the encounter with the tracker. To her, the human was a liability, an imposition on her otherwise orderly routine. The girl had enthralled her brother— a feat that not even Rosalie had been able to accomplish. Then, once Edward had been fully ensnared, Bella had entranced her mate— Emmett, honest and jovial by his very nature, had not been able to resist the allure of her, the charm. He had relished his time with her, found happiness in all the little things that Rosalie could not give him, and no matter how angry she grew, he would not apologize for it.
Jasper's vote had been more hesitant, aggrieved, and very much from a place of anger. He was angry with himself for his own shortcomings— his own lack of control which had, in his mind, threatened to take away the only thing that made his brother happy. Jasper had always struggled— Carlisle had known it, and accepted it, the moment he'd arrived on the doorstep almost half a century prior— but this time, the struggle had almost ended in terrible, violent tragedy. His lust for gratification, to soothe the ever-present burn in the back of his throat, had overpowered his logic and his love, and he would not abide it again— not when they had another choice.
Alice had been furious with him— absolutely irate— but not even she had been able to alter his choice.
And Carlisle… all of his excuses, all of his explanations for why he'd sided with his son, his companion, seemed now so feeble that he could not bear to give them a voice. His loyalty to Edward— his first companion and his truest friend. His concern for Bella's safety. His desire, no matter how misguided, to make his son happy, to give him anything he asked for simply because he asked for it. Carlisle had always believed that he owed Edward that much— owed him loyalty and trust to pay for the life he'd stolen from him— even at the expense of another.
He could never have predicted this— not even he was foolish enough to believe that— but he had been blind, naive to the value of this fledgling life to the very fabric of his family. He knew the dangers of love— knew how strongly and absolutely those bonds formed in immortality— and he cursed himself for ever thinking that this could work. Carlisle had never experienced true fatherhood— had never held a brand new infant in his arms to watch it grow— but he had created a family for himself nevertheless, and none of them had ever hesitated to call him dad.
He had betrayed his daughter for love of his son, and in so doing, he wondered if he'd become unworthy of that title altogether. Fathers did not hurt their children. Fathers did not abandon them. Fathers did not crumble under the pressure of another to betray their deepest loves and instincts.
Fathers upheld their young, helped them grow to be thriving and happy, and as he stared down again at the pale, sleeping face, he knew with terrible sorrow that he had failed.
"I'm sorry," he said again, and for the first time in decades, he found himself beside the bed, on his knees. "I'm so sorry, darling… I'm sorry."
When he began to pray, he did not know which higher power might be listening. Perhaps he spoke to God, who always listened, but seldom answered. Perhaps his pleas went the other way to fall on laughing, mocking ears. Perhaps he spoke to no one at all, his words simply hanging in the empty air like cobwebs, waiting to be gathered, and scourged, and thrown out altogether, but no matter where they reached, or who might answer, he spoke them nonetheless.
He prayed that she would find them— that her journey through her fog of sadness would bring her back to them, where she belonged. He prayed for her peace, and for her love. He prayed for Charlie, and her mother, both of whom were lost, perhaps forever, and he prayed for his family to stay connected and whole.
But most of all, with every word he spoke, he prayed that he would be forgiven. He prayed for absolution twice over— once for the hurt he'd done her by leaving in the first place, and again for the way he'd dragged her back.
She had wanted to die, this little bird with broken wings, and he had wholly and completely denied her.
When Esme arrived she found him like this— on his knees on the hard, cold tile, his head bent low, and his hands on Bella's bruised, pale arm. She watched them, blinking in surprise at the sight she saw there, and he backed away slowly, letting her see the full result of their ineptitude.
"Oh, Carlisle…" Her voice trembled and she swallowed, trying to hold it back. "Oh Carlisle."
Staring, dumbstruck, at the figure on the bed, Esme breached the confines of the room as if in a daze. She so rarely entered— not even when it meant she would spend her nights alone while he worked— and Carlisle knew it was because she despised this room more than any other in the house. Esme liked warmth— she liked colour, and texture, and life— and there were none of these things here, in the sterile whiteness that smelled of formaldehyde. There was nothing here for her to love, and so she stayed away.
Carlisle said nothing as she moved to the bedside, her hand outstretched to touch the thin, pale cheek. She recoiled at the feel of it— Bella's skin was still cold and rough with salt— and she moved instead to ghost her fingers over tube between her lips, her eyes wide and frightened. Esme had some knowledge about such things— she had listened, for decades, to Carlisle's medical talk— and she glanced only briefly at the monitor, eying the heart rate.
It still read 119.
"Is she…"
"Healing," said Carlisle gently. "She's much better than she was when I arrived."
"This is better?"
His answering nod was small and Esme, studying him with a piercing scrutiny, could see the shadow of worry in the lines of his face. He stayed silent as she watched him, taking in every sorrow and every fear, until her liquid eyes softened and she turned, speechless, back towards the stretcher. Like Alice, she did not know where to turn— her hands fluttered, first over the IV and then a wire of the EKG, before they dusted over the bruising that spilled up over her collarbone from her violent revival. He saw Esme's realization develop like a film before his eyes— the realization that these marks had been purposely made, that their girl had been dead, for all intents and purposes. The realization that, had Jasper and Alice not found her when they did, there would have been no resolution, no hope.
If she could, Carlisle knew she would have shed tears for the damage they had done. As it was her eyes were too bright, too worried, to hide what they both knew to be true. They had done this to her, had broken her with insidious, treacherous lies in the name of kindness and love, and he knew that his wife felt the same fear that he did— the fear that even now, they might be too late. The fear that while her physical form might heal that her trust had been too badly breached, her heart too cruelly broken. The fear that they would lose her again, this daughter they'd abandoned in a wilderness of solitude.
Overcoming her recoil at the unnatural cold that still clung to the sleeping girl, Esme brought her hand down to rest on the slender neck. Bella's pulse throbbed there beneath the thin, white skin, and he saw Esme's eyes close for the briefest of moments before she pulled away again, her eyes swimming.
"Oh, sweetheart."
And then she kissed her, so soft and so sad, before she knelt too, her head resting on the edge of the bed.
There was nothing more for him to say, and so Carlisle moved himself back to the counter at the rear of the room where boxes had been upended and bags overturned in his hunt for medications and supplies. He would give them a moment together— as private as he could bear, while his attention was still needed on the monitors— and he moved slowly, deliberately. His wife said nothing, though he could hear the shuffle of fabric, and when he glanced back he saw her rooting beneath the blanket. She found the heating packs, flush against Bella's cold, bare side, and she moved them a little closer. Though the girl no longer shivered with cold, Esme pulled the blanket up to her chin. She was careful not to disturb anything, moving gently and nervously around the wires and the tubes, and when she could find nothing else to fix she fell still, her hands wrung and her eyes darting.
There was another pause of silence, in which he continued to file away his things, before he heard a second kiss, and then a third, ruffling the salty, damp hair. He heard her consolations, the quick and quiet "I love you" that moved through the room in a whisper, and then the sigh, sharper and more severe.
"She shouldn't be here," Esme said when Carlisle had finished his cleaning and had turned again to watch. "Not here, Carlisle, in this room… it's not right."
"No," he agreed.
"She needs light. Real light, from windows and the sun… not this place. It smells all wrong."
Carlisle frowned.
"She…"
"I can make her up a room."
"Just as soon as she's well enough, I'll move her," Carlisle agreed. "But not before, love."
Esme frowned, her eyes on the stretcher.
"Can she at least have a bed?" she asked. "A real bed?"
Esme's astonishment, her offense, when he shook his head, was plain.
"No," he said quietly. "No beds, my dear. Not until she's a little better."
Esme eyed the stretcher with perpetual dislike.
"And why not?"
The words seemed to choke him.
"Because if she crashes again," he explained, "it will be best to have her where she is. Compressions will be ineffective on a conventional mattress and it would be a great danger to have to move her again."
Esme stared, her face unreadable.
"Do you think that's likely?"
"Anything is possible," he answered, and this, it seemed, did not soothe her. "I won't rule anything out. Not until she's conscious."
"And why isn't she?"
"I've sedated her," he admitted, "to stop her from fighting the tube. Should she wake, it's likely she'll resist it and it's imperative, at this point, to keep it where it is. Her oxygen is still low, and she was struggling on her own."
Carlisle was glad that her lips were no longer blue— that his wife would be spared that particular trauma, if nothing else.
"And her ribs are cracked," he went on. "Three are actually broken. If I wake her now, she'll find it hard to take in the air she needs."
The fleeting anger, so foreign to Esme's sunny, cheerful disposition, crumbled away at their feet. In its place he saw a gnawing worry, so strong and sudden that it took him by surprise.
"Is she in pain, Carlisle?" she asked, her voice suddenly tight. "Please tell me she's not hurting. Not when she's so still…"
"No, I don't think so," he replied. "I've given her morphine, and the sedative seems quite effective."
"But her heart rate…"
Carlisle frowned.
"I suspect it's the shock," he said. "Her blood pressure is still low. It's not uncommon after cardiac arrest, and especially not when she's cold and dehydrated."
Esme's relief— just a flicker of ease— didn't last, for when she turned back to the girl, her face fell again. As Carlisle had, she began to track her own inventory— every crack in her lips, every line of salt on her cheeks. The way she lay, so completely and utterly still, and the effect of his interventions on her weakened, broken body. Her colour was still wrong— more pallid white than anything else— but her lips had gone from blue, to grey, to a shallow, unhealthy pink, and the lavender circles beneath her eyes had begun to darken. Esme inspected her hands, her own fingers tracing over each knuckle and nail, and then again to the IV, which was taped securely in place. She frowned at this, her lips pursed, but said nothing as she moved on to other things.
She peeked beneath the blanket, her hands brushing against the heat from the warming packs beneath Bella's arms. She touched the tape over her ribs, pulled tight to keep the bones in alignment. She cupped her palm against the bruises there— over the darkest, deepest marks— and let the cold of her skin seep in, counteracting the vicious, painful heat that came from them. She listened, as he had, to the crackle of her lungs— unwholesome proof of her time in the water— and to the quick, but strengthening thrum of her heart.
Only once she had looked over every inch beneath the blankets and the tubes did Carlisle see her resigned acceptance. She bent again to kiss her, her lips lingering on Bella's forehead, and when she pulled away, Carlisle heard her quiet, whispered plea.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I am so terribly, dreadfully sorry."
They heard Emmett like a thundercloud, his angry sprint pounding roughly against the wooden floor. Esme did not react— she had known he would come, and she had expected him long before now— but when he made it to the doorway he froze, his complexion ghostly white and furious.
"Jesus Christ."
He lingered there, in the doorway, for far longer than Esme had. The room seemed smaller, somehow, with Emmett in it— as if by the sheer force of his presence, the walls were pulled in a little closer— and it did not ease when he took one step, and then another, towards the bed where Esme stood.
"Jesus Christ."
Carlisle looked away when Esme peered up, her eyes still full of unshed tears. The sight only served to agitate Emmett further— to draw from him a ferocious, angry rumble— and then he was there, by the bedside, Esme held tightly in his arms.
"Shit, Ma…" His words were loud, almost too loud, in the quiet of the sickroom. "Shit."
Esme didn't rebuke him.
Of all their children, it had always been Emmett who had reminded Carlisle most of what it meant to be a father. Emmett, who had come from such a large and thriving human family, had taken to them quite quickly when he'd woken to immortality. Emmett liked the structure of their family, and thoroughly enjoyed his place in it, and his love of them was never more evident than it was now as he trapped his mother in his arms.
Edward had always been a companion first and a son second, Rosalie too distant and unhappy. Jasper and Alice had arrived long after their immortal youth and took their places with grace, though only for appearances, for comfort. They were children in name alone— sons and daughters claimed, not born— and Carlisle knew that over their many, long years, they had all outgrown him.
But not Emmett, the son who had been with them from the very beginning of this life he so loved, and who had taken his place among them with joy, not reluctance.
He did not touch his sister— not even once, though Carlisle knew the restraint must hurt him. To Emmett, Bella had always been so delicate, so unbelievably breakable, that it was only prudent for him to keep away. He'd grown more comfortable, both with himself and with her, before her last birthday, and he'd even dared to hug her once or twice, but now, seeing her like this, he did not even reach out a finger to touch a hair on her head.
This restraint came at great personal cost— Carlisle could see it blazing in him. He could see the anger— the absolute, unrestrained fury that glittered in his eyes, belied only by his tender worry. The very moment he had entered the room, Carlisle knew what Emmett must have found— the blood in the Swan's kitchen, the scene of death like a bad film. He could smell that discovery on him— the terrible reek of blood, old and stagnant, and the sweet decay of death, not far off. He might not know the details, but Carlisle suspected that Emmett knew just what had happened in that house, and it only made his sorrow greater, his regret stronger.
Emmett's subtle nod over Esme's ducked head only confirmed Carlisle's suspicion and he sighed, his eyes closed.
When Emmett's arms left her, Esme stood shaken and alone, her arms wrapped around her own middle. The sight made Carlisle cringe— he always hated seeing her upset— and knowing that there was one thing, at least, that he could do to relieve some of her suffering, he checked the monitors again and turned his attention to his son.
"Will you help me move her, Emmett?" Carlisle asked, breaking the silence with tender care. "She's stable enough, now… but I can't do it on my own. She should be somewhere warmer."
Warmer, he thought, and without the smell of death. There had been enough of that today— enough sorrow, worry, and pain— and he would not keep her here, in the cold and the dark. She deserved better— would always deserve better— and all of his worry seemed worth it when he saw the relief roll over his wife like a balm.
After all, it was the very least he could do.
A/N: Thanks again for all your support. I'm glad you're still following. I hope you enjoyed hearing a bit from Carlisle. He's been rather polarizing- some of you love him, others absolutely despise him, and for my part, I find him extraordinarily difficult to write. For some reason, he's always able to sneak away from me, but I think I managed to wrangle him this time.
XO
