Disclaimer: All known characters are copyright Stephenie Meyer.
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Within a mere month and a half, I married Charles Evenson. The wedding was small, consisting of family and close friends. I faced Charles, dressed in my mother's wedding gown, extremely nervous. Although he had courted me since our exchange in the field, my feelings for him were still ambiguous. I cared for him a great deal but I had yet to love him.
I watched rather than listened to Charles as he repeated the minister's words and I can vaguely remember my own voice, although I repeated the same words. My "I do" is a distant memory in my mind, perhaps more distant than Charles's. I forced a smile before we kissed, partially uniting us as one.
Like a good wife I now was, I looped my arm into his as we walked down the aisle to applause. I caught my mother's face. She wiped away tears with the pale yellow handkerchief, grinning from ear to ear. My father smiled at me, a sparkle in his eyes I had never seen before. I looked at Charles who looked at me with a gentle smile across his face and I smiled back.
And so was the beginning of my less-than-happy life as Esme Evenson.
—
Five months into the marriage, I never regretted anything so much in my entire life. However, the first few weeks were rather pleasing. Charles's parents had practically given their house for the sake of Charles and me and moved into a smaller home. He would come home early from work often, catching me unprepared, kissing me on my lips, cheeks, and neck. I would make him dinner and sit in the living area with him, sketching, as he read a book from his father's – now his – library. He sipped whiskey and very often I would sip on wine.
We dreamed of having children but spoke little of the subject. I continued to go to school on days Charles worked. I confided in him my dreams of becoming a school teacher. He only tolerated my dreams rather than encouraged them.
Yet within a month, the sudden passion that had ignited between us died. We made love less often, but when we did, he was violent, hurting rather than pleasing me. Within three months, he came home late from work, after dark, and multiple times I ate dinner alone. Sometimes, I would awaken when I felt Charles crawl into bed and when I turned to face him, his back was towards me and he smelled strongly of liquor. I tasted it in his infrequent kisses in the mornings. At night when he would actually make it to bed with me, I attempted any sort of ploy to tempt him to touch me, to kiss me like he once did, but I failed in all attempts.
Within four months, any time I did anything wrong from not cooking his breakfast the "correct" way to whistling when I was cleaning he would rush over to me, grab my wrist, turn me around, and slap me. There was a time when I accidentally spilled water on a new pair of trousers; he pushed me into the kitchen cabinets which jabbed into my back, leaving a bruise. That was simply the beginning.
On one particular night, Charles staggered into bed and forced himself on me. His breath smelled of too much whiskey but he appeared to be fully aware of his actions. He covered my mouth with his hands as I protested. The next morning, I was afraid to get out of bed before Charles and I waited for the house door to slam shut before rising. When he came home that evening, he was vehement because I had not risen to prepare his breakfast or his lunch. He was not satisfied with dinner either. The next thing I knew, my head was meeting the table and I was bleeding from my lower lip.
The fifth month consisted of nothing but pain. If I got out of place one time, Charles would hit me. I tried the best I could to cover myself, to hide the bruises. The night he made my lip bleed, he never hit my face again, but rather always somewhere on my body he knew I would attempt to hide. On few extremely lucky days, I would have my friends over. Claire mostly came, bringing her two children. Seeing her happy face made me smile and made me want to persevere, remembering there could still be a small chance I could have children of my own.
I ached – literally – to tell Claire what was happening but she was so happy that I was finally married that I didn't want to disappoint her with my sad news.
"Esme, when are you going to have children?" she blurted.
I glanced at her and then to her children, a baby girl and a toddler boy. I shrugged.
"You and Charles have talked about it, haven't you?"
Again, I shrugged. "We talk little of it."
"Oh, but Esme, you love children."
"We talked about it soon after we were married, but we don't talk about it anymore." And I can't even imagine bringing a child into the world with Charles… My mind wanted to scream.
"Esme?"
I looked at her, waiting for her to continue.
"You would tell me if something was … wrong?"
I bit my lip. My heart ached to tell Claire what had happened over the last few months. If she were Veronica, I would tell her straight away, I would have told her the first nights Charles began abusing me. But she was not Veronica at all, and Veronica would never come back to me. I kept my mouth shut. "I would," I lied. "I will," I corrected myself.
Claire smiled, satisfied with herself. "Good."
—
A month after my quiet afternoon with Claire, Charles and I spent the evening with my parents. Father and Charles spoke mostly of the war in Europe which I tried to avert my ears from listening. Charles said nothing to me throughout the evening. After dinner, Father and Charles disappeared into the library while Mother and I cleaned up.
"You should hire someone to do this, Esme," Mother commented.
"No, Mother, I'm content doing this myself." Really, I was. Charles would never consider hiring someone when I was perfectly capable of doing house work.
She began to protest but quieted herself. Instead, she began a new subject. "Are you all right, Esme?"
"Yes," I said quickly.
"Are you sure?"
I looked at her. I wasn't in the mood to argue. I said nothing.
"Esme, I love you, know that, please."
"I do, Mother, you know that."
"And as your mother, I have a certain right to know about things."
Exasperated, I threw my hands in the air.
Mother caught my arms by the wrist and forced them to my sides and I winced at the pain. She looked at me, her dark brown eyes piercing. "I see what you aren't willing to say, Esme."
I flinched. "How?" I squeaked.
She ignored the question. "How long?"
My mind wandered to when the abuse first began. I shuddered at the thought. "A couple months ago…" I waved a hand in the air. "It's nothing, Mother."
"I don't want you to jeopardize this marriage, Esme."
"Me!?" I said, trying not to raise my voice. "You think all this is my fault!?"
"Well, Esme, I think you should keep this quiet."
"I have been, Mother. You are the only one who knows now!"
She bit her lip, silent. For the first time, I noticed the gray in my mother's hair.
"Be good, dear. Be a good wife."
As if I haven't been! I choked internally, fighting back tears. Externally, I nodded.
"I plan to tell your father."
I couldn't stop her.
—
The Great War began officially in April of 1917. The United States was at war with Germany, and the government ordered a draft throughout the country weeks later. In a sick way, I was relieved when Charles was drafted. I enjoyed company with Claire and my other friends. All of our husbands had been drafted to go to war. Our houses seemed empty without each other's company.
Enviously, I watched as my girl friends played with their children. Claire with her two, Amy with her three, Rachel with her one, soon to be two, and a new close friend, Natalie with her two, one of which was Veronica's daughter. The fear of bringing a child into the world with Charlie was still one of the top things that prevented me from bringing things up. We didn't even make love the day before he left which didn't surprise me and for some reason, I was expecting to.
Each morning, the girls would run into town and get the newspaper. We would anticipate reading our husbands' names in the paper but were never disappointed. As we ate lunch, we would listen to the radio, expecting breaking news. Each day, the military sent soldiers to France, hoping to break through German lines. As much as war news depressed us, we were eager, longing for our husbands' returns.
At least, they were.
Although the house was lonely, especially at night, I was rejoiced mentally for Charles's absence. I did worry about him, and something in my heart longed for him to return home safely – hopefully, as a changed man.
Slowly, I finished school, still with high hopes of becoming a school teacher. These hopes mixed with the hopes of Charles being a changed man, and I eagerly thought of ways to persuade him to move west. Surely, he would want to after the war. Surely, there would be opportunity outside Ohio that would catch his attention.
For the next year and a half, I hoped – it was all I could do.
—
It was late night when I heard the door open and slam shut. I was in my room, changing into a nightgown. Did I forget to lock the door? I thought to myself. Terrified, I ran over to the bedroom door and locked it. I searched for something to use as a weapon, in case it was a robber, but all I found was an empty flower vase.
The knock on the door made me jump and the voice behind it made my heart beat quicker.
"Esme?"
Oh my! It's Charles! I wasn't sure if my heart was rejoicing or shrinking back in fear.
"Open the door, please," his voice yearned.
I set the vase back on the vanity, unlocked the door, and opened it. I was correct. It was Charles.
He hadn't shaved for days. His hair was tousled, shooting in all directions, and his hazel eyes were heavy with sleep. Nonetheless, a slight smile spread across his face at the sight of me.
"Esme," he whispered.
"Charles, I – er, what time is it?"
He shrugged. "Why does it matter? I'm home. With you. At last."
My heart skipped a few beats as he reached for me. He embraced me, kissing me, sparking a long forgotten passion. His unshaven face felt awkward against my skin. I tried to speak between kisses but couldn't. Were my hopes too much? Was I honestly ready for a change in Charles? For too long, I was told to be 'a good wife' and I kept my mouth shut to even my dear friends.
He picked me up and brought me to the bed, planting kisses everywhere my skin was exposed. A lump rose in my throat and I shivered. Please, God, let this be different. Let this be okay. Let me be happy.
I did hope far too much.