A/N: Yay! Finally we get over the set-up parts of Esme's story and we're onto the exciting parts!! Enjoy! And thank you all who've read and reviewed...don't forget to review this one!!

I'd like a little help choosing the genres for this story:

Supernatural: Vampires! But the first few chapters are more on Esme's human background so...

or...

Romance: You know...Esme & Carlisle...though the first few chapters don't have that much about the two.

or...

Drama: Um, the whole...meeting vampires, running away from home, getting a baby...etc.?

...Pick two of the above :)

Ch. 7: Baby Blues

September 7th, 1920...

A flurry of movement, all around me. A funny, sterile smell in my nostrils. A bright light that hurt my eyes unless I squished them shut. And what was it? That jarringly strange, aching sensation…er…down under?

"Esme, stay with me, you've got to push just a little more. You need to deliver the placenta now."

The baby! A refreshing round of delight washed over my whole being, despite the pain. I must have blacked out for a moment. Obediently, I pushed, squeezed, feeling something starting to slide out of me…

- - -

"Congratulations Miss Platt!" said the doctor. He beamed at me and stepped aside to let a nurse inside the cramped room.

I felt someone wiping my forehead with a moistened cloth. It felt cool and very comfortable on my sweaty brow. I was sore and awfully spent from the labor. I also felt amazingly lighter, like I was missing a significant body part. Lisa squeezed my hand as she continued to wipe my forehead and neck.

"You did wonderfully, dear. You'll feel better soon. I can make chicken noodle soup for you once we get home." She said, smiling proudly at me.

"Okay." I mumbled gratefully.

Then the nurse gently placed something into my arms and instantly, my whole world fixated on the baby angel swaddled in pink cloth.

She was so beautiful. Truly simple, pure, and lovely. Admittedly, my newborn Hope Beatrice Platt had a strangely shaped head, a little conical and too big for her body, and she did have somewhat red skin, but I loved her. Tears leaked out of my eyes as I remembered all the sacrifices and hard work that had led me here: leaving Charles, Mother, and Beatrice, working as a waitress and a teacher at the same time, long 17-hour days. On this Sunday, September 7, 1920, this tiny armful of joy was finally mine, all mine.

I kissed her fuzzy head and fingered her chubby hands and feet. A giddy smile pulled at the corners at my mouth when Hope curled her tiny fingers around my thumb and grasped it firmly. It was her basic grasp reflex, but the simple action made me feel needed and wanted. She was warm and new and so very much alive.

I marveled at each of her delicate fingers. There were soft dimples at her plump knuckles. Baby fat rolled and folded over at various parts of her body. Her youthful skin was smooth and supple ― almost translucent at some areas. Her eyes were still squinty slits but between the tiny lashes, I could see a hint of sapphire-gray orbs. Blue? I've heard that many newborn infants had blue eyes at first that changed color in time. She was perfect, yet fragile, easily breakable.

"Don't worry, the skin color clears and the slight cone-head smoothes out in a few days. Other than that, she's a beautiful girl." Lisa whispered, trying not to startle the baby.

"I wouldn't care if she had a star shaped head or skin the color of moss," I murmured, rubbing circles on the back of Hope's hands, "She's here at last!" I leaned down to my newborn daughter and whispered, "You've kept us all waiting for nine months!"

- - -

The Bakers were immeasurably thoughtful and kind towards all of Hope's needs. Scott, Turner, and Maddie would all compete for the honor of fetching a blanket for the baby, or getting some warm water ready for the baby's bath. Just mention the words "for the baby" and I could see them visibly perk up at the thought. They cooed, fawning over Hope's button nose, and giggled when she hiccupped or burped without warning.

"I think she's gonna look like you." Scott said musingly.

Little Hope slept in her crib in my rented room. Surprisingly, she was not much trouble the first night home. She had a wailing fit only once that night. When I heard her telltale wail-and-hiccup cries, I would hop out of bed eagerly and cradle her in my arms, humming my own childhood lullabies while I rubbed her tiny back rhythmically. I've heard mothers complaining about being up all night nursing their bawling babes, but for me, this was an excuse to marvel at my own creation. Every child is a miracle, a wonder.

The next morning, Hope had short coughing bouts. She started hiccupping innocently, but those turned into coughs, and her nose started to run. I nursed her and rubbed her small back, hoping it would pass. The first day back and I was already tending for Hope's first cold. It should be over in another five days or so.

Come evening, Hope's cold worsened. She was coughing more frequently now, accompanied by some wheezing. After each round of coughing, her tiny chest heaved up and down with her labored breathing. It was only a simple, pesky, little cold but her awkward breathing had me worried.

Lisa placed a hand gently on Hope's brow. She frowned. "She's running a little too hot. We need to see the doctor."

I bundled her up, although it was a warm summer evening, and took her to the waiting buggy. Thomas was in town at work, so it was Amos, the cab driver, who tipped his hat and praised my new child heartily. Hope stared up with sapphire fairy-eyes at the tall, smiling gentleman looking down at her…and burped.

The cab driver laughed, amused. "Your daughter will be one irresistible charmer in a few years, Esme. I do feel sorry for those young boys she'll be seeing in school."

Amos helped us into the buggy and handed me my baby carefully, then climbed in himself, smiling genially the whole time. But when the horses began to trot, Hope started to cry, plainly uncomfortable riding the bumpy dirt roads. Only a cold. A simple cold. Only a cold. I repeated the words in my mind like a mantra. I hummed to her soothingly, the family lullaby for her ears only. She began to cough again.

- - -

"She has respiratory cyncytial virus, RSV," said the doctor calmly, "Her condition is mild right now and she should be fine in another week. However, if she does get any worse, bring her back immediately. RSV can eventually lead to pneumonia or bronchiolitis, " he warned.

Just a cold, a simple cold. "What can I do to help her?" I asked.

"It's a virus, so there is no real remedy, but you can make her as comfortable as possible, so that her immune system can fight effectively. Give her plenty of fluids to keep her hydrated. Fold a towel beneath her head in the crib. Don't use a pillow! Elevating her head can help her breathe. If she has any trouble breathing, you can put several drops of saline solution into her nose and suction out the mucus with a bulb syringe." He stood up.

"Thank you, doctor. You've been very helpful," I paused nervously, "She'll be fine you said? In a week?"

"Yes, I'm sure she will, Miss Platt. This virus is very common and for most, it's no graver than a cold. "

- - -

The following day was much like yesterday. Lisa helped me care for Hope, putting the bulb syringe to use whenever she had trouble breathing, and keeping her towel moist and cool for the fever. I was reminded of my mother's housekeeping lessons back when I lived on the farm. I hadn't improved much on my responsibility and I was lucky to have Lisa, a veteran mother, aiding me and giving directions. Hope still coughed but she was no worse. Nor better. We were optimistic. The good doctor had said that she would be fine in a few days, therefore, Hope would recover.

Wednesday night, or rather, Thursday morning, I awoke to the most frightening sounds I've heard in the recent months. Great, hacking coughs choked out from the white crib by my bed. These coughs were different from the others ― harsher, louder, raw sounds of pain ― definitelynot the common cold. Hope was also crying fitfully, almost angrily.

As if the sound of her coughing hadn't been startling enough, the pitiful sight of my daughter took me to near hysterics. She was a frowning, squirming ball of tight fists and curled toes clutching at the blankets. Hope had vomited all over herself and some of it had gotten onto the mattress while she writhed under the coughs. The folded towel beneath her head was exceedingly warm to my touch. She scowled, contorting her delicate brows as she cried. Hope's discomfort had caused the usually pale skin of her cheeks and neck to become horribly blotchy and inflamed ― my poor baby was burning up inside.

Numb hands shaking uncontrollably, I undressed her promptly and cleaned up the foamy, white vomit all over her face. Her coughs would not subside and she was forced to gasp and wheeze for air whenever she had a few seconds between coughs. I tried to nurse her, but she wouldn't suckle from my breast, turning her face away from my nipple. Those sapphire eyes opened wide and met mine in wonder. Over the past four days, Hope's skin had cleared to a creamy, pale color, the puffiness of her eyes had diminished, and her head had lost its newborn cone-like shape. She was a blue-eyed cherub. Yet, this was all wrong. Hope's baby loveliness, her surface features, was tainted by the fact that she was very, very sick inside.

- - -

"She has bacterial pneumonia. I'm afraid we'll need to take her in," said the doctor.

It was late summer, for crying out loud! A baby had no right getting severely sick at a time like this! Summer was the sunny season of freedom and light-hearted water games. Not this. The doctor had taken an X-ray of Hope's lungs, and a test of the fluid from her nose ― the result was a bad bacterial pneumonia. Some of the air sacs in her lungs were filled with fluid ― that attributed to her rapid, irregular breathing. I had begun to chew my fingernails again, an annoying childhood habit that had taken years to break; it was a sure sign of my distress. What had happened to those lazy, mother-baby bonding days that I had visualized before?

The hospital attendants provided her with antibiotics and special treatment. A young nurse clipped a pulse oximetry sensor onto Hope's finger, to help monitor her blood oxygen level. She was laying in a clear box with circles in the sides so that the nurses could care for her. It was warm and a bit humid inside the box, so that she could breath easier. I couldn't tell if it was working or not. I stayed by her side until late night, when the Bakers came to take me home.

"It's just a pneumonia, Esme. Turner had it when he was a baby and look at him now!" Lisa said.

"I'd like to stay with her." I insisted.

"Not overnight. You need your rest, now come. We can bring you back here tomorrow morning." Persuaded by Lisa's cajoling, I allowed them to drag me back to the Lakeview Lodge.

After I had eaten and washed for bed, Lisa came into my room with an indiscernible look on her face. She sat down on the bed next to me.

"Esme, you're worrying too much."

I didn't say anything. My sick baby was all alone in her little plastic box at the hospital. I thought of the monotonous beeps from her sensor, the boring white of the cold walls, the sensible nurses wearing identical infirmary garbs…

"Since this morning, you've been real quiet and distracted."

She waited for me to say something. Anything. But I was silent.

"It's pitiful," she continued cuttingly, "In one day, one pneumonia bout, you've become someone else, you're not our Esme anymore."

I unbuttoned my mouth long enough to say, "But Hope's illness is enough to keep her in the hospital, and she hardly even ate today!" I was surprised at the sand-paper quality of my voice. I swallowed uneasily and rubbed my throat with stiff fingers.

Lisa's voice softened. "Look at you, you have been moping around in this room ever since we got back." I looked at my hands, curled on my lap. "We're worried about you. I don't want to lose you."

"I'm sorry." I mumbled.

"Don't be. I know you're concerned about your daughter, but there is nothing to worry about." She squeezed my hands kindly. "Half the people I know have had pneumonia as children. I'm sure Hope will be positively glowing in another week."

Was I really worrying too much about my baby? Would everything be fine ― like everyone's been telling me recently? I certainly hoped so.

- - -

On Friday morning, Thomas Baker took me to the hospital so that I could watch over Hope. She wasn't doing well. I've tried to breastfeed her again but she wouldn't be fed. The nurses have added an IV feed to supply her with fluids, nourishment, and antibiotics. There was nothing I could do but to stay by her side. Every hour or so, a nurse would come in and suction out any bothersome mucus from Hope's nose. They also made notes on her blood oxygen levels and conditions on a clipboard. Around midday, Hope was given an oxygen mask since the humidity in the box wasn't enough to ease her breathing any longer.

The Bakers watched her with me. We didn't speak very much. The only sounds in the room were the beeping of the pulse oximetry sensor and the steady drip, drip of her IV feed. When the nurses occasionally came in, they would smile sympathetically at us and try to cheer us up.

I didn't resist when it was time to go home. Maybe if I went along with them and pretended that nothing was amiss…Maybe, this would all go away the next morning.

On Saturday, there was nothing that could ease Hope's coughing and discomfort. Her fever was a sizzling 102.7 °F. Her nails and lips took on a bluish tinge from the lack of oxygen and her chest sunk in with each breath. She seemed feeble and weak, barely stirring. Hope had been energetic, always crawling, gurgling, and watching the world around her with wonder ― before her illness took on.

I interrogated the nurse who came to check up on Hope. "Isn't there anything else you can do?"

She added another note to her clipboard. "We're giving her as much of the antibiotics she can handle and I'm coming in regularly to keep her as comfortable as I can."

"But she's not getting better; she's getting worse!" I exclaimed, barely noting the shrill tone of my voice.

The nurse smiled sadly at me. "We're doing the best we can, miss. But the rest is up to her."

The doctor came a few minutes later. He looked at me apprehensively before speaking. "You asked for me?"

"About my daughter ― how is she doing?"

"She's not doing very well, as you can see. She has a very high fever, for a newborn, she's not breathing properly either, and the coughing―" I interrupted him recklessly.

"Tell me the simple truth, doctor. Will she…live?" The words tumbled out bluntly without warning. Will she live? I only now realized that the question had been on my mind lately. A malevolent, festering weed of a question.

He winced slightly and sighed. "I am afraid that Hope's chances of surviving are very remote right now. Even for a newborn, her immune system was never very strong. I'm sorry." The doctor patted my hand awkwardly. "The best anyone can do right now is to pray for her."

Hope steadily grew worse as the day progressed. She coughed and vomited so much she could barely sleep. She cried sometimes, her face becoming an alarming cherry-purple. Nurses came in more frequently ― the pulse oximetry sensor on her finger becoming unstable. A tube replaced the oxygen mask as it no longer gave her enough oxygen.

I watched helplessly as pneumonia quickly attacked and destroyed my newborn baby daughter. I had never felt so powerless in all my twenty-six years. Of course, I prayed, prayed for a miracle ― a sudden recovery, a complete turnaround. I prayed to God to let me keep the daughter he had so graciously given me.

Even now, feeble and pale, tangled in a web of IV tubes and feeds, Hope was beautiful. Never had a baby looked more like a faerie out of a children's tale. Hope dozed lightly, her breath coming rapidly from the soft pink pout, her eyes moving erratically under lavender eyelids. The little naps she managed to scavenge between coughing bouts did nothing to ease her pain. She was alive, but only just so. Hope awoke then, fluttering her dark lashes, racked with coughs again. A nurse wiped her mouth, and to my extreme horror, there was a spot of scarlet blood on the tissue.

Lisa brought me lunch, and then dinner from the Lakeview Lodge. All of the Baker family watched Hope with me sadly. We all knew she would not last much longer. As I kept my solemn vigil, I could almost feel their sympathetic thoughts filling the room. Poor Esme…Hope's dying…only lived a week…She wanted the baby so long and now…So unfair, the husband and the child? This is going to destroy Esme…Hope's dying…

It was well past midnight when Hope's sensor issued the final warning. Her lungs had clogged up with blood and mucus, and she was unable to breathe. There was a flurry of nurses, her box lost from our view, as they tried to help. Hope's claustrophobic room was big enough for only the doctor and a few nurses, so we were pushed out unceremoniously. I clenched my fists tightly. Lisa rubbed my hunched shoulders and my hands. I think I forgot to breathe.

By and by, the doctor came out of the room, closing the door behind him gently. Through the window, I could see the nurses still crowded around the box. The doctor studied his feet for a moment, but when he looked up, and I saw his face, I knew.

So soon.

The doctor's face blurred and swirled. I blinked furiously, clearing the tears, but fresh ones replaced them. They oozed out and trailed down my cheeks like thin, wet fingers, meeting at the point of my chin and splattering onto my lap, glistening pearls of saltiness. Time slowed palpably, voices becoming distorted rumbles as a stone hammer pounded away at my heart mercilessly, reducing it to pulp in seconds. All the while, from deep within my body, something surged up powerfully, something even stronger than myself. I was helpless under this power and I succumbed senselessly. Uncontainable, it poured out of my lips in the form of sound: a wild, animal wail of grief.

Hopefully, I've made you sad and depressed. Tell me what you think about this chapter & story. Also check out the pics I have up relating to this story.

CHAPTER 8: A CERTAIN DR. CARLISLE CULLEN WILL BE MAKING AN APPEARANCE!!!

If you really love me, read my other story Sweet Blood too!