Author's Note: ::flinches:: Okay, so that was a longer wait than I anticipated, but I can explain, I swear! I would have had this up last night, but the stinking computer froze on me at 12:15 in the morning, and of course I had forgotten to click "save," so I had to re-write almost the entire chapter. So you see? It was the stupid Dell's fault. ::sigh:: I love my Mac. I miss my Mac.

Anyway, thanks to Seul Lune, NellieGURL, fantasyfan7 (I'll properly thank you in a minute), miss.dramatikkkk, and cakeaddict61 for reviewing!

fantasyfan7: thank you very much for reviewing! I'm glad you didn't think the wait was too long. I agree with you about the end of the chapter. To be honest with you, the thing was running really, really long, and I wanted to have it written and saved in the computer before I left so that I could just upload it as soon as I got home, but it simply refused to end, so I just decided to conk her out. ;-)

And now, for the award ceremony: A very wet, very sexy Carlisle in a red shirt goes to NellieGURL, and since miss.dramatikkkk found herself stuck between a purple and a blue shirt, she gets to have a Carlisle who changes from a wet, purple shirt to a dry, fluffy blue shirt right in front of her (yes, yes, I treat my reviewers well). Seul Lune, fantasyfan7, and cakeaddict61 didn't specify on the color, so I'll choose for them: a Carlisle in a wet, black shirt goes to Seul Lune, a Carlisle in a wet, white shirt goes to fantasyfan7, and a Carlisle whose shirt is covered in chocolate layer cake goes to cakeaddict61.

Well, that's enough from me, so after a quick disclaimer, on with the chapter!

Disclaimer: Twilight, New Moon, Esme Platt, and Carlisle Cullen belong to Stephenie Meyer (and we can't thank her enough, can we?) Samuel and Miriam Platt, Margaret Platt, Franklin Platt, and Dr. Malcolm belong to me. David Copperfield belongs to Charles Dickens, and The Count of Monte Cristo belongs to Alexandre Dumas. Also: see if you can spot my little tribute to the writers of Casablanca in here!

All right, enough! Go read!

5. Eight Weeks

I felt the rumbling rhythm long before I woke. It was there, in the back of my head, slowly working its way to the front as I slept on. Eventually it succeeded in breaking out of the peripherals of my mind and into the foreground. My eyes sluggishly opened.

This time there was no confusion as to where I was. Daylight streamed into the windows of the carriage, casting yellow light over everything it touched. The noise and vibrations that had woken me were coming from the horse's hoofbeats on the dry road. None of this held any significance for me for the first few moments of my return to consciousness. My mind was unusually silent as I stared at the roof. However, something new was beating itself against the walls of my brain now, fighting for attention. What it was didn't make itself known until I glanced up and saw my mother smiling down at me.

"Esme," my mother said. It wasn't a statement any more than a question. She said my name just to say my name, and I was absolutely devastated.

I sat straight up. No! It couldn't be! I twisted around to look at my mother, who met my gaze with confusion. My eyes raked over her appearance. She was wearing the same clothes that she had been wearing before I went outside to talk with Margaret. Before I talked with Margaret… it seemed like it had been such a long time. How long had it been? I looked around again. My father was driving the horses, and my head was pounding again. I had been laying in my mother's lap exactly the same as before….

My heart sank. No. My heart disappeared. Last night had been a dream. Perhaps there hadn't even been a last night. Perhaps it was twilight, not sunrise, and we were headed for town. Perhaps the doctor would be in. Perhaps he would tend my leg the same way he had tended to my thousand childhood maladies. Perhaps we would go straight home. I felt a scream of anguish building up inside of me.

"Esme?" This time it was a question. I felt my mother's gentle hands on either of my shoulders. I turned towards my mother. I looked into her beautiful eyes and felt myself break. In an instant, I had thrown my arms around her and begun sobbing uncontrollably into her chest.

My mother stroked my hair soothingly, whispering sweetly in my ear. "Oh, Esme, darling. It's all right, sweetheart. We're only minutes from home and then Daddy will put you in your nice warm bed and prop your leg up so it won't hurt anymore."

My leg? My sobs immediately ceased. I pulled myself away from my mother's embrace and gawked at my lower body. It was again covered with my Father's traveling cloak, which I hastily ripped aside. There, peeking out from under my skirt, were my two legs. And one was covered in bandages and plaster. I swiped my hands over my face, clearing it of tears, just to make sure that my vision wasn't impaired. I blinked several times and then looked down at myself again. I suddenly had the urge to laugh, or sing, or shout… or grab the reins from my father and head straight for Columbus.

I looked at my mother again, and to affirm what I was seeing, asked, "Last night was real?"

My mother smiled sympathetically at me. "Yes, it was. I know it must all seem so surreal to you now."

I was speechless. My mother's perfect brow creased lightly. "Esme, are you feeling all right? Do you have a fever?" She slipped one of her gloves off and pressed a hand against my forehead. Her hand was soft and gentle, but it was far too warm for my preference.

The horses slowed. I ducked out of my mother's hand and looked out the window. We were now driving down the long lane to our white house. My father stopped the carriage in front of the porch, and jumped down. He opened the door and peered in at my mother and me.

"Oh, good, you're awake. How is your leg feeling?"

I nodded, still unable to speak.

My father grunted. "Well, then, grab 'hold of me and I'll take you inside."

He reached inside for me and I wrapped my arms around his neck. When he lifted me, it wasn't the effortless motion that I had recently taken a liking to. My father struggled a bit with me and his steps into the house and up the stairs to my room were halting at best. My mother followed after us and opened the door to my room for my father. This was all so familiar, but it was wrong. My father didn't cradle me against his body, and there was no lantern, or golden hair, or distressed nurse. All of it was completely wrong.

My mother pulled the blankets down on my bed and my father laid me on the mattress. My mother perched herself on the edge of the bed. It was as my father massaged his lower back and my mother tucked me in, having put a pillow underneath my right leg, that I noticed what I was wearing.

I gasped. There was a white jacket overtop of my dress.

My mother looked up at the sound. "Oh, dear, did I bump it?"

I examined one arm, the white sleeve extending many inches past my fingertips, and then simply showed it to my mother, like a young wonder-stricken child, who wants to share with the world some fascinating finding in nature.

My mother gazed at me, concern written on all of her features. She was without a doubt wondering about my sanity by now. I needed answers, so I forced myself to speak.

"The coat…"

She smiled. "Oh, yes. That Dr. Cullen thought you should keep that, in case the weather turned for the worse. He was such a thoughtful man, wasn't he, Samuel?"

My father made a noncommittal noise in his throat.

I was in a daze. I guess my mother must have noticed my glazed expression when she glanced back at me, so she said, "Well, we'll let you get some sleep, Esme. You couldn't have gotten a good night's rest in that rickety carriage." She rose from the bed and headed for the door with my father. "Although that place that the doctor recommended was really very comfortable." The door closed.

I absently stroked the fabric of the coat. His coat. My coat. Our coat. I sighed. Eight weeks could not pass quickly enough.


But pass they did, sluggish as they were. I wasn't much use around the house for the rest of the summer. I could barely leave my room, let alone navigate the stairs. My parents helped me to get around as best they could, and on Independence Day my father carried me outside to look at the annual fireworks display that he and Uncle Franklin put on for the townspeople, but mostly I was confined to my room.

Margaret was a godsend, though. After she rushed into my room the day of my return and sobbed helplessly at the sight of my bed-ridden state, she came to see me every day. She brought me fresh flowers every other day, lemonade and cookies that her mother made, and she even brought a pencil and drew pictures on my cast.

I quickly finished David Copperfield, so Margaret smuggled The Count of Monte Cristo into my room, and I devoured it rapidly, despite its length.

For some reason, I neglected to tell Margaret about my encounter with Dr. Cullen, or Carlisle, as I had come to think of him. Every evening after she went home, I asked myself why I hadn't told her. The only answer I could come up with was that what had transpired was between the two of us, and that was how it should stay: between the two of us.

Finally, the weather turned, and a week before school was to commence, my Mother announced to me at breakfast that I would have my cast removed that day. I was overjoyed, obviously.

"Oh, Mother! Really?"

Mother beamed at me. "Really. You and your father will leave as soon as breakfast is over. You should consider yourself lucky that there was an open appointment on the weekend. Otherwise, you would have had to wait until Monday."

I flinched. "Oh, that would be awful." Three extra days would have been an eternity. I couldn't now remember how I had gotten through those eight weeks, now that they had passed.

I gathered up my dishes. "May I be excused, Mother?"

My Mother glanced at my plate. "But Esme, you've hardly even touched your eggs."

"I haven't much of an appetite this morning," I argued.

My father looked over his paper at me. "Is there something wrong with your mother's cooking, Esme?" he asked.

I lowered my gaze. I had lost before he had even spoken. "No, sir," I mumbled.

"Then finish your food. You won't set foot out of this house before you've cleaned your plate off."

My stomach felt too full of excitement to manage one more bite, but I knew that my father would keep his word, so I forced the rest of the meal down.

My father must have been keeping an eye on my progress, because as soon as I swallowed the last of my milk, he folded his paper and rose from his chair.

"I'll go and prepare the horse."

I clumsily stood and carried my dishes into the kitchen and placed them in the sink. I attempted to help my mother clean them, but my mind was clearly elsewhere. My mother eventually sent me away after I placed a dish that I had just finished drying back into the rinse water.

My father helped me outside and up into the carriage, which was a different one from the one I had ridden to Columbus in. This one was a light, bouncy thing without a top, and was driven by only one horse.

Father saw that I was situated and then gave the reins a shake. The horse set off at a brisk trot. I reveled in the feel of the autumn air on my face, and realized that I had a smile frozen in place. Father noticed my expression and chuckled, which elicited a giggle from me. I surveyed our small town with an inordinate amount of interest as we drove through it, leaving a small cloud of dust in our wake. I hardly realized that we were slowing down until the carriage came to a stop. I looked at my father.

"Why have we stopped?"

"Because we're here, child."

Here? I looked at the building we had stopped in front of. The sign read Dr. Malcolm, Medical Services. A feeling of horror washed over me.

"What about Columbus?" I asked, my voice strained and high pitched.

"What about it?" was my father's answer.

"Well, Dr. Cullen set my leg, shouldn't he-"

"What's the use of going all the way to Columbus when we've got a perfectly capable doctor right here?" My father jumped down from the carriage and landed on the ground with a dull thump. He reached up to help me clamber helplessly down as the door to the office opened. I turned to see Dr. Malcolm, familiar with his ring of white hair around his otherwise bald head and his warm smile.

"Ah, Esme. Good to see you, m'girl."

I semi-consciously felt myself leaning on my father and hobbling into the office that used to feel like a safe haven, but now felt like a prison. Nothing had changed in Dr. Talcum's for as long as I could remember, from its dark wooden paneling to the way the light came through the blinds. But as much as I used to find comfort in its familiarity, I now dreaded it. How could I have been so stupid? Of course we wouldn't go all the way back to Columbus.

The removal of the cast was actually very uncomfortable. Quite a bit of pressure was put on my leg, and I feared that it would snap again. When at last my skin was revealed, Dr. Malcolm ran his hand over the former injury.

"That's quite a nice healing job. That doctor you had must've known his stuff."

"Dr. Cullen," I answered the question before he could ask it.

Dr. Malcolm chuckled. "Well, I guess you won't be so eager to go climbing on weepin' willows after this, will you, young lady?"

"The tree started it," I blurted out unthinkingly.

Both the doctor and my father looked at me as though I had just said that I had seen a flying fish. I couldn't meet either of their eyes, so I opted to stare at the paintings that had been there since before I was born.

I felt ashamed, like I had betrayed Carlisle and myself. As though I had ruined the purity of our conversation by speaking of it to others. I wanted to forget about the terrible injustice I had done to us, but my father brought it up as we drove home.

"Honestly, child, what goes on in your head? 'The tree started it'!" he mocked.

I couldn't open my mouth, or I was going to burst into tears, so I simply kept silent.

I re-entered the house without assistance for the first time in two months, but I didn't find any enjoyment in the act. My mother beamed at me and hugged me, and I had to bite my cheek to stop the tears. She held me at arms' length, still smiling.

"Margaret's waiting in your room, Esme. She's very excited for you."

I nodded and forced myself to smile. "Thank you. I suppose I'll go and see her now."

On the way up the stairs, I noticed that my right leg felt much weaker than the left, and I had to cling to the railing in order to make it to the top. It gave out on me at the top of the stairs, and I half-dragged myself into my room, using the walls for support.

I opened the door to my room and stumbled in. Margaret jumped off of my bed, smiling so widely her entire face seemed to glow. She skipped towards me, stopping several feet in front of me. She looked me over very ostentatiously.

"What, no peg leg? I'm so disappointed, I was misinformed."

I didn't answer. Her smile disappeared immediately. I met her piercing gaze for just a moment, but it was enough for her.

"What's wrong, Esme?"

Something inside of me gave way. Both of my knees buckled beneath me, and I collapsed. Margaret caught me just before I hit the ground, and she held my head as my entire body heaved in grief.

She didn't say a word. She just cradled me and held me tight. I don't know how long we sat there, me weeping and Margaret not uttering a word, but I eventually regained control of myself and she gently kissed the top of my head. She handed me a handkerchief and politely looked away while I cleaned my face and blew my nose.

She finally broke the silence when I offered her the sodden lump of cloth. "Um, that's okay."

I laughed thickly.

She looked into my eyes again. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

And so finally, I told her about him. I told her everything, from the way his voice sounded and the way he smelled to the way I felt when he held me in his arms and put his hand over my face. I told her about how he had looked into my eyes. I told her about the jacket that I had hidden deep within my wardrobe. She got to her feet and threw the doors wide, searching through my clothes until she found it. When she brought it to the surface and I saw the fabric, I started to cry again.

"Don't, Esme, everything will be fine."

I shook my head fiercely, burying my face in my hands. "No, it won't. I'll never see him again, Margaret. How can that be fine?"

She considered my situation for a long moment. I could tell she was very deep in thought from the way that her eyebrows pulled together and she bit along the inside of her mouth. Eventually, she emerged from her contemplation.

"Esme, you're going to see your doctor again very soon."

I looked up. "Impossible. How?"

"That's simple. You're going to go and see him in Columbus."

"How? Why? Why should I go there? What excuse do I have? What do you think - that I'm going to be lucky enough to break another appendage when Dr. Malcolm is away?"

She shrugged. "I don't think it necessarily has to be quite that drastic."

"Then what?" I demanded, annoyed at the smile that was spreading across her face.

"Well," she said innocently, her face arranged into the image of virtue. She tugged at the sleeve of the coat. "It's not polite to borrow something and not return it."


Author's Note: Well? Did you like it? Please let me know!