Author's Note: Thanks to IceGoddess92, erised-i, Twilighter, NellieGURL, DarkBlueRoses, Runs-with-vampires, Deleriously Withdrawn, Twisted Willow, azvamplover, miss.dramatikkkk, Alia DeBel, meera, SockShopping, Fallen Roses 07, DarlingKittystar, IchigoCullen, Piper of Locksley, XboredX16, and EmilyMitchell for reviewing! Wow! I can't reiterate enough just how wonderful you guys all are! LotB passed the 100-review mark with chapter twelve, and it made me glow! I have some prizes to give out, but first:
meera: First off, thank you so much for reviewing! Honestly? The best you've ever read? If I'm not careful, people are going to start calling me Katie the Red-Faced Author, or something::shies away from feral snarl, holding up a chair with which to defend herself:: No! Don't give up sugar! What are you, nuts (okay, so for some reason, won't let me add a question mark to the end of the question, so just never mind about the whole thing.) :-)
Okay, as for prizes: first things first: A cake, a stolen cherry pie, and a wet-shirted Carlisle go to DarlingKittystar, as well as DarkBlueRoses, Piper of Locksley, etc. etc. Basically, anybody who didn't already receive one when I mentioned them. Plus, a Carlisle plushie to everyone who's read the story thus far (and in the future, of course)! Also: an apple pie to IchigoCullen, because she prefers apple. :-) And, last but most definitely not least, I noticed a great deal of interest in my evil, twisty mustache, so: an evil, twisty mustache for all!!
Disclaimer: Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, Esme Evenson, Charles Evenson, and Carlisle Evenson all belong to Stephenie Meyer... in fact, an evil, twisty mustache for Stephenie, too!! Miriam Platt, Samuel Platt, and Margaret Bennington all belong to me. :-)
Chapter 13. The Present
I waited until the last of the guests straggled home before talking to my mother. I was helping her in the kitchen when I cleared my throat nervously.
She looked up, slightly distracted. "Did you say something, Esme?"
I quailed. "No, mother."
She continued washing the dishes as I dried them and put them away, this kitchen more familiar to me than my own, although I had deliberately organized my kitchen similarly. The wooden stool was still next to the stove, I observed. Had Charles hit me in this kitchen, I would have cracked my head against it.
"Mother," I said, my voice surprisingly steady.
"Yes, dear?"
"Um…" What was I supposed to say? How do you tell your mother something like that?
"What is it, Esme?" She asked, concern evident on her brow. Somehow she knew that this was serious.
I looked down. "I… well, I wanted to…"
Mother's eyes softened. "You can tell me anything, darling."
"It- it's about Charles," I blurted out, looking into her eyes, willing her to understand without my having to say anything. The way Margaret had.
It was not to be. Instead, my mother asked, "What about him?"
"Well… it's not just about him. It's… it's about me, too,"
She waited. Clearly she wasn't going to give me any help.
"We're… Charles has been… what I mean to say is… we've been having… trouble," I finished pathetically.
Mother withdrew her hands from the dishwater, drying them on her apron, comprehension written all over her face. I felt a wash of relief that I didn't have to go further.
"Oh, darling why didn't you say something earlier? You should really be talking to your father about this, you know, not me. I don't control the purse strings around here!" She laughed.
"I'm sorry?" I asked, feeling as though I had missed a step somewhere.
"Well, Esme, obviously if you need money you'll have to ask your father."
My heart fell. "It's not about money, mother," I whispered.
"Well, then, for heavens' sake, what is it about, Esme? Just tell me." She reached out to stroke my cheek. I automatically winced away from her. She paused, a trace of hurt touching her expression.
It became very obvious to me that I couldn't put this into words, that there was no practical way of describing what had been happening. So I wordlessly rolled up one of my sleeves and extended my arm towards her. Charles' finger marks seemed especially ugly in the dim light. I was completely mute as I watched my mother's eyes widen, her mouth opening as she finally understood.
She met my gaze. "You and Charles are having trouble," she whispered, repeating my words.
I nodded, covering my arm again.
"Ever since you got married?" She asked quietly.
I nodded again. "Margaret said that I should say something to you."
My words were met with silence, so I added, "She thought you could do something."
My mother was staring at my arm, a strange expression on her face. I waited, but she remained silent. My brow crinkled. Why was she so quiet? Why wasn't she saying something? I decided that perhaps she needed prompting.
"So… what should I do? Shall I move back in with you and father?"
That snapped her out of her reverie. She looked up at me in confusion.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
I was getting more bewildered by the minute as I suggested, "Or, perhaps I should leave town?"
"Esme, what are you talking about?" she demanded, her voice sounding uncharacteristically harsh.
"Mother!" I said, fear beginning to trickle into my spine. What was the matter with her? Hadn't she seen my arm? Perhaps she didn't understand what those bruises were.
"Mama," I whispered plaintively.
"Esme, you can't leave Charles. What are you talking about?" she repeated, looking at me as if this were the most obvious fact in the world.
My eyes widened. "But, mother! He did-"
"It doesn't matter what he did," she said curtly.
A feeling of hopelessness washed over me. No. This couldn't be what she thought. This had to be some sort of nightmare. I felt tears start in my eyes. Her expression gentled. She reached out again, and this time I let her touch my face.
"Esme," she began in a soft, soothing voice. "Marriage is a complicated thing. It takes work. Hard work. It's not easy to get right, and mistakes will be made, that's understandable."
A mistake? Charles had made a mistake,pushing me down staircases, throwing me around, hitting me whenever he felt aggravated? A mistake?
"What you need to do, Esme, is learn from your mistakes. Charles is a patient man, but even patient men have their limits."
So Charles hadn't made the mistakes. I had made the mistakes. I was the one in the wrong, and Charles was the victim. I listened in abject horror as my mother went on.
"Every marriage has its difficulties, Esme. But just as long as you work hard to be a good wife to Charles, and don't complain or make it hard for him to love you, things will work out just fine. All right?"
I felt myself nodding, although I had no control over the action. Mother smiled, seeming relieved that I had taken my lecture so well.
"Every marriage has its rough spots, darling. You'll get through this one just fine, don't you worry."
She let the water out, and I watched silently as the water spiraled around and around, until it finally disappeared. Then, I hung up my towel and went to rejoin my husband, feeling like I was spiraling out of control myself.
I did try. I did everything within my power to be a good wife. I made sure that a complaint never passed my lips, neither around Charles nor anyone else. I practiced until my cooking and cleaning was impeccable. I tried so very hard to convince myself that what my mother had said was correct – that this was a rough spot, a difficulty, and that we would get through it. I kissed Charles before he left for the office, I cleaned the house until it was spotless, cooked his favorite meals, and served them to him with another kiss in the evenings.
Nothing worked.
No matter how hard I tried, Charles always found something that I had done wrong, and I was powerless to stay his fury.
During one particularly violent evening, I had sat, huddled in the hallway, shaking and crying. I had had my eyes shut tight when suddenly, a vision flashed behind my eyelids.
I saw Carlisle's face.
I gasped. I had far from forgotten him, but after marrying Charles, I had tried to force Dr. Cullen to the back of my mind, feeling indecent for dreaming of him when I belonged to another man. But now he presented himself to me, his image clearer to me than it had been for years. He had smiled at me, his eyes sparkling with a warmth I had recently told myself I would have to live without. My tears stopped, and I was able to pick myself up and continue on with my tasks.
Since then, I had taken to mentally withdrawing myself from the situation whenever Charles exploded. When it all became too much, and I was alone, I could retreat to the comfort of Carlisle's face, smiling gently and lovingly at me.
It was early October, and I was enjoying the process of making a delicious roasted chicken for Carlisle, myself, and our five children, giggling as Carlisle stood behind me, his arms around my waist and his chin on my shoulder, when my husband walked in the front door.
I looked up, startled. I dropped the knife I was holding as Carlisle vanished from my side. When I straightened back up, Charles was standing across the room from me, reading a thick, official-looking letter with a stunned look on his face. I stepped closer to him, concerned. I noticed that his eyes were not moving, that he was just staring at the letter, shock and… was that fear in his eyes?
"What is it?" I asked hesitantly.
Charles' eyes snapped up to me. He jumped as though he hadn't been aware that I was in the room. I watched apprehensively as he gazed at me unseeingly for a moment.
He closed his eyes tight, and then cleared his throat. When he reopened his eyes, I could see that he was back to normal.
He considered me coldly for a moment before saying, "I have been drafted into the Army. I leave in three days."
I gasped. "But… but Charles," I objected. "How is that possible? Wouldn't you have been inducted before now? The registration day was in June!"
Charles scoffed. "Honestly, woman, are you really as insensate as you seem?" he sneered. "I, as well as the rest of the entire country, am well aware of the fact that registration was in June. But do you happen to know what else was in June?"
I froze. "We announced our wedding in June," I whispered, feeling helpless.
Charles nodded. "That's right. As did about three-quarters of America's eligible men. I just thought that the reprieve would last a bit longer."
We stood in silence for an indeterminate amount of time; each of us lost in our own thoughts. Eventually Charles cleared his throat, making me jump.
"Regardless," he said, his voice indifferent and imperious once more, "I have to get my things ready. Let me know when supper is ready."
He turned sharply and swept out of the room.
I stayed where I was for a moment, looking unseeingly at the door he had just closed behind himself. Charles is leaving. Charles is leaving. The thought began to pound through my head at the speed of my heartbeat, slowly picking up speed. Charles is leaving. He'll be somewhere where he can't touch me. He'll be in Europe, where he can't hurt me. I had nearly forgotten what it felt like to live without pain. To be able to lie down on my back. To be able to bathe without averting my gaze so I wouldn't have to see the black and blue patches that were predominate no matter where I looked.
After he leaves I won't hurt anymore. Slowly, ever so slowly, I sank to the ground, unbidden tears streaking my face.
And for the first time in three months, I cried in happiness.
It was evening time again. Charles would leave early the next morning. His mother and mine had quickly thrown together a going-away party for him, which he had suffered through nobly, fooling everyone into thinking that he was enjoying his friends and family seeing him off.
Everyone except me.
I could see the annoyance flit across his face whenever any older man would accost him and tell him about his days fighting for the Union during the Civil War. I noticed the fleeting scowl when one housewife after another approached him with a dish and spoon in hand, begging him to try her latest recipe, exulting when he smiled and took a bite, saying smoothly that she must give me the recipe. By the end of the day I had at least twenty new recipes and Charles looked about ready to burst, whether from frustration or ambrosia salad, I wasn't sure.
The guests moseyed away in their own time, and Charles and I were alone again. I was building up a fire when Charles entered, his hair still wet from the bath. He stood watching me silently. Finally, I couldn't ignore him any longer. I turned to face him.
I knew that I should say something, I just wasn't sure of what. The silence hung in the tense air.
Suddenly, Charles started walking towards me. I started slightly, my heart speeding up. I began going through the entire day in my mind. Had I done anything wrong? I knew how much he had been irked by the guests, but had I specifically been any cause of vexation for him? It took everything in my power not to shy away from him when he stopped right in front of me.
"Esme," he whispered, his low voice rough. He leaned in until his lips brushed against mine. "Esme," he murmured again.
I felt his hands wrap around my waist as he kissed me. I was surprised. He wasn't usually this gentle at all. That quickly changed, though, as I made myself become more involved, placing my arms around his neck and returning the kiss. He pulled me tightly against him, his lips pressing mine open. I was having trouble breathing, and I turned my head to the side to look over my shoulder when the backs of my legs bumped against the bed. I hadn't even realized that he had been steering me.
He lifted me effortlessly, kissing up and down my neck as he did so. He set me down onto the bed and then climbed in himself, crawling towards me until I was forced to lay back onto the pillows.
I tried not to start shaking in intimidation when his lips trailed back up my neck to my jaw, all gentleness long gone from his kisses.
I cried out softly when he bit down hard on my neck.
"Again," he groaned. When I didn't comply, he bit down again, and this time I could feel the skin break. I cried out louder, feeling the sting when his cold breath hit my injury.
Charles had done this often enough for me to know that this was not going to be pleasant. He had never once been gentle; not even the first time. I knew that I was going to be very sore tomorrow morning, let alone how it was going to hurt tonight. I desperately tried to take my mind somewhere else where Charles wasn't bruising my lips as well as the rest of me. Somewhere where he wasn't pulling my hair so that, when I tilted my head back, he would have better access to my throat. Somewhere that Charles wasn't, where I was with someone different. I knew whom I wanted to be with.
I imagined that it was someone different who pulled me closer, who reached around and began to undo my dress. I was surprised to find that, when I thought of him, I could actually enjoy myself.
Someone different finished with the buttons down my back and pulled down the shoulders of my dress. Someone else pushed a knee in between mine and, when he rocked against me, I cried out in ecstasy.
"Carlisle!"
All was still. My heart stopped as both Charles and I registered what I had said. Then, uncontrollably, I began to shake. I could feel Charles trembling too as he pulled his face away so that he could look into my eyes. My entire body was rocked with tremors when I saw the raw, unadulterated wrath burning in his black eyes.
"What… did you say?" he demanded through clenched teeth.
I opened my mouth, but I could force no words out.
"What did you say?" he repeated, his anger growing, if possible.
I mouthed wordlessly, paralyzed with fear.
"What?!" he yelled. In one movement, he had pulled me out from underneath him and thrown me to the ground. He stooped down and grabbed me back up by my shoulders, shaking me violently.
"WHO IS CARLISLE?!" He hollered, hitting me hard across the face. I would have fallen, but he held me immobile in his arms.
"He… he's," I struggled for words, but what was there to say?
He became very quiet. "Who?" he whispered.
When he was met with silence, he yelled, "Speak, you harlot!"
He threw me away from himself with all of his force. I went crashing into the wardrobe. I grabbed onto a door for support as I fell. The door opened and, with a scream of terror, I saw the closet tip and fall towards me. As quickly as I could, I ripped open the other door and then threw myself flat to the ground, shielding my head in my arms.
The closet crashed to the ground around me, and I found myself buried in my clothes. Both doors seemed to have broken off so that, instead of being crushed, I was inside the wardrobe.
I rolled over and found that I was being smothered. Panicking, I clawed at the back of the wardrobe, trying to throw it off of me.
It wouldn't move. Summoning all of the strength I could, I braced my hands and feet against the back and heaved with all of my might. Somehow, miraculously, I managed to shift it enough so that I could slip a hand underneath the wall. Crying out in pain and exertion, I used every part of my body that was in contact with wood and pushed.
I scrambled out of the stifling enclosure and back into the room, where Charles watched me coldly, standing as still as a statue, his arms folded at his chest, making no move to help me.
I tried to crawl away, but I was stopped with a jolt. With a shriek of pain, I realized that my ankle was still trapped underneath. I twisted around and pulled futilely at the wall, fighting to lift it once more.
But my strength was gone, and it stayed still. I threw all of my body weight into trying to shift the closet, but it wouldn't budge.
Charles watched me struggle in silence, until I slumped over the wardrobe and became still, completely defeated. He crossed the room in several long strides, got a firm hold on one side, and turned the closet on its side in one easy movement.
I didn't have the energy to contemplate how easily Charles could have rescued me. I didn't even have the energy to clutch my foot in my hands.
As it was, I could barely raise my head when I heard Charles say, "What is this?"
My heart stopped. Charles was holding Carlisle's jacket between two fingers.
Had I been more alert, I would have realized that Charles was glancing at it indifferently, and that, had it not been for the look of dread on my face, he might not have thought twice about it.
Unfortunately, Charles was much more mentally agile than I at that moment, and he quickly read the look on my face.
"It's his, isn't it?" He asked, deadly calm.
"No," I blurted out, trying to make the lie look convincing on my face.
"No?" Charles repeated, a coy smirk playing at one corner of his mouth. "Then whose is it?"
I frantically cast around for some excuse, for some reason I should have a man's jacket in with my clothes. But all I could come up with was, "It's no one's."
"Oh?" Charles raised his eyebrows, regarding the fabric with careful nonchalance.
"It's rather old fashioned," he said, stretching it out so that he could observe its cut and style. "Surely you don't need such an old jacket if it doesn't belong to anybody? Why don't I give it away?"
"No!" I cried out before I could stop myself. Charles' eyes narrowed.
"Is it his, isn't it? This 'Carlisle.'" He spat the name out like it was poisonous. "Who is he? Does he live in town?"
I didn't speak.
"Answer me," he growled.
When I stayed silent, he rounded on me, his teeth bared. "You tell me if he lives in town! When I find him, I swear to God I'll tear him apart!"
"No!" I cried. Fear gripped me. Somehow, even though he was hundreds if not thousands of miles away, I needed to protect Carlisle, because I knew that Charles would go looking for him. I made myself speak. "He doesn't live in town. I haven't seen him in years."
"You knew him before we were married?" Charles demanded.
"Yes," I whispered.
"You little whore," he spat. "How many other men did you know before we were married?"
"It wasn't like that!" I insisted. "It… it belonged to the doctor who mended my leg when I was sixteen. He… gave it to me."
"And what was the fine doctor's name, prey tell? Could it be 'Carlisle,' per chance?" Charles was playing with me now, and I could see that there was no point in lying.
"Yes," I said softly, looking at the ground.
"And you keep his coat around for what reason? In case he comes back for it?"
"I… I didn't want to waste it. It's a perfectly good jacket." It was true. It was a perfectly good jacket, so even if lying was futile, bending the truth slightly might work in my favor.
"So you're saving it because it doesn't need thrown away… how utilitarian."
I knew then that nothing was going to work. There was no way out of this, and I knew that, when I looked up, Charles could see the defeat in my eyes.
He regarded me for a moment, glaring at me hatefully, before striding to the fireplace. By the time I realized what he intended to do, it was too late for me to even shout out. He had already balled the jacket up and cast it into the flames.
Charles turned and looked at me, daring me to beg him to retrieve it. I knew what would happen if I begged him to save it, so I remained as silent as the tears falling fast from my eyes. It felt as though I were watching Carlisle himself shriveling and blackening in the fireplace, and I hated that Charles held me there. He didn't physically restrain me, but he held me as much of a prisoner eight feet away as he could if he clutched me in his arms.
When there was nothing left of the jacket but ashes, Charles walked to the door and pulled it open. Before leaving, he took in the look of grief I was sure was on my face.
"He's never coming back for you, child." And with that, he left and closed the door behind him.
Left alone, I quickly lost whatever composure I had managed to maintain while Charles was in the room. Unable to walk, I half crawled, half dragged myself to the fireplace, where I laid my head down and sobbed. I didn't cry in loss. I didn't even cry in pain.
I cried because I knew that, undeniably, Charles was right.
Author's Note: So? Are we all happy that Charles is leaving for the Army? ... After all, I think we should all try to look on the bright side whenever possible. :-)
