Hello again! Thank you to everyone who followed and favorited the prologue, your support so far means so much to me! Shout-out to my buddy Stella who gave me the first review, to SunflowerFran for her little encouraging comment, and to kellythepitiablefangirl from Tumblr for messaging me with her sweet opinion! I hope your expectations for chapter one will be fulfilled, and that you'll let me know what you think once again :)
Without further ado, Bumps begins (officially this time)! Brace yourselves for length :P
Disclaimer - I don't own Twilight but this story idea as well as Tate belong to me.
CHAPTER ONE: Birthday Baby
Bella
My baby girl looks like me. She has my eyes—Charlie's eyes—and the color of my hair and the same snowy skin as me with red roses melted into her round cheeks. She gets her silky curls from me, too, and her sweet spirit from my mother.
Renée would have loved Tate. I see so much of her in my daughter. (The good things only, like their passion for crafts and owning happy colorful things.) I know they'd be attached at the hip during visits and Renée would come bearing gifts to spoil Tate rotten (to her delight). In a way, that sort of already happens since Charlie adores her more than life itself and always has a present to give her.
You should have seen her the day we moved away from Forks. She would not let Charlie go. She sobbed her little heart out, wailed at the top of her lungs as piercingly as she did on the memorable day of her birth. She begged me to let her stay with him while I went to Seattle alone, refusing to listen to me when I tried explaining we'd be back for Thanksgiving and Christmas. "It won't be forever, baby," I kept saying even though my own heart was breaking. I didn't really want to leave Forks either, but Seattle had more fun things for her to do and new places to go and interesting things to see. The job I applied for in the city pays better than working at Newton's Olympic Outfitters (as lovely as that was), and when Charlie started seeing Sue Clearwater last fall, I didn't feel so bad about leaving Forks knowing he'd still have someone around to cook for him and do his laundry.
It was painful nonetheless. Here was the man who had so willingly accepted my daughter into his life, had dutifully stood by me during her birth, had pretty much named her, had helped me raise her for the first three and a half years of her life—and yet there I was, taking them away from each other. How incredibly selfish of me. In that moment, I bet Charlie was thinking about Renée on the day she left with me in 1993. I don't know how he couldn't—it was too similar of a situation.
The only difference between me and my mom is that I plan on going back. I want and need him in Tate's life. It was just a change of scenery, the start of something new. I've reached that point where I might want a relationship too, but I desire a home of my own and enough money to safely raise my child first. I'm not looking for love. Just a purpose.
If I were to meet my future spouse tomorrow, I suppose that'd be interesting, but it's not at the very top of my list. I have a little girl to take care of, a job to excel at, a mortgage to pay, groceries to buy. Falling in love seems kinda distracting.
Someone is staring at me. Even through the thick haze of sleep, I can sense someone is definitely staring at me. Again.
I open my eyes, but don't see much besides the fuzzy darkness of my pillow on my face. My room is cold since my fan is constantly on medium (for whatever reason, I can't sleep unless I'm freezing with tons of blankets on top of me), and it's dead silent save for the light flow of my breathing. The quiet little person next to my bed keeps watching me, frozen.
Then a hand reaches out and four icy fingertips brush the exposed skin of my bare arm, and I yank it away instinctively. A sweet tinkling laugh fills the room as my daughter giggles at my dramatic reaction, and begins hopping up and down. I cringe when her feet make thudding reverberations across the carpeted floor, expecting one of the neighbors downstairs to ram us with the end of a broom or yell to knock it off. I flip the pillow from my head and squint at my electronic clock for the time. Eight thirty-two in the morning. Jesus Christ. I glance at Tate, still jumping for joy. It's too early for this shit.
"Hey," I croak, trying to be stern, rubbing my weary eyes and sitting up. "Hey, stop it. Tate, calm down, it's not nice to—"
"It's my birthdaaay!" she screams gleefully, launching herself onto the mattress. Giggling in an almost maniacal fashion, she crawls right up to my face and flops against my chest, knocking the wind out of me. Oh shit. It's August twenty-second already? Today's the day my little munchkin turns four; my mom would have been forty-one yesterday. Where has the time gone?
I wrap my arms around my baby girl and fall back to the fluffy pillows, holding her tightly. She wriggles in my grasp, still laughing up a storm. I smile into her soft tangles of hair, the curls tickling my nose and cheeks. She smells like lavender and vanilla—her favorite shampoo—and sounds like sunshine. She's warm like the sun, too. Sometimes I refer to her as a mini heater and let her sleep in my bed with me purely because she keeps me from freezing to death under my fan. It's more of an excuse to just be near her even in sleep—I don't turn my fan down because then I won't feel as guilty asking Tate to keep me company at night. Mommy bloggers wouldn't take too kindly to my silly reason instead of being one of them and teaching my kid to stay in bed. "A line has to be drawn somewhere," they'd all say. "What's that teaching her?"
Well, I'd reply, it would teach her that someone in the world needs her, even for the smallest thing. That's kinda important.
"Boom." I swing Tate off my shoulder and plunk her down into one of the chairs at the kitchen counter. I ruffle her coffee-colored tresses to annoy her (she hates when her hair is too messy) and smirk when she makes a face and attempts to flatten the frizz. I open the fridge and pull out the carton of orange juice, shaking it up as I grab two clean cups from the dishwasher. I pour Tate half a glass but myself a full, then finally take a seat next to her, and we clink our drinks.
"So," I begin nonchalantly, adopting my work voice. Tate glances over at me, swishing her juice around in her mouth like she's some sly gangster tasting a shot of vodka. I have no idea where she learned that move from. (Not from me, that's for damn sure. I don't drink. Not constantly, anyway. I might have a sip of wine late at night after rather stressful days at work but other than that, no alcohol for me. The Mommy bloggers wouldn't approve of me drinking, either.) I frown at my daughter and tap her chin lightly, our silent signal for "don't chew with your mouth open" and "finish eating that, please."
"So," I say again when she swallows. "What do you wanna do for your birthday this fine morning, Your Royal Highness?"
My boss was generous enough to give me the morning off until his big important meeting about finances with other old white balding men at noon. He is the type of guy who does nice things for people but expects a lot more from them in return. It doesn't take rocket science to figure out what he wants from me, his pretty brunette assistant slash receptionist who works for him six days a week and receives surprisingly decent pay. He knows I have a child, though. As gross as he may be when he looks at me when I'm not paying attention (but still am aware of it because, you know, women have to be aware of that kind of stuff), I honestly don't think he'd try and hurt me. He wouldn't traumatize a tiny single mother.
There I go, giving people the benefit of the doubt again. I really have to stop doing that—I'm most likely wrong anyway. Today could be the day I go to work only to be assaulted by that smarmy man in a goddamn closet or some sick shit—
Tate's telling me about what she wants to do for her birthday. I forgot I asked. I bring myself back to the present to listen to her, curious. I have something planned for tonight after cupcakes and ice cream, but obviously it's her day (or morning, since she'll be in daycare all afternoon, where I imagine her friends and the staff will keep her happily entertained) and I have to try to make it as wonderful and fantastic as possible. Naturally, she says she wants to go to the zoo—is there even a zoo here in Seattle? I don't remember—then the park (I suppose that could work), and then to the vintage ice cream shop two blocks away from her daycare center. I've been promising her all summer we'd go there eventually, so I'll see if I can somehow make time now. They don't open until eleven and I was hoping we could grab breakfast at my coworkers' favorite diner first…Ugh, decisions.
Being an adult is hard, I think to myself as Tate keeps chattering, sipping her juice. Enjoy being a kid while it lasts, honey.
When she stops talking to finish her drink, I jump at the opportunity to say, "How about this. Why don't we go get some pancakes at this place I heard about, and if we have time, we can have ice cream and go to the park, too. How's that?" I bite my lip, gauging Tate's reaction as she considers my offer. She thinks for a minute, swinging her feet, side-eying me (again with the gangster vibes).
"Mmmm…Okay!" the silly girl shouts at last, throwing her arms up and smiling from ear to ear. She's too cute for words.
Because it's her birthday, I let Tate pick out what she wants to wear for the day. She sifts through her tiny closet, singing an off-key, made-up song about unicorns and ice cream cones. Everything in her room is sweet and petite, like her. She has my old rocking chair in the corner next to her bed where she keeps all her stuffed animals, which overflow in groups to the braided rainbow carpet. She also has a vintage white dresser with various knickknacks and picture frames on top, colorful socks, ribbons, and Disney princess underwear often scattered in the drawers since neither of us are very good at keeping our possessions tidy (mental parenting to-do list: teach my kid to be organized). Smiling characters from My Little Pony are printed across her bedspread and pillowcases. Purple glow-in-the-dark stars decorate her low ceiling. Her door on the inside is covered in stickers that range from cute cartoon cats to Power Rangers kicking some ass. Overall, it's a nice cozy room and I'd give anything to be in here with her all the time to just play and bond. It's its own little world.
Tate chooses a pair of neon green leggings, a jean skirt, and a pale pink long-sleeved shirt. Not too bad for a four-year-old. "I can do it, Mommy," she says in a confident voice when I go to help her get dressed. Tears smart my eyes when I watch my tiny girl pull off her pajamas and successfully replace them with her outfit. She was wearing onesies and little diapers and looked like a bean in her first winter coat what seems like yesterday and now she's already dressing herself? It genuinely frightens me how fast time is going by. She'll be headed off to college in the blink of an eye. How terrifying.
But I have her today and I'll have her always. I remind myself of that fact when she retrieves her hairbrush and hands it to me, sitting down on the floor in front of me. My girl still needs me for a lot of things. She is my purpose. She is what I live for.
Whether it's a continuous birthday coincidence or a sign of her inner optimism, the sky is a clear light blue and the sun is shining bright. Every year on her birthday, from the very day itself, the sun emerges from behind the grey Pacific clouds to celebrate my daughter. This year Tate finally notices, pointing up to it in awe and asking, "Who did the sky like that?"
"Who made the sky look like that?" I repeat, instinctively pulling her away from the curb as she leans out to the street to get a better look. "I dunno, squirt. I think the sky just does it on its own. And it knows today is your birthday so it chose to be extra pretty. Isn't that special?" It really is. Sunny skies five years in a row and many more to go. I look at Tate, her small, flawless face lit up with an angelic smile as if the sky remembering her birthday is the best thing she's ever heard.
We turn the corner and I spot Half Century Diner at the very end, painted a happy blue and yellow, a sharp contrast from the paler, less inviting businesses around it. Tate gasps in excitement when she sees it too. Her smile only gets broader.
I let her open the door for us, holding back a laugh at her little grunt and look of determination. It's warm and cozy inside and I breathe in various smells—sizzling bacon, freshly stacked pancakes, maple syrup, hot coffee. The place is also on the tiny side, with about eight booths, ten tables, and fourteen stools at the counter, but its smallness only makes it that much more endearing. Most of the other costumers here are cute older couples, a few with young grandkids. The diner is filled with quiet conversation and the clinking of plates and glasses, and in the kitchen I can see the cooks hard at work.
Since there aren't any tables left, we take our seats at the counter. Tate slips off her mini backpack and slams it onto the hard plastic, reminding me of huffy men coming into meetings at the office on a daily basis. She rummages around for her box of crayons and Frozen coloring book, pulling them out and setting them between us, intending to share with me.
One of the waiters comes back around the counter and pins an order to the frayed string hanging above the open space to the kitchen. A cook asks him a question and he shakes his head, smiling slightly, then grabs a new plate of food and rushes away. My eyes follow him, intrigued by his ridiculously untidy crop of hair. It's an unusual reddish-brown shade—I can't really name it, but for some reason it strikes me as familiar. I don't know how, though. I've never seen hair like that.
I'm helping Tate color in Sven the reindeer's harness when the guy returns, trying to flatten his hair before he approaches us. "Hi," he says in a friendly voice, grabbing both mine and my daughter's attention at the same time. Tate waves shyly and to my surprise, he waves back before looking at me directly. He grins crookedly. "What can I get for you lovely ladies today?"
"Uh—we haven't decided yet. Unless—" I glance at Tate, who has gone back to coloring. "Umm, we'll look at the menu."
"Sure thing. Take your time." He smiles at me again and steps away. I realize I'm holding my breath and let it go in a rush—dear God. I'm pretty sure I know what we want but in that moment it's like his eyes took away my ability to form words…which is really embarrassing because I never get tongue-tied around men. Well, not the men I'm used to seeing. Young and attractive men apparently "tickle my fancy," as my coworker Jessica (and, ironically, my ex-Spanish class partner) often says. She's right, though. They kinda do, if my current situation isn't an indication. God, I feel like one of those stupid girls in a teenage high school movie. I can't be thinking about men when I have a daughter to raise first; obviously she's going to be my top priority before anything.
And so I shake my head as if to clear it of any impure and unladylike thoughts (the wise words of my gran).
"What do you want, babe?" I ask Tate, picking up a menu and squinting at it. "Oh, look, they've got chocolate pancakes like the ones at IHOP. Wanna try those? Or do you want your usual waffles and whipped cream? Look." I tap the pictures of both plates. Tate glances at them briefly, gasps softly, then nods quickly and points to the pancake, her shiny ringlets bobbing. I smile at her enthusiasm. "Good. I can ask if they'll put extra whipped cream on it with a cherry because it's your birthday," I suggest, and her eyes light up.
The redheaded waiter finishes another round before he asks us if we're ready. I pointedly avoid looking at his eyes when I speak (despite how impolite that may be) and he writes down our order. Tate is so eager to have her pancake that she has a burst of confidence around this stranger and practically demands her whipped cream and cherry. She adds please at the end of her sentence after noticing my raised eyebrows, but the waiter only laughs and says, "Of course we can do that." They share a smile. She thanks him delightedly and he nods, then walks away. His stride is familiar now, too. God.
"Mommy, look," Tate squeaks a few minutes later as I'm checking my hoards of boring emails on my phone. I glance up and follow her finger, pointing to the kitchen. I see one of the cooks getting to work on our breakfast, and Tate is enthralled. It's cute how even the littlest things captivate her mind, and I hope that precious curiosity stays with her always. I watch Tate lovingly while she gazes at our food with the same amount of adoration on her face, chocolate eyes wide as the moon.
She starts bouncing in her seat and does a drumroll on the counter when our waiter carries over our plates. I'm afraid she might hyperventilate and pass out. "One chocolate pancake with extra whipped cream and a cherry on top for you," the waiter says in an extravagant tone, his voice like honey, clearly trying to make it seem like the best pancake she'll ever have. "Aaand one for you." In a less enthusiastic manner, he slides my plate in front of me, but I know—or hope—he's only joking. Tate has already begun devouring her pancake, so I assume she'll want milk to wash it down with, and the waiter gets us two full glasses and tells us to enjoy. Tate yells "Thank you!" around a mouthful of pancake—her cheeks make her look like a chipmunk.
"Guess what," she says to him a few minutes later when she swallows and he's bending down to pick up cleaning supplies. "It's my birthday!"
He pops back up, feigning surprise. "Really?" he breathes, and she beams happily. He puts his hands on his hips. "Well—I guess that means I'll have to give you a special birthday sticker. One second." He disappears beneath the counter and rummages around for something. Tate forgets her pancake and leans over to see what he's doing. I watch quietly, eating mine. "Ah, yes—here we go." He reappears again with a handful of cute stickers and holds them out for her. "Pick one."
Tate touches each individual sticker, her tongue poking out and a wrinkle forming between her eyes as she tries to decide, eventually choosing the white unicorn (whose name I currently forget) from My Little Pony. She puts it on her shirt gladly and elatedly thanks him for the third time today, her brown eyes and little face overflowing with gratitude and happiness.
"You're very welcome," he says, putting the other stickers back. "Happy birthday." His smile is genuine, like he means it. I don't doubt that—even the grumpiest of people can lighten up after meeting my daughter. (Not to be that mom, but.)
Tate keeps looking down at her sticker while we eat, touching the purple velvet hair and grinning broadly from ear to ear.
Somehow I finish my breakfast before Tate (which was a given when she got that sticker), and have to use the restroom. I forgot to pee before we left earlier and after a whole glass of milk I think I might wet myself. (Did that once when I was, like, seven, in front of a crowd at my very first—and also last—dance recital. My poor mother was mortified for me.) My bladder is persistent and as much as I don't want to leave my four-year-old daughter alone even for a minute, I can't hold it in.
"Stay here," I instruct Tate very seriously. "Look at me—don't move. I'll be right back, but I need you to stay here." There aren't many threats in this tiny diner, considering most of the current costumers are seniors minding their own business. I feel confident that in the thirty to forty-five seconds I'm gone, all Tate will do is obediently eat her pancake. She smiles at me with a little "mmhmm," deliberately taking a huge bite to prove she'll be good for me until I return. She's not going anywhere; compliant as ever, she'll do as I say, so I scurry away towards the ladies' room, thankful that it's empty.
It's a relief to finally go. I drop my face into my hands and sigh heavily. My shoulders sag, my body droops. In the soft, buzzing quiet of the bathroom, I'm suddenly hit by a strong wave of fatigue. I can practically hear my heart beating—feel the blood pumping through my veins. I never sleep well these days and I'm so fucking tired. Pardon my French, but I am exhausted. Everything is hurting.
But there's a little girl out there who needs me so I suck it up. You never get a break from parenting, no matter how much you think you deserve it. There's always gonna be someone who needs you. There'll always be a hungry mouth to feed, a sweet face to wash, a warm body to be cuddled, a smart mind to teach, a good person to raise. Being a mom is a lifelong commitment and I accepted that reality four years ago when my daughter entered the world. As I stand here in front of the mirror, washing my hands and staring at my young, sleepy reflection, it occurs to me that motherhood is a gift—the best one I've ever gotten in almost twenty-two years. It came to me prematurely without a warning, and yet I obviously don't regret it. I don't regret my baby Tate. I don't regret the last four years—nearly five if you count my pregnancy. I haven't missed out on anything my friends from high school have gone on to do because I already have the career of a lifetime. Tate is my whole world.
So when I walk out and expect to see her still sitting at the counter, swinging her legs and sipping her milk, but instead a half-empty glass, almost gone pancake, and coloring book are the only things there to mark her territory, my heart stops and my entire body goes cold. I stare at her empty seat for a fraction of a second, my mind temporarily going blank in a panic.
Up until this very moment, from the time Tate started to understand commands and did as she was told, we have never, ever been in a situation like this. When we go to the grocery store, she's sitting in the cart up front, always visible. When we go out for a walk, she holds my hand, extra tight when we cross the street, always visible. When we go anywhere or do anything she is with me, always visible. I know she's only four but come on, she's more well-behaved than any other four-year-old—so her sudden and uncharacteristic disappearance can only mean one thing. It's literally every parents' nightmare. Shit.
That's when I notice our tall, red-haired, muscular, seemingly innocent waiter at the door with Tate, holding her wrist in his large hand. He's grabbed her, and her head snaps back to look up at him, startled, eyes dilating again, this time in fear.
"Hey!" I shout, making my voice as loud and angry as possible so everyone can hear. Conversations pause, heads turn sharply. "What are you doing?!" Any trace of exhaustion on my face or in my body is replaced by boiling hot, seething rage as my heart starts to pound. I move at a pace faster than I thought possible, reaching them before he can do anything else. I swoop down and snatch Tate into my arms, clutching her to me and shooting daggers at the stunned waiter. Adrenaline runs fast and scalding in my veins.
"What's going on here?" I demand, and I don't sound as assertive as I'd hoped. I'm squeaky all of a sudden, frightened.
The waiter raises his hands, palms-up, taking a step back. His sharp jaw is tight, his eyes wide. "Uh—she tried to leave."
"Yeah, with you?" I snap bitterly, my voice unsteady. He flinches, stung by the accusation. "What, did you offer her a cookie or something? Just like you gave her that damn sticker?" Tate tenses in my arms. She tries to move but I only hold her closer.
"Wha—no! My God, no." The waiter shakes his head quickly. "I was keeping her from getting out," he explains in a quieter tone.
I roll my eyes, refusing to believe my daughter would actually leave voluntarily. I try to protest, but my throat is too swollen. Tate manages to squeeze out of my grasp and leans away from my chest, giving me a sour look, like she can't wrap her little head around the fact that any of this is happening. We stare at each other for a few seconds before I ask, "Is that true, baby? Were you gonna leave on your own?" No parent wants to admit when their kid finally disobeys. Tate would never. Never.
My heart breaks when she looks down, feathery lashes casting shadows on her pink cheeks, tears welling up in her eyes as she realizes her mistake. Well, shit. That's on me. "Yes," Tate admits sadly, almost silently. "I saw a puppy, Mommy."
"You saw a puppy," I breathe, closing my eyes and letting my head fall back in exasperation. I heave a sigh. "Honey, we don't know what kind of puppy it was. It could've had…rabies." She gives me another look, confused. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her might-have-been kidnapper suppress a smile. Jerk. "Okay, listen, we'll…we'll talk about this later. You go finish your breakfast." I reluctantly set her on the floor and pat her bum to encourage her to walk away. She hangs her head and leaves gloomily.
This is a first for her, too. She's never "gotten in trouble" for anything in her life. I hope she doesn't start to hate me now.
I watch her with tortured eyes, waiting until she's safely in her seat before slowly looking back at the waiter. The awkward pause and natural urge to smile to diffuse the tension make the situation so much worse. I run my hand through my hair, staring at my feet, my face burning ten different shades of red. Eventually I have to say something. So I swallow the humiliation and attempt to look him in the eye, even though it inflicts a burning pain in my chest as I struggle not to burst into tears.
"I'm sorry," we say at the same time. He's the one who cracks a smile, but it's short-lived. I frown and say, "What do you have to be sorry for? You weren't actually…going to kidnap her." My embarrassed, tearful mumbling is barely audible. "I shouldn't have left her alone. You were just trying to help." I feel like I'm talking to myself now. Christ, I am such an idiot. What was I thinking?
He shrugs and scratches the back of his neck. "I didn't mean to scare her. But—but I saw the dog, and it was huge. Not really a sweet little puppy." He grins suddenly, endeared by Tate's massive love for any living creature. I can just see her brightening up and running to the door, wanting to pet it. Weird how that actually happened but I wasn't there to see it. "It could've eaten her," the waiter adds.
I laugh once, overwhelmed. Here's this guy, who I just accused of being a kidnapper, who has every right to be angry at me and kick me out of the diner, trying to console me. I probably just disgraced him in front of all his costumers. I don't have to drop to my knees and beg for forgiveness but I feel like he deserves something even more for going after Tate.
"Thank you," I say, looking at his chin instead of his eyes. "For, uh, y'know, not letting her go after the vicious…puppy. Um—wh-what can I do to make this…better? I owe you for doing that."
He raises his thick eyebrows, clearly taken aback by my words. "You don't owe me anything," he tells me, sounding puzzled that I'd suggest such a thing.
"Yes I do," I mutter, swiping at my damp eyes with the back of my hand, still quivering. "My daughter could've been attacked by a big-ass dog or gotten hit by a car if it wasn't for you, so…what can I do to make it up to you for screaming at you like that?" And insinuating that you're a creepy pedophile in front of the elderly and their own grandchildren.
As we're standing here by the door, beneath the sun and in close proximity to one another, I notice little things about his face that I had not seen before. His cheekbones are high and defined below his striking pair of eyes, green as emeralds and framed by dark lashes that remind me of Tate's. His nose is mostly straight and yet the slightest bit off-center. It's still the coppery hair that strikes me as oddly familiar, and maybe his nose is now, too. And yet I can't place his face to anyone I've ever met.
He's shaking his head. "No, no," he says hastily, cheeks tinged with pink. "Don't worry about that. It's fine. It's done and over with. Go—go sit with your daughter; she looks kinda lonely." He nods in her direction, and sure enough, the pitiful bean is watching us anxiously with a pout on her full lips, rejection and sadness in her red-rimmed eyes. My heart fully rips in two. This is your fault, Bella.
Despite having so many more things to apologize for, my instinct is to just leave it be and go to her. So I walk away and return to Tate, whose lower lip trembles when I approach. I shush her and wrap her in my arms, pressing my face into her hair, fighting tears of my own. If that had turned out any different, I would be with the police right now, frantic for her. If I was right and my daughter was about to be kidnapped, or had been already—Jesus, I don't know. And then if the waiter hadn't seen her get off her chair and run to the door, she'd be on her way to the hospital from either getting mauled by a ginormous dog or slammed into by a car. I try so hard to keep her safe and away from danger. In another world, I failed.
"Shh, it's okay," I whisper when she sobs, lifting her into my arms and getting back on my stool. I put her on my lap and hug her from behind, kissing her wet cheek. I grab a napkin and wipe her face. She sniffles, her tiny nose red. If I knew it'd lighten the mood, I'd joke and say she looks like Rudolph the reindeer. "It's okay, my love. Don't cry. I'm not mad at you." The Mommy bloggers would suggest I take her into the bathroom and explain to her that what she did was wrong and that I'm disappointed in her for not listening to me. Well, screw them, because right now that's the absolute last thing I want to do—especially not on her birthday. I should scold her for running off but I just can't. I should be a parent and teach her why that was dangerous but I just can't. I want to make her feel better and enjoy her birthday again. Because that's all I know how to do, make my baby happy.
But I still gotta put on my big girl panties and talk to her about it later tonight when I give her a bath. As hard as it'll be, this can't happen again on anyone's watch.
"C'mon, eat your pancake." I slide her plate over and cut her a bite, feeding it to her, fondly recalling the first time she ate solid food at almost seven months old. But I let her finish her breakfast herself, silently resting my chin on her shoulder.
I dread the moment the waiter and I have to speak again when it's time to pay for our food. Shame prickles at my skin—I have a feeling that'll stick with me for a while. I'll be up until three in the morning tonight, replaying my mistake over and over again in my head, choking on mortification. It's like all those times I tripped in the school hallway in front of everyone or gave the wrong answer in class or told a stupid joke to people who didn't laugh—only so much worse. This is, without a doubt, the most awkward situation I've ever been in. My daughter's fourth birthday is now tainted by what happened here.
Tate solemnly puts her coloring book and crayons in her Disney backpack. The waiter and I exchange nothing more than a handful of cash and a receipt that he quickly writes something down on before handing it to me. We smile, tight-lipped and wary of each other. Then he grins at Tate and wishes her a happy birthday once more—her downcast face lights up. At least she's not mad at him.
Leaving and stepping back out into the fresh, cool air is strange after being inside the diner for what seems like hours. It got chilly while we were in there, and I regret not bringing a jacket for Tate just in case this happened. I hold her hand and we make our way back to the car, all plans for ice cream and playing in the park forgotten. My mind is buzzing, spinning a mile a minute. Tate watches her pink polka-dotted rain boots as we walk, deliberately stepping on the sidewalk cracks.
We reach my car, a family friend's old Mercedes, and for once I haven't left my keys behind. I help Tate into her car seat and get her situated, then finally do the same for myself. I lean back in the padded seat, taking a slow, deep breath. I'm holding the receipt in my hand, and I replay the memory of watching the waiter suddenly grabbing a pen and adding to it as I lift it up to read, squinting at the slanted print with bleary eyes. I'm sorry, it says, and I can almost hear the unneeded apology in his smooth voice. It occurs to me that I never even got his name, that I've been referring to the poor guy as "the waiter" this whole time. How rude of me—surely he was wearing a nametag. But my brain is too shot to remember clearly.
And yet there's one profound detail that sticks out above all the rest. As we uncomfortably stood in the doorway looking at one another, waiting for the other to speak or do something, there was a fleeting second where his eyes met mine and I swear I saw recognition in them, too. (But, you know, I could just be vain and making up shit to comfort my wounded dignity. Oh well.)
I heave a sigh and place the receipt beside me in the passenger's seat along with my phone and wallet. I glance over my shoulder at Tate, smiling a little when I see she's starting to nod off. I put the keys in the ignition and drive home silently.
"Be a good girl for Miss Daisy, okay?" I brush Tate's wild curls back from her grumpy face. "You're gonna have lots and lots of fun with everyone today. Miss Daisy even told me she has a special surprise for you because it's your birthday." My sullen four-year-old just stares at me with an eyebrow raised even though I'm telling the truth. Miss Daisy really does have a surprise. "And all your friends are so excited to see you and play with you. Aren't you excited to see them, too?" (Apparently not. She looks like she'd rather commit homicide.)
Tate sighs through her nose and rolls her big brown eyes at her silly, overenthusiastic mama. She gives me a hug, though, I squeeze her extra tightly and give her two more kisses than usual. It's taking everything I have in me not to leave with her right now and drive straight back to Forks, our real home, where everything is less stressful and I have Charlie close.
"I love you," I whisper into my baby's hair. "I love you so much. We're gonna celebrate when we get home later tonight—we'll Skype with Grandpa and Nana and open presents and then we'll have ice cream. Alright? I won't forget about you."
Tate manages a tiny smile, and nods her agreement. We hug one more time, then I push her gently toward Miss Daisy, a short plump girl with honey-colored hair and kind blue eyes. I blow Tate a kiss then reluctantly head back to the car. Miss Daisy bends down to Tate's level, saying something in her ear. My eyes are already overflowing with tears but Tate can't see them through the glass. She waves at me sadly but points to her chest, makes a hand heart, and then points to me.
I do the same, wave once more, then force myself to drive away. I pointedly avoid looking in the rearview mirror. I would not be able to emotionally handle seeing her face crumple as she watches me abandon her on her fucking birthday. I am suddenly very thankful for waterproof mascara since I have to cry and don't really have time to reapply anything at work.
It occurs to me that this is the very first time Tate and I have been apart on her birthday. From the day itself, we've never had to separate due to my work schedule or anything else. Every other birthday has been eventful and memorable. And I blame myself for it. I made the decision to screw it up.
Not consciously, of course. I didn't move us here thinking I'd ruin her fourth birthday. I moved us here because I thought I was doing the right thing for her, to give her a chance at living in a place full of opportunities. Forks is tiny and I feared she would get bored of it someday, that too much green and rainy skies would depress her, take away her smile like it stole my mother's. I love Forks out of obligation because it was my home since I was twelve. But Tate? I got her away from there before it snatched her happiness right out of her. There's a…weird sort of darkness in Forks. The longer you stay, the less likely you are to leave. But I managed to detach myself from it for my daughter's sake. The only good thing left to go back to is Charlie.
I find the last remaining parking spot and cut the engine, taking a moment to dry my eyes and put on a fresh coat of red lipstick that matches my dark scarlet shoes and dress. (Tate chose my outfit for me today. She insisted I wear red for some reason.) I grab my cell and organized folder of work-related documents and step out of the car, facing the towering building with a sigh. It seems bigger than I remember it being yesterday. I lock the car and head towards it unwillingly, because it's just what I have to do every day.
"Morning, Bella." Mr. Warner saunters onto the seventh floor five minutes after I do. I glance at the clock; twelve oh four. Not exactly morning any longer. The shadows under his dull grey eyes are prominent and it looks like he forgot to brush the right side of what's left of his artificially darkened hair. I give him what I hope is a pleasant smile. I'd rather grimace.
"Ready for the meeting today?" I ask in a bogusly chipper voice. Part of my job is to build him up with confidence, even though the guy is already bursting with it. Most of the people in this building are the same. I haven't been here long but I know one of these days I'll be tempted to make a voodoo doll of Mr. Warner just to literally stick it to him when he does something incredibly haughty or, with my luck, inappropriate. Dear Lord, please don't let today be that day.
Mr. Warner sighs, rubbing the shiny spot on his wide forehead. "Not really," he answers bleakly. "I'd rather go back to bed."
You and me both, pal. "Is there anything I can get you?" I offer, gritting my teeth in irritation. "I can fetch you a coffee." Fetch? Really? Since when do people say that?
"That would be great." A relieved smile. "Two sugars, please." I nod my understanding and he heads for his office at the end of the hall. I glance at my picture of a two-year-old Tate taped to the corner of my computer screen, my reminder to do my best and why I have to. I lean forward and kiss her miniature baby face, then I walk with my head high to the café.
Miss Daisy tells me Tate took a nap for most of the day. The special surprise she planned was a craft project for all the kids to enjoy while still celebrating Tate—all of her favorite things were incorporated into it, but she was the only one who wound up quitting after ten minutes. All Tate did was scribble a picture of her pony sticker on a piece of paper but never colored it in or added glitter like she usually does to all her other drawings. I look at it with love, however. I think it's perfect.
Tate dozes in the car on the slow drive home. Mr. Warner let me go an hour early after remembering it was her birthday. I discovered he has an eleven-year-old nephew he raises with his sister after her husband left a couple years ago, and has since become a replacement father figure to the boy, who he is now close with. "I had to work the first Christmas Eve he and his mom spent with me," he said to me, staring at the picture of them on his desk I had never noticed before. "I was sick about it when I came home real late. He stayed up for me, though, wanted to wait for me to help him put out milk n' cookies for Santa; that was a thing he used to do with his dad. So we've done that together ever since." I wanted to cry.
And so he understood my eagerness to be with Tate, and in that moment I think it was a genuine gesture on his part.
Unfortunately the sun has now disappeared behind the clouds, relevant to both our moods. The sky is a murky greyish-purple, tinged with bright pink and orange at the edge. Tate fell asleep in awe over its beauty. Her eyelids flutter, mouth hanging open a little, drooling.
We make it back to the apartment building right as it's beginning to drizzle. I swing her tiny backpack over my shoulder and lift her out of her car seat, setting her on my hip, carrying her with one arm since I have to hold my phone, wallet, and keys with the other. She's small and lightweight and I've been doing it for a while, so it's not too big of a challenge. I rest my cheek on the top of her head as I stand in the elevator, leaning heavily against the wall. I can't wait to put on some sweatpants.
Tate still doesn't stir when I unlock the door and carry her inside all the way to her room where I lay her down in bed. She merely yawns and rolls onto her tummy, burying her face in the corner of her pillow like I do. Setting her backpack on the edge of her mattress, I sit by her feet and take off her boots, plopping them on the floor. Baby girl smiles in her sleep. I smile too, kicking my painful heels to the carpet, crawling up next to her and reaching out to rub her back. I forget what I planned on doing when we got home, instead deciding to just nap with her for a bit until we get hungry enough to wake up. I go over her presents one last time in my head and my smile only grows. They'll make up for my absence, I'm sure of it.
I haul the both of us out of her cozy bed thirty minutes later, not wanting to waste any time since she actually has to go to sleep at eight thirty and I have to go in early for work tomorrow, so as much as I'd love to let her stay up, real life gets in the way. As usual.
With my hair in a messy bun and red dress hung back in my closet, replaced by a pajama top and sweatpants, I heat up a can of SpaghettiO's while Tate talks to Charlie and Sue on Skype, telling them all about her day. I appreciate it when she doesn't mention the fact that I basically deserted her at daycare all afternoon, instead saying we had a fun time doing a craft. They ask her what she thinks she's getting from me; I make a face, shrugging innocently as I hand over her dinner.
"Well, sweetheart, we mailed out our present a few days ago," Charlie says. Tate's eyes pop, spoon in the air. "Oh yeah, you're gonna love it." I roll my eyes. Charlie's idea of a good birthday present is usually some weird shit only he likes. I'd be shocked if she gets something she actually could use or play with. Fingers crossed it's just a simple paint by numbers.
I take my own bowl of SpaghettiO's and go sit on the couch since I'm not interesting enough to join the convo. Tate and my dad always have some funny story to tell each other, whereas I work all day and don't do much else. Hardly exciting.
"I wish you were here, Gran'pa," Tate murmurs forlornly several minutes later. My throat tightens and tears burn at my eyes. What have I done?
Charlie sighs, almost wearily, and I hear Sue make a sad little sound in the background. "I do too, pumpkin." His voice is scratchy with emotion. I've hurt him by leaving, too. "But—but don't be too sad. We won't be apart forever. Your mom is gonna get Thanksgiving and Christmas off from her job so we'll get to see y'all then. Ain't that right, Bells?" Tate turns to stare at me anxiously. I act like I haven't been paying attention, too immersed in the dumb Spongebob episode that's on right now. I slurp at my SpaghettiO's. Of course, my dad is right; my boss isn't working on the holidays. Well, not this year, at least. After what happened almost two years ago with his nephew, I don't think he would do that again. I certainly will put my foot down if I'm wrong. Working on my daughter's birthday is bad enough, but to miss Christmas? I don't believe there's anything in the financing and product sales department that's important enough to keep me from—
Oh. Finances and product sales skyrocket during the holidays. Mr. Warner might need me if his boss needs him. Fuck. It never occurred to me once when I interviewed for the job that sometimes this shit happens. It's unfortunate but it does. I would be considered the devil in Tate's eyes if I told her we couldn't go back to Forks for Christmas. Our family can't come to Seattle because my apartment is small enough as it is and with two adults and a couple of teenagers—Sue's two kids, a volatile, sour-faced girl named Leah and a chipper, sunshiny boy named Seth, fourteen-year-old twins who happen to be my step-siblings—affording a hotel for over a week (since I assume they'd stick around for New Year's) is…not possible.
"Oh—uh, yeah," I say quickly, realizing they're still waiting for a confirmation. I put on a smile for Tate and nod. "Yup! I'll have lots of time off." You dumbass. Don't make promises you can't keep. "Well—about a week or two. But—but, yeah. Don't worry about it, Tate, we'll all be together for Christmas." I sound panicky under my cheerful mask, and Charlie looks doubtful.
"Okay." Tate starts smiling again and returns to her dinner. Through the computer screen, Charlie is eyeing me funny, like he's acknowledging the possibility of our Christmas plans being thwarted. I avoid him, attempting to calm my pounding heart. This could be bad.
Nothing has even happened to delay anything yet and I'm already starting to freak out. Christmas 2014 cannot be ruined.
Soon enough, my noodles get cold and I'm not hungry anymore. Everybody has gone quiet; Tate's eyelids are drooping with fatigue. I put both our bowls in the sink, then join her at the counter to say goodbye to our little family. Seth pops in at the last second (Leah yells a halfhearted "Happy birthday!" from somewhere in their living room) and Tate kisses them all on the screen, waving happily. I tell my dad I'll call him soon, even though it's a conversation I'm not anticipating, and thank him and Sue for taking the time to talk to Tate. I hide my emotion when Charlie says it was a pleasure. Thirty years will go by and I'll still be perpetually grateful for how much he endlessly loves my baby. That's a sacred gift within itself.
"You still up for presents?" I ask her when I close out Skype and shut the computer. She's rubbing her eyes with a yawn.
"Yeah, yeah," she says in muted enthusiasm, and I laugh. I put her on my hip and carry her to my room, playfully tossing her onto my unmade bed. She giggles and scrambles to her knees. I open my closet door and bend down to retrieve all five of her gifts. I'm giddy now, biting my lip to keep from looking like a psycho clown. Tate gasps in surprise when she sees the two colorful gift bags in my hands, rainbow tissue paper concealing what's tucked inside them. Her eyes are huge.
"Okay." I plop down beside her and cross my legs. "Which one do you wanna open first, my dear?" I wave the gift bags in front of her amazed face good-naturedly. She stares at both, trying to decide. She sticks out her tiny tongue.
"This one!" Thankfully, she snatches the left one from me and tears into it, throwing the paper over her shoulder. I watch, not wanting to miss a second of her reaction, as she pulls out two mini My Little Pony playsets with figurines. Her mouth forms a dramatic O and she sucks in a theatrical breath before screaming—very quietly, since people are asleep by now.
"You like them?" I demand, laughing, but I think jumping up and down and clutching them to her chest is her gleeful answer. She's so precious when she's excited and seeing her so indescribably thrilled after her disappointing day makes my eyes wet. She leaps on me and gives me a huge hug, thanking me repeatedly in a breathless voice. She really wanted both.
"You're very welcome." I kiss her warm forehead and set her in my lap. "Okay, let's open the other one now. Ya ready?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" Tate bounces some more, now reaching for the other small bag, a hungry look in her gleaming eyes.
She's overjoyed to get this cute Littlest Pet Shop cat that comes with a pair of summer sunglasses and a beach chair. It caught her attention in Target a couple months ago, along with the similar pony toys, and she is just as adorably ecstatic to have it. She squeals and kicks her feet in delight when the Cat in the Hat DVD appears; she's wanted it ever since she saw it at daycare—she went around quoting everything for an entire week. I tell her we'll watch it together on my day off.
That leaves us with the last and most significant gift. Tate peers at the bottom of the bag, tilting her head in confusion. I reach in and pull out the velvet box, trying to steady my nervous, trembling hands. She seems to sense how important it is and sets aside the movie and her toys. I hold her close, gazing at the box in my fingers, thinking of what I want to say and how exactly I want to say it. Maybe it's the wrong time to give it to her, since she's so young and probably won't be as interested in it as her other gifts, but something inside me whispers that it's okay, she'll have it until she understands.
"This is very special," I begin slowly, tasting the words in my mouth. Tate is motionless, looking at the box too. "And I—I really want you to have it. It's different than your toys, and it's fine if you don't want it right now, but what it means to me is…profound. That's when you feel something really deeply in your heart. And I feel this in mine. It's very important."
I crack open the case and lift the lid. Nestled inside is a golden locket, perfect and shiny and new. Engraved on its sleek front are the words Plus que ma propre vie. It can fit in the palm of Tate's small hand, which fits in mine, and we hold the box for a while, admiring the locket. I can't stop the few tears from escaping my eyes, rolling down my cheeks to my chin. I taste salt and I don't have a single thought in my head that isn't bursting with the sheer, never-ending force of my profound love for Tate.
"This means 'more than my own life,'" I explain softly, lightly tracing the cursive letters. "And that's how much I love you."
Baby girl looks up at me. I see myself reflected in the chocolate depths of her eyes, see the wet trails on my cheeks. "It opens, look," I murmur, urging her to redirect her attention back to the locket. There is a picture of us in it, taken in 2011 on her first birthday. She's wearing green striped leggings with a sweet pink ruffled top that has a yellow duck on it. She is in my arms, laughing at Charlie behind the camera, while I smile at the lens so broadly my eyes crinkle just like his do.
I kiss my sweet girl's temple and give her a squeeze. "Isn't it pretty?" I ask her hopefully, and she nods her head happily. I smile into her curls. "Good. I'm glad you like it. Wanna try it on?" I carefully lift it from the velvet and untangle the chain for her, then slip it over her head and around her neck. Tate smiles, touching it gently. Somehow I think she understands. She knows how much I love her, at the very least. She can hear it in my voice. That's all that matters to me, really. Tate needs to know her mama loves her and appreciates her for who she is. She's respected and important. She is the sun—my sun. And despite the glaringly obvious fact that she has somebody else's chin, somebody else's hands, somebody else's ears, and somebody else's smile, nothing will change the reality that she is mine. Nothing can take Tate from me.
"I love you too, Mommy." She buries her little face in my chest, fiercely hugging my waist. "We will always be together."
I'm counting on it, sunshine. We sit here like this for a very long time, saying nothing yet saying everything. If there's one thing I learn tonight, it's this: do not underestimate the power of a child's love. Because I sure am feeling her love for me.
Aaand there you have it, folks.
I'm quite proud of this and I hope it was worth the wait! I've been so eager and anxious to share this with y'all so I'm crossing my fingers for a good reception. I'm still working on chapter 2 right now but if by some miracle I get it done by the 8th, I'll edit and publish it on the 9th! If not then, the Saturday after that. :P (You all know how bad I am at keeping promises...)
Please consider leaving a review, even the shortest of comments gives me a boost of confidence and pushes me to continue writing. I haven't shared my work in a long time and it's always nice for any writer to get some positive feedback! Also, constructive criticism is welcome but please be respectful, I'm still learning and growing as a writer every day. And to clarify before anyone asks: Edward is not Tate's father. The reason for that - as well as Bella thinking he looks familiar - will be explained in future chapters and I can say for certain that I won't throw in a twist at the last minute just to shock everyone. That's not my style nor do I think it would add any depth or plot development to the story. I want Edward and Tate to be close despite not being biologically related :) I'm still working out the little things so questions about her real father, more details on how she was conceived, and what Edward's story is will all be explored later!
Anywho, thank you so very much for reading! Chapter 2 will be posted soon.
Happy New Year!
- Cherry