December 10, 2004

Andrew lived five blocks from my house. I decided to save my bus money for next week and walk. I thought about my research as I went, the irritation growing by the second.

What was the point of it?

The chances of seeing them again were slim. Trying to find four people across space and time was out of my expertise. The research had already carved a hole in my otherwise ordinary life.

I was letting it get the better of me and that wasn't right. I needed to live as normally as possible.

I heard the party before I saw it. Pop music blared into the street. The unmistakable smell of weed was in the air. Drunken yells and laughter added to the din. The perfect mix for a high school party. The neighbors must have been absent or accommodating to put up with this spectacle.

I coughed and shoved my hands in my pockets. I looked back and forth nervously for a familiar face.

A lot of people here were from school. One girl, Grace, waved at me from her seat on the couch. She was another person I shared a few classes with; I waved back.

I wasn't much of a drinker. Our constant moving around made me miss the stage when kids started experimenting with the liquor cabinet. Still, everyone here had one. I didn't see the harm in having a couple beers. I took a red cup from the table and wandered away.

The taste was bitter on my tongue, but it was something to do. I kept at it, going back for refills when I was through a cup. Andrew was in the kitchen; I high-fived him as I went by. By the fourth beer, I felt the last of my nerves slipping away.

This was totally normal teenage behavior. Socializing seemed a lot easier with alcohol in my system. Suddenly, I wanted to talk with everyone.

A group of us stood in front of the refrigerator. Grace was doing a spot on impression of our math teacher when Andrew slung an arm around my shoulders. As if they received an invisible signal, the group drifted away. Then we were alone.

"Thanks for inviting me," I said as I drained my beer. "I needed this."

"No problem," he grinned, tapping his cup against mine. "Here's to the remedial classes, huh?"

"They are something," I agreed. He fell silent.

Suddenly I felt like I was watching the scene from a distance. Andrew inched closer to me, tipping my chin upward. I closed my eyes.

It was not at all what I expected. I thought a first kiss was supposed to be romantic.

All I could taste was PBR and weed. Then my stomach lurched sharply.

I broke away from Andrew and covered my mouth. "Bathroom?"

"Upstairs," he said at once, pointing. "Second door on the left."

My stomach lurched again. I wobbled up the stairs as my head started spinning. I couldn't tell which was going to come first—the vomit or the time travel. It could not have been a worse time. I stumbled past the first door, where someone was shouting, "Oh God!"

I didn't think it had anything to do with church at all.

The bathroom was wide open. I ran to it and slammed the door behind me. I felt myself sink into the tiles and closed my eyes.

When I opened them, I was sitting in a pile of leaves. Roots were tangled in knots around my feet. A tree stood at my back, slanted, as if a tornado had coaxed it from a straight angle. I leaned against the trunk, imaging I was some sort of druid. Hiding from human eyes.

I stood up on shaky legs, walked three feet, and immediately threw up. There was nothing but liquid in my stomach; I retched until I couldn't do it anymore. Careful to avoid the vomit, I stood up again and studied my surroundings.

The sunlight was hazy against the trees. I thought it might be the early morning; there was a coolness in the air. I realized I left my jacket at the party.

My feet were steadier now. I walked for several minutes, tripping occasionally over grasping roots and stones. My hands were bloody when I reached the end of the path. Back home in Phoenix, I had already been to the hospital to have my stitches removed.

I studied the torn skin and sighed. More scars.

I emerged behind a group of clapboard houses. A woman stood hanging laundry on a clothesline. When her arms were empty, she disappeared into the house.

There was a garden hose coiled behind her home. I turned the tap until the water flowed and used it to rinse my mouth. When I was confident that the taste of vomit was gone, I drank the cold water until my head was clear. I splashed my face with the water, then washed the blood and dirt from my hands. Though the water chilled me, I felt refreshed.

I walked until I reached the road. The red dirt seemed to stretch and spiral as far as the eye could see. I wasted a few precious minutes waiting for a car, to no avail. I sighed and started walking.

After about ten minutes, I spotted a sign. Devils Lake, North Dakota — 1 mile.

"Sounds like a horror movie waiting to happen," I muttered. I pressed on, ignoring the brisk wind at my neck. My hair was flying all around my face; I pulled it back into a ponytail.

Eventually, the tiny speck on the horizon became a town. Buildings grew out of nothing. Some were leaning to the side; others were boarded up and abandoned. Still more looked to be hanging on by their fingertips. It didn't seem like the busiest of places, but it was enough.

I walked toward the town square, taking it all in. There was only one question on my mind: why here?

Just ahead, I spotted a woman pushing a baby carriage. I watched her pause at a mailbox with a pile of letters.

"Excuse me?"

The woman studied my clothes with a critical eye. I suddenly remembered my cropped t-shirt and cleared my throat. "Do you know if a Cullen family lives in town? I'm a friend of theirs."

She pointed to the western road. "Last house on the right. The red farmhouse."

This marked the fourth time I had been taken from my own timeline. Why?

"Thank you," I smiled, though inwardly, I was very confused.

"One more thing: could you tell me the date? I'm visiting them as a . . . surprise. A birthday present. They have a daughter my age."

"It's April fifteenth."

I wanted the year. No doubt she expected me to know that. I'd have to find out some other way.

I walked in the direction she indicated. The red farmhouse grew in size, along with my nervousness.

I spent so long researching this family, but it wasn't the same as having a conversation. I wanted answers, but would they be open to talking? Furthermore, did I want to delve into this again, after deciding that it was affecting my life in a negative way?

I'll make them tell me something, I decided. It's only fair.

They saw my condition in the most conspicuous way possible. The least they could do was answer my questions. It might explain why I returned to them so often.

The door made a dull sound when I knocked. While I waited, I studied the rest of the property. There was a large tree shielding the house from the sun; it reminded me of an umbrella. Stones were laid into the ground, twisting away from the house into the woods. Strange. Maybe they had a garden back there.

Devils Lake was a rural town. Why did the Cullens decide to move this far flung place? It seemed so different—and even a step down—from the hustle and bustle of New York. Perhaps even an escape. I filed that thought away to chew on later.

Someone opened the door a fraction; only a male voice could be heard. "Who is it?"

"It's Bella Swan," I said hesitantly. I had no way of knowing who I was speaking with. "We met in New York?"

The door opened an inch wider; with a start, I recognized the speaker to be Edward Cullen. His eyes held nothing but shock. "Bella?"

"Edward. It's good to see you again."

His eyes never left mine. It was disconcerting. They weren't black anymore. They were a bright gold.

"I can't believe it."

My stomach fluttered. "Nor do I."

"Please," he stood back. "Come in."

I nodded in thanks. He didn't open the door any wider; I squeezed through the small space. When I was inside, he closed it carefully behind me.

All of the shades inside the house were drawn. I studied him in the semi darkness to find him just as I remembered. Just as lovely. I blushed; he had been looking at me, too.

I hoped to break the awkward silence. "What year is it?"

"1935."

My last visit had been in July of 1934. Almost nine months passed in my absence.

Edward knew the truth about me now. In a weird way, I felt shy. "How have you been?"

"Very confused. We all thought you were some kind of illusion. Or a perhaps a mutual dream."

"I'm just . . . me," I said sheepishly. Something was wrong with my brain. Five minutes ago, I had been practicing my interrogation. Now I couldn't recall a single question.

Stop getting distracted!

"Is the rest of your family here, too?"

"Follow me."

The hallway widened into a large space, which was split down the middle by a kitchen and the living room. A handsome staircase stood directly opposite the front door. The decorating scheme seemed familiar; from what I could remember of the Rochester house, it was the same color palette. Blue, white, and gray.

My eyes drifted to the living room. Carlisle and Esme were sitting together, smiling in welcome. Our conversation must have been louder than I realized. Rosalie was there too, accompanied by a man I was not familiar with. He was big and burly, with muscles an Olympian would sell his soul for. He was pale like the rest of them, and his eyes were dark.

"Hello," I greeted them all.

The big man said nothing. He was watching me without blinking; it made me edgy.

I wasn't the only one feeling the discomfort. When I looked away, Carlisle seemed to stiffen in his chair. In fact, everyone in the room looked uncomfortable.

Was that my doing? My condition caused a number of emotions, and awkwardness was no exception. I folded my arms across my chest. It was all I could do to keep myself still. I had come all this way . . . would they turn me out now?

"Rose, why don't you take Emmett upstairs? He said he wasn't feeling well."

It wasn't a suggestion. I expected Rosalie to fight back, but she nodded, then took the big man by the hand. Emmett. It suited him. He looked at me as they passed. His eyes were black as pitch. The color was familiar, but it was his expression that chilled me the most. Hunger.

I shivered.

I couldn't put my finger on it. There was something off about these people. My instincts were begging me to get out of there, but I held firm. I wanted to know the truth.

When their footsteps died away, the remaining Cullens visibly relaxed. Their expressions didn't change, even after Rosalie returned and took her place in the armchair. They watched me with unnerving stillness.

A nervous laugh escaped my lips. "It seems I found you again."

Carlisle smiled. "It's a marvel."

That was one way of putting it. "I don't know what to feel, honestly."

But I did know I was feeling. I felt . . . relieved? All of my researching, all of my worrying . . . here they were again, beautiful and welcoming and polite, even after I continued to disrupt their lives. In the poor lighting, the four of them were ghostly white.

That one imperfection—if I could call it that—reminded me of why I sought them out. But first I needed a means of distraction. Looking back, I knew my original plan was silly. An outright interrogation was too ambitious. Too aggressive. I cleared my throat.

"I don't want to impose, but could I trouble you for something to eat?"

It wasn't exactly a lie. As I recently learned at Andrew's house, drinking and an empty stomach did not mix. With time travel thrown into the equation, it was no surprise that I was starving.

Rosalie smiled at me. "Of course."

I fought against a surge of confusion. She had been cold the last time. Angry. Why the change?

Whatever the reason, her behavior toward me had done a complete one eighty. Perhaps I had misjudged her all along. My condition, in Carlisle's words, was a marvel. It had to be seen to be believed. Maybe she changed her mind after I left.

Though I didn't hear them, I knew the rest had followed. Apparently everything was done by committee. When we all took our places at the table, Rosalie set a plate in front of me. I thanked her and looked up, suddenly aware of the dead silence. They were all watching me closely. My cheeks burned.

"It's not going to happen right now," I told them as I pinched the crust of my sandwich. "So you can relax."

A booming laugh echoed through the house. I looked up again, higher, past their heads. The source of the noise was the big man. Emmett. He was sitting on the landing above the main room, hands clutched around the banisters. The childishness of the gesture seemed incongruous to his size. My previous fear of him vanished in an instant.

"Emmett," Rosalie snapped. "You're supposed to be resting."

To my astonishment, they began to bicker. She threatened to come upstairs and give him a piece of her mind; he ignored her. As I watched them, it became clear that I had been wrong. Edward wasn't with Rosalie; she was with Emmett. More of the tension in my shoulders disappeared.

With the attention mostly on them, I dug into my sandwich. I was hungrier than I realized. When it was gone, I reached for the plate. I was used to washing plates by hand; out of all the appliances we owned, Renee broke the dishwasher no less than four times.

I watched a white hand move to intercept mine. Edward whisked the plate to the sink and returned with remarkable speed. I frowned. Other than the alarming swiftness of the act, I found it unnecessary. "I was going to do that."

"You're our guest," he said a matter-of-factly. Before I could retort, he leaned closer.

His gaze drew me in like a magnet. "What were you doing in your time?"

I tore my eyes away. For a moment, I felt like he knew where my mind had gone. "Self-medicating."

The yelling had quieted down by now. Rosalie sat in her chair, fuming; Emmett maintained his post on the landing; Esme was standing between them in no-man's-land. I didn't envy her one bit. Between the shouting, the doctor had disappeared. As soon as the thought crossed my mind, he rejoined the group with a pad of paper in hand.

"Bella, would you mind very much we discussed your condition?"

I almost laughed. Did he hope to diagnose me here and now? But then I sobered. Perhaps this situation could be used to my advantage. "Only if we discuss yours."

I wished I had a camera. At my words, every Cullen seemed to freeze on the spot. But they recovered quickly. The panicked expressions became those of practiced puzzlement. The synchronization fascinated me; it was like a hive mind.

But I knew, just as I knew in Rochester, that I had struck a nerve.

"Quid pro quo," I added, not expecting that to be the lesson I took away from Silence of the Lambs. "You ask me things, I'll answer them. I ask you things, you answer them. Do we have a deal?"

"Deal," Carlisle agreed, dating the page. My name was written neatly at the top.

His family was staring at him. But he seemed like their leader, and thus no protests were voiced.

"How long have you been time traveling?"

"Ten years," I said evenly. My words appeared in his notes. There was a permanence to them now. I wondered how I felt about that. In my transient lifestyle, permanent was not a word I used often.

"What happened?"

"A driver ran a stop sign and totaled our car in the intersection. By the time the ambulances came, I was half a block away and relatively unhurt."

"Where did you go?"

I could see that my hands were shaking. The first trip backwards was not something I liked to talk about. It stirred up old memories. Memories I'd sooner forget. But this was part of the deal. It's only fair . . . wasn't that what I was thinking earlier?

"I don't remember much, honestly," I confessed. "I think I blocked it out . . . it was very traumatic. I remember that it was cold. There was snow on the ground. Black shapes were coming toward me. Now I think the shapes were shadows of the trees."

But when I was young . . . I couldn't finish my thought. Those images haunted me. I suspected it was because I could never piece them together. They wove in and out of my dreams, fragmented, like an icicle shattered on the ground. The uncertainty scared me the most.

Edward was watching me intently. Quid pro quo. I paused for a moment to weigh my questions. The confusion I felt stemmed from him. I had known Edward the longest, but he was still a mystery to me.

"Why don't you look your age?"

"We don't age."

Such a vague answer, but still, my heart raced. It wasn't the answer I expected. "Why not?"

"The transformation prevents us from moving forward. We stay the same . . . forever."

Forever. I realized then that it didn't matter how many months or years passed between my visits. The Cullens looked the same because they were the same.

A port in the storm, I thought absently. Then I shook my head. I had a more pressing question to ask.

"What—"

"My turn," Edward interrupted."How old are you?"

I scowled. He just told me they didn't age and he wanted to know mine. Unbelievable.

"Seventeen."

His eyebrows raised. I didn't know if he expected me to be younger or older than that. "What year were you born?"

My lips pressed into a thin line. Quid pro quo or not, I wasn't comfortable with answering that question. If they didn't age, who was to say they weren't around in 2004? What consequences lay in store if I told the truth? After a long moment, I shook my head.

"I can't answer that."

"Why not?"

"There could be future consequences," I explained. "I'm not supposed to be here. What could I be messing up if I told you that?"

"Your own history," Carlisle murmured. "A ripple effect through time."

I nodded. One misstep could destroy my life at home. I took a deep breath.

I was dying to know. Desperate, even. Why did they stop aging? Why were they so cold and beautiful? How did they move so quickly? But most importantly—

"What are you?"

Edward paused. The truth flashed across his eyes before he shook his head. "I can't answer that."

"Why?" I demanded.

"You didn't answer my question."

"You aren't the one shuffling back and forth through time," I snapped. "Now tell me."

I felt the anger rising in me like a flame at his silence. They had seen my condition for themselves. Like it or not, they were a part of this now. But for them to be secretive about who they were and what they were . . . that really pissed me off.

It felt like a betrayal. Coming from him made it feel all the worse.

"Okay," I said curtly, rising to my feet. This was getting me nowhere. "I'll just be on my way."

Edward stood up when I did; my eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"

"Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving."

Edward shifted, blocking my exit from the kitchen. "You can't leave now."

I gaped. Who did he think he was, my dad? That earlier flicker of attraction—my teeth ground together at the thought—evaporated.

"Yes I can."

"We're not finished," he insisted.

But it appeared that I really was finished here. Heat seared up and down my spine. Just like in New York, I was leaving after less than an hour with them. I saw the light of my incoming trip reflected in their strange, yellow irises. Despite my anger, I had to know the truth.

"What are you?"

"I'll tell you," Emmett boomed from the upstairs. He was watching my departure with wide eyes.

"Hurry!"

"Stregoni benefici!"

When I opened my own eyes, I was standing in my room.

Check and mate. Thank you, Emmett Cullen.

Has anyone else had a long week? Thank goodness it's almost over.

Leave some comments and predictions, and I'll see you all next Wednesday!