Author's Notes (March 15, 2011): Sorry this is late, guys. (Just to reiterate for new readers: I tend to update every other week, if possible.) RL got in the way this time, and this was a difficult chapter to write. As such, double thanks go out to duskwatcher2153, Aleeab4u and GreatChemistry, all of whom helped make this better.

In other news, thank you to everyone who voted for SotPM in the Vampies! It won "Best Overall," which really means a lot to me, considering some of the competition I was up against. I'm especially grateful, considering how worthless I am when it comes to replying to reviews. Doesn't mean I don't read and love each one; just that I fail on a deeply personal level.

Chapter pic: bit(dot)ly/sotpm20-pic

Chapter music: bit(dot)ly/sotpm20-music

"SINS OF THE PIANO MAN"
CHAPTER 20: LESSONS ON ACCEPTANCE

"Accept the things to which fate binds you,
and love the people with whom fate brings you together,
but do so with all your heart."

Marcus Aurelius

ISABELLA SWAN
The last time I'd felt this beat up was after my run-in with the red-haired woman (if she'd ever even run in front of my truck at all). I'd discovered then the human body has a certain threshold for pain. If you pass this threshold, everything hurts, even the places that aren't injured. It was morning now, and I'd passed the threshold after a sleepless night in my old bedroom.

There was a full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door at Charlie's, one of those things in the house that seemed to say, "Renée was here." Standing in front of it now, I carefully peeled off my pajamas and took stock.

Well, I'm not dead, I thought. But it looked like it had been a fucking close call.

Bruises began at my shoulders and worked their way down my torso and hips to my thighs, so that I had ghastly, snaking clouds of black and blue over most of my body. The darkest spots were clearly shaped—a gripping hand here, a fingerprint there. Edward had left his mark.

I spent a few painful minutes of stiffly bending and tilting this way and that. Lucky for me—for once—nothing seemed to be broken. I just looked like something out of a horror movie.

I placed a hand along the curve of my hip and stretched out the tips of my fingers to fit where Edward's had been; those dark prints were below the worst of the black bruises, the ones directly on my hipbones from where I'd slammed into the countertop with the force of our coupling. It had felt so good at the time—wild, but good. Now, as my body ached, it was hard to imagine last night had ever been pleasurable.

How do I deal with this?

Did I blame Edward for not handling me more carefully? Did I blame myself for not listening to his frequent words of warning, for trusting in his goodness and pushing him? Was this a human problem, based on normal anger and jealousy and fear because I'd stupidly gone back on a promise? Or was it an inhuman problem, rooted in things I couldn't begin to understand?

Charlie's ragged cough drifted up to the second floor, shocking me out of my spiraling thoughts. "I don't have time to worry about this," I told my battered reflection. I swallowed half of one of Charlie's pain pills, put on jeans and a turtleneck sweater to cover the bruises. I called Judy and told her I couldn't come in; she understood. Everyone understood that now was the waiting game. It was almost maddening.

All thoughts of Edward were put on hold as I went to care for the dying man downstairs.

My father was given morphine to ease his pain. The oxygen tank steadily hissed as he slept—peacefully, I hoped. It was kind of the only hope I had left. As disquieting as the oxygen tank could be, I listened to it at all times; so long as it clicked and hissed, it meant he was breathing, that his heart hadn't stopped yet.

I knew it was time to let him go, but I was holding on with all my might. The grip I had on him was invisible, but it felt so real and tangible.

With Mrs. Guzman knitting a pink and purple children's sweater by my side, I found myself measuring hours by daytime soaps and court shows. During a commercial in the middle of Judge Judy, I asked Mrs. Guzman, "How do I get to say goodbye when he's so far gone? Others want to come say goodbye, too…" He'd wanted to see Billy… Had I failed? Had I not done everything soon enough?

Resting the sweater on her lap, Mrs. Guzman turned and patted my hand. "It will be fine, you'll see. Charlie asked me to give him less morphine tomorrow."

"He what?"

"He wants to be awake as much as he can be."

"No, no, this is better," I spluttered. The only thing worse than Charlie asleep beneath the effects of morphine was the idea that he might be awake and in terrible pain. "He won't feel anything this way."

Mrs. Guzman sighed. "No, but being awake is important to him. Many ask for this."

I held back tears. "I don't want him to hurt."

"It's what he wants," she said simply, with finality, then turned back to her knitting and the two arguing women on the television screen.

Unsure of how I was supposed to deal with this latest revelation, I bundled up in a coat and scarf and wandered out onto the front porch steps with my cell phone. I stared at it for a long time, thinking of my father's choices, avoiding what I knew I needed to do.

There was one other person I knew my father wanted to see, but just the thought of talking to her put my stomach in knots.

It was time to call Renée again—past time.

She didn't pick up on the first ring or, well, the first call, actually. She never did. Usually she had to find where she'd last left the cell phone; knowing her, it could be anywhere—between couch cushions or accidentally placed in the fridge. That was my mother for you.

The second time I called, she answered breathlessly.

"Hello? Bella, is that you?"

You have caller ID, I wanted to say, but refrained. "Hey, yeah, it's me, Mom."

"Oh, baby, I'm so glad you called," she said. "I've missed hearing your voice."

"You could've called," I countered.

"I've been meaning to. I just…" She trailed off, and I thought I heard her breath hitch.

Something was wrong.

"Mom? What's up?" I sat up straight, alert. "Are you and Phil okay?" It was ingrained in me to make sure, to take care of her. She'd never been good at doing that for herself.

"We're…we're okay," Renée replied in an unsteady tone. "The real question is 'How's Charlie?' Is he—"

"You never ask about Dad," I interrupted.

"How is he?" she repeated.

"He's…" Not dead yet, no thanks to you, Mom. "It won't be long now." I pursed my lips and willed myself to keep it together.

My mother made a strange, choked up sound. "I thought so. I've been feeling it, you know. I'm very in tune with my intuition these days. I think it's the yoga and Pilates."

I ignored her tangents. "You should be here," I said. I sounded robotic. How many times had I told her this on the phone, in emails?

Her answer was always the same.

"I know."

"Then get on a plane and come," I pleaded.

"I…"

Maybe she was going to give in this time. "I'll pick you up from the airport. I know you won't want to stay here… I don't know where you can stay, but I'll figure something out. I don't—"

"Bella?" she interrupted. "Baby, stop."

Oh. She'd already made her decision. I could hear it in her voice. She wasn't going to come in time; this was why she'd needed to call but hadn't. She hadn't wanted to deliver the news that I was going to do this alone, because she was choosing to let me.

A hollow twinge fluttered through my chest as I recalled all the other things I'd done alone as her daughter—put bills in the mailbox, did the laundry before I was even tall enough to turn the knob dials without using a stool to stand on, walked to the grocery store, balanced the checkbook, cooked our dinner.

Renée had never been one to follow through and be responsible, and her ex-husband's painful death wasn't going to change that. She was going to avoid it. She was going to let her daughter handle it.

"You're not coming, are you?" I whispered.

There was a pause, and I thought that maybe—just maybe—she'd change her mind. But in the end, I heard her crying as she said a phrase I'd heard many times from her: "I can't do it." She took in a shuddering breath. "I can't see him like that, not after all I've done."

"After all you've done?" I snapped. "It's not about you!" I shouted into the phone, but then I forced myself to calm down. Renée didn't respond well to anger. "He'd want you here."

"No, he wouldn't," she said. "Not after all I've done. After who I've been to him. I'm his ex-wife. I have been for over twenty years. It's complicated, honey."

"No, it's not," I argued. Charlie kept their old wedding photo near, even now. I caught him looking at it sometimes. He deserved better, but he'd only ever really wanted my mother. Swans are constant like that. "He still loves you."

"If he does, that only makes it worse."

Who did it make it worse for, though?

"So that's it? You're just gonna let him die, without saying or doing anything?"

"He's got you, Bella. And friends. It's better this way. Really. Please don't be mad at me," Renée said.

"Mad at you?" I laughed bitterly. "I'm way past that point, Mom. I'm sick of excuses. You should've been here months ago. You should've been helping Dad. You owe him that," I said, irrationally striking out at her guilt for mistakes long since made. "You should be here, helping me."

Renée sniffed. I heard the soft rustling of a tissue. "I know. I'm sorry, sweetie. You know how I am." She hiccupped on a breath. Her voice shook. "I'm sorry."

The world spun as I leaned over. I wedged my forehead between my knees. Dealing with her… It was no use.

"Okay," I murmured.

"I really am so sorry, Bella."

"I know. I know you are."

The crazy thing was that I knew she was sorry—sorry was what my mother was consistently good at—and we probably both knew she'd have regrets about this like she did with so many other things. My mother had a tendency to act first, think and regret later. It was an endearing character trait to those who didn't need her to dependable.

"You'll be here for the…" My mouth became dry, and I swallowed hard. "For the funeral?" I asked.

"I'll be there. Just tell me when to come."

"Okay." Sighing, I scuffed my shoe along the lower porch step. "I guess that's everything," I said awkwardly. "I should get going."

"Oh, okay, baby. I… You know I'll miss him, too, right?" She began crying again.

"I know."

"I love you."

"Love you, too, Mom," I said softly before ending the call.

I sat still for a long time, until night began to fall, until my toes were cold and numb in my worn sneakers. In my angrier moments, I cursed the world for taking the wrong parent, but most of the time I was just sad. There was nothing good about this ending to life, not for anyone involved.

On the second night at Charlie's, I had a nightmare.

The clearing was windy so that strands of my hair defied gravity on gusts. I watched my father fade into the distance, get pulled away and apart by the breeze. His body and soul flew away like windborne dandelion seeds. I didn't cry out or try to stop it. There was no point.

"Bye, Daddy," I whispered.

I was alone.

"I'm here," a soft, low voice said.

The lips that pressed against the curve of my ear were cold, and I smiled. I'd know this kiss, that skin, anywhere. I felt him behind me—a solid, reassuring fortress, unmoved by the wind.

"You're not alone, Bella. Not lost." He kissed my neck.

I leaned back on him and felt at ease. "I love you."

"Always," he said against my skin.

"Always," I agreed.

The wind picked up even more around us, so that a tornado of fine dirt twirled in the distance. The sentinel trees along the clearing's perimeter bent in submission. I would have blown away, too, if not for Edward anchoring me where I stood.

His kisses to my neck became rougher as he tilted my head to one side. It felt like stones were being pressed into my flesh. I flinched away as much as his hold would allow. "Not so hard."

But he didn't stop, and the ache increased and increased until I screamed.

When I woke—thankfully without any real screaming—my hands were fisted beneath my neck, pressing into one of the many bruises that littered my skin.

"You don't have to do this," I told Charlie later that morning after a coughing fit. There were consequences to being awake, like the blood and phlegm on the tissue I held. With my other hand, I wiped his face and neck with a warm, damp cloth. "I don't want you to hurt, Dad."

Mrs. Guzman had him swallow a spoonful of cough syrup. It was one of the few things he was willing to take now.

He cleared his throat, then shook his head and drew in an uneven breath of oxygen. Lifting a frail hand, he patted my cheek and brushed away a tear with his thumb. "No crying," he said hoarsely. It was a dismissal, a signal that I'd lost this battle—lost the whole goddamn war. He'd go into the darkness with a broken body, but a clear mind.

"Okay." I nodded and gently passed the cloth over his cracked lips.

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Guzman hurried off to answer it.

When I turned toward the foyer, I saw the Cullens. The wet cloth slipped from my hands to the floor.

Carlisle, Esme and Alice stood in all their inhuman glory at the edge of our handkerchief-sized living room that was made even smaller by Charlie's hospital bed. As it was, they already seemed larger than life—pristine gods that had drifted down from the clouds to visit earth—but here especially they seemed to swallow up the space with their presence.

How had I never suspected anything? Sure, they'd always seemed beautiful, but I'd never thought it was anything but normal… Good genes, healthy, high-income living. It seemed so obvious now that it wasn't anything normal, that it never had been. Seeing the Cullens, who I'd known for years, with new eyes was much harder than it had been with Edward, who had never seemed normal in the first place.

Alice caught my eyes from across the room, and something silent passed between us. No answers—of course not—but acknowledgment of the elephant in the room. They knew that I knew something wasn't right, and they were going to be courteous enough to not pretend like that wasn't the case.

"It's okay, Bella," Alice said, replying to my discomfort, which was apparently pretty obvious. She smiled—soft, maybe faery-like. I didn't know. I wanted to ask her questions, but I was too afraid, and now wasn't the time or place.

I'd frozen in the chair beside Charlie's bed. I wanted to tell them to go away, to stop making me think about the other, less stable world that they might represent. Most of all: to stop making me think about Edward.

"Alice," Charlie rasped, reaching out a hand.

His face was lit with a warm smile as Alice rushed to the other side of the bed and grabbed his outstretched hand. He loved Alice almost as much as he loved me, and just like that, I didn't have the heart to tell the Cullens to leave—no matter what they might be, no matter how much they'd lied by omission over the years. If they made Charlie happy, I wouldn't selfishly interfere.

Carlisle spoke in quiet tones to Mrs. Guzman as Esme came near me. Slowly, like she was giving me a chance to pull away, she brought a cool hand to the side of my face and brushed hair away from my tear-dampened cheek.

"Come into the kitchen?" she asked before walking off, knowing I would follow.

In the kitchen, she pulled me into a hug that, while maybe gentle for someone so marble-hard, made my bruised body ache. "Oh, my sweet girl," Esme said, brushing my hair with her fingers. "She's not coming, is she?" She managed to sound both sad and disapproving.

"How can you tell?" I asked. My tone was caustic, my aching muscles tense.

She replied softly, "It's written all over your face."

I hated my face. It gave away everything sometimes, and right now—with all that was going on—my defenses were down.

I didn't want to cry again, especially not in front of a Cullen. I didn't want to depend on these…these… Whoever, whatever the Cullens were. But what you want to do, and what you actually do, are often two different things. I did cry as I shook my head. I did wrap my arms around Esme as she rocked me in her embrace. It was exactly what I'd needed.

"Alice and them are so lucky to have you as a mom," I blubbered against her shoulder. That much was true, regardless of everything else. Esme held me just a little tighter, and I ignored the physical pain.

The Cullens and Mrs. Guzman sat with Charlie and me through the day. We managed to get in one card game at Charlie's insistence, but he was distant throughout, and too tired to play anything else. When I put away the deck, I knew that he'd touched the cards for the last time. That deck had only cost a dollar. It now seemed priceless.

Later, when Mrs. Guzman's shift came to an end, Carlisle offered to stay overnight to watch over Charlie. Esme and Alice would stay, too. We planned to take turns at his bedside. It felt right in some way. It felt like I was surrounded by family. So long as I didn't think about their secret. When I thought about that, everything started to unravel. So I locked that away, deep in some corner of my brain.

For now.

The clock in the dining room chimed twelve times; midnight. I sat in an uncomfortable fold-out chair, but even it couldn't hold me back from sleeping forever. Heavy-lidded, I stared out the front window into the darkness, distantly listening to Charlie's oxygen tank and the nightly news report on another disappearance in Portland.

Indistinct forms moved outside—tree boughs swaying to the breeze, what was probably the flight of a shadow-winged bird. For a strange, dream-like moment, I thought I saw Edward pass by, all quick, dark grace.

"Rest," Alice said as she put an arm around me from where she sat in her own uncomfortable chair. She kissed my hair.

My head fell slowly to her shoulder. Her skin was hard like Edward's—comforting in that strange way that probably shouldn't be comforting, but was. My eyes fluttered closed. I dreamed of Edward.

The next day, Charlie wouldn't eat. He wouldn't drink, save for small sips of water, sometimes lemonade. Even without morphine, he was sleeping almost non-stop. His skin seemed to grow colder and colder by the hour. I knew what this was.

Active death.

It was still and quiet in the house. Carlisle had called Mrs. Guzman and told her not to come, that he'd be here instead. He didn't seem tired at all, even after sleeping on the couch with Esme. I decided they probably didn't sleep at all—at least not like humans do. The thought was surprisingly easy to accept, all things considered.

"Is it going to happen today?" I'd asked him when he'd hung up with Mrs. Guzman.

He sighed, and his face morphed into the expression I knew he must plaster on every time he had to deliver horrible news—sad, sympathetic, torn. He didn't even have to speak the words when he put that mask on, but he did. "Yes. I'm sorry, Bella."

I didn't cry that time. I only nodded as he took my hand and patted it gently. Today was the day. I couldn't decide if it felt unexpected or like it'd been a long time coming.

The Cullens and I didn't talk much, not to Charlie or to each other. Not even the TV was on; it felt like it'd be disrespectful to have commercials blaring at a time like this. Peace. I wanted my father to go in peace. There was nothing any of us could say or do, anyway.

At midday, there was a knock on the door. Billy and Jacob were on the other side.

I wanted to be catty, to comment that it'd taken them long enough to get here—What? Did you drive the wheelchair here?—but I held back. Mostly, I was just relieved that Charlie would see his friend one last time. I could hold my inner teenager at bay for the time being.

Jacob did the oddest thing. He seemed to sniff the air. If it had been any other day, I might have laughed at him, but on this day, I could only tiredly question it.

"They're here," Jacob announced to Billy.

Part of me realized his actions told me a lot about the Cullens and even about the Quileutes, but I didn't have it in me to care.

He shifted places on the front porch, so that Billy and his wheelchair were behind him as he stared down at me with dark brown eyes. The lines of his face were hard. "We're not going in with them here."

I stood straighter, even though I knew I'd still be no match against his overwhelming presence. "If you're talking about the Cullens, they're staying," I said. "Whether you like it or not."

"Can't you see what they're doing?" Jacob growled. "They're here for a reason. Don't doubt it. They're not good-good people, Bells."

I ground my teeth over the old nickname. "They're here to help Charlie and me."

He snorted. "Like hell they are."

I was going to reply, but it was then that a black car slid into view to the side of Jacob's hulking form. It wasn't just any car, either. It was Edward's. Oh, shit. His windows were tinted darkly, but it was as if I could feel his stare on me, boring into me and the scene unfolding on my front porch.

I put my attention back on Jacob. "Come inside. Everything'll be fine."

Jacob didn't move. "Get them to leave."

"For crying out loud. You know what, Jake? You can go get fu—"

Billy interrupted, "Take me inside, Jacob."

Jacob's narrowed eyes didn't stray from me. "Dad…"

"None of that matters," Billy said, waving a hand. "I want to see my friend. I'm willing to take the risk."

Edward sauntered up the driveway then in black jeans and a black shirt. It made his skin ghostly and disturbing, rather than palely attractive.

Jacob glanced over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps. His dark eyes widened dramatically before narrowing down to slits; his shoulders shook. I missed the happy-go-lucky boy I'd once known.

Stopping at the bottom of the porch steps, Edward stared at Jacob coolly, one of his brows quirked up.

The atmosphere was tense. No one bothered with introductions. I got the strange impression that they were unnecessary for some reason unknown to me.

I figured Jacob would be less likely to get into it with Carlisle and the others. "Uh, okay, get inside, Jacob," I told him. "Really. I'll handle this." I glanced at Edward again, whose eyes were now on me. I didn't know how I would handle him, but I would.

With a little more prodding from Billy and assurances from me that I'd be fine, Jacob finally grumbled and helped his father into the house. I stepped out on the porch and closed the front door behind me.

"Make it quick," I said to Edward in as strong of a voice as I could muster. "I don't want to be away from Charlie for too long."

Edward's cool composure melted; he ran a hand through his hair. "I want to say goodbye to your father." He looked at me uncertainly. "And I can't stay away. Tell me to go away, and I will, but I want to stay."

We stared at each other, saying what our mouths couldn't. It hurt to look at him, at this perfectly formed man—creature—who loved me, but wouldn't give himself to me.

There was no way I could send him away. Still, I felt the bruises beneath today's turtleneck sweater; some were getting better, but most weren't yet. They would help remind me that I could only have Edward's friendship until I knew the whole truth. At least, I hoped the bruises would serve as a reminder.

It'd be so easy to give in, but I'd done that enough already.

"All right," I said. I took a deep breath, as if I was about to dive into an Olympic-sized pool. Stepping forward, I reached out to him; my hand trembled between us as I remembered his unbridled power. He wouldn't hurt me, though, I knew. Not again.

Was this what lion tamers felt?

But I hadn't tamed him. Not quite. I didn't know if it was my place to, even.

Once again, I wondered what could have happened the other night.

Edward hesitated at first, but then met me in the middle; his fingers curled around mine. In spite of everything that had happened—and maybe because I was a huge idiot when it came to this man, this creature—I was soothed by his touch.

"You shouldn't let me near you," he said softly as he stepped up onto the porch, his eyes darting toward the house. "Not after what I did." He gently—very gently—slid his hand upward to push back my sleeve. There weren't really any bruises there, but he inspected my skin nonetheless. "Are you in a great deal of pain? Be honest."

I kept my eyes on where our skin was touching. "No, I'm fine," I half-lied. Half-lie, because I was still taking tiny doses of Charlie's pain medication.

Our hands fell back to our sides, and we stood in an uncomfortable, silent limbo. It was awkward. Really, really awkward.

"I know you weren't yourself," I finally managed to say.

"Or maybe I was more myself than you know, Bella. But, no, I wasn't the man I wanted to be," he agreed, "but that's no excuse. It doesn't absolve me."

"What's done is done," I sighed. What I didn't say—what frightened me—was how little all of it mattered. I loved him to a point that it burned, and I knew that wouldn't change.

But would we be together? Could we be together?

He nodded at my sweater. "Even if no one else knows, I know what you're hiding, and it's because of what I did to you." He shook his head. "I was a monster. I—"

"Are we really about to have the zombie argument again?" I blurted out.

Edward breathed a hesitant laugh. "You're right. Now's not the time."

"Thank you." I put my hand on the doorknob at my back. "You aren't a zombie, right?" I asked before turning it. "You're not craving my brains or anything?" It felt good to make light of the secret between us for a change, to distract myself from a thousand realities. The distance between us allowed for it.

"Your brain is fascinating," he said, flashing a grin, "but no, I don't crave it for dinner."

"Great. So no biting me and turning me into the living dead," I joked.

His grin faltered until it became a small, close-lipped smile. I wondered what I'd said wrong. "No," he said. "No biting."

The light humor between us disappeared when we entered the house. I could hear Billy in the living room as he spoke. He had an unmistakable storyteller's voice, one that lilted up and down and held your attention with its warmth. He did most of the talking, but Charlie spoke in stilted whispers and rasps sometimes. Mostly, he just stared at us, his eyes following one person or another, memorizing us.

I didn't like to think about why he felt the need to memorize us.

Jacob frowned when Edward sat with me at Charlie's bedside and took my left hand, but he said nothing, and eventually gave me a small smile as he nodded his chin at our fathers. I smiled back as best I could. It was good to see them together again, even in this sad situation. Whatever made the Quileutes and Cullens hate each other had kept our fathers apart in recent years, but Jacob and I had done our fair share of separating them, too—and for way too long.

We'd have regrets over that—over our botched past and bad timing.

The hours moved slowly. We shared stories with each other as Charlie drifted in and out of deeper and deeper naps. I kept holding his hand.

Would I feel him slip away? What would that feel like?

Carlisle told us about the first time he'd met my father.

Charlie had pulled over a woman who had run a red light. It hadn't been the first time he'd pulled her over, so he'd begun scribbling out a ticket when the woman yelped in alarm.

"Mrs. Grisham was nine months pregnant—due any day. She was past due, actually, and had absolutely no business driving herself anywhere alone. Charlie's ticket seemed to tip her over the edge," Carlisle said, his eyes squinted in mirth.

Carlisle hadn't been in charge of Mrs. Grisham's care, but he had been the one to calm down my father, who had been beyond flustered after the whole fiasco. He grinned down at Charlie, who was watching him quietly. "You know, she was a lot more relaxed than you were. I can only imagine how you were when Bella came along."

Charlie chuckled, and I felt gentle, fleeting pressure as he squeezed my hand.

Afternoon came, along with the light pitter-patter of rain. Everyone finally relaxed around one another. We were an odd mix of people—friendships and loves, old and new; even different species—but Charlie brought us together.

Billy shared an old Quileute story. "My grandfather Ephraim told me this story before he passed away," he began, running a comforting, tan-skinned hand down my father's forearm.

The tale, which of course took place long, long ago, told a Quileute man who saw his family get swept out to sea during a great storm. "He wept ceaselessly for a year and a day," Billy said, "and he drifted apart from his tribe, to live in the woods among his wolf brothers. It's said that you could hear him howl with them at night. He cried to the moon, which spoke to the waters; he begged for answers. 'Why them?' he asked. 'Why did you take them?'"

I'd heard this story once before, when I'd gone to a tribal bonfire night when Jacob and I were dating. Oral history was alive and well among older Quileutes; those my age had just gone to the gatherings for toasted marshmallows. I'd loved going, though. It'd been a little taboo for a "pale face" to be there, but Billy had allowed it, probably because I was his best friend's daughter and—at least at one point—Jacob had been head over heels for me.

Now, as Edward and I sat on the right side of Charlie's bed, surrounded by the Cullens and the Blacks, I listened to Billy's voice fill up the room as he told the story again. He had dark circles under his eyes, and lamplight let me see the shining streak of a fallen tear, but his voice never once faltered.

"One night, a she-wolf came to the man," he continued. "Her ears were pinned back against her head in a sign of goodwill. She sat by the man and his fire, and he shared his food with her. This was a time when animal still spoke to man. 'We are moving on,' she told the man. 'You must, too. Go seaward to find the answers you seek.' Then she slinked off into the night, barking to her wolf brothers."

I watched Charlie's eyes blink open and closed. I could feel him struggling against himself, against the coming darkness. As Billy spoke of the wolf man's journey to the sea, I leaned forward and rested my head against my father's shoulder. "I love you, Daddy," I told him. Edward still held my other hand; his grip tightened.

The wolf man was lost in the woods until he encountered a bear. He raised a spiked club in defense, but the bear had eaten, and so was feeling friendly toward the solemn tribesman. "Bear told the man to find a new family," Billy said, "to not bother with his journey, but the man could not be swayed; his heart was heavy with memories of the past, and he trusted his wolf friend.

"'You should see Crow,' Bear told the man. 'He can lead you to the water.'" Billy used a deep, gravelly voice for Bear, and Esme chuckled from where she sat in a chair just behind me.

"Crow did know the way to the water. It was a long journey on foot—the man had gone far inland during his time in the wilderness—but Crow agreed to guide him, provided the man would give him one of the polished blue beads from his necklace.

"Crow was a mysterious creature who told the man he was better off alone, that he could see the world this way and answer to no one but the stars he slept beneath. The man thanked him for this advice, but parted from Crow—and one of his blue beads—when he was sure he could make his way to the ocean by himself."

In the end, the man had no need to go to the ocean. He was following a twisting river when he met a salmon. "Salmon are very wise," Billy explained. "They know the intricate nature of the life cycle and see the world with clear vision."

Jumping up, Salmon called to the man. They met at a quiet pool by the river, where Salmon popped his head up to the surface. "Salmon don't believe in wasting time, and so this one spoke frankly. 'There is sadness in you. Why?'" Billy gurgled Salmon's voice.

The man had never shared his whole past with anyone—not even his wolf brothers and sisters knew the whole story—but he told it to Salmon then, who listened sympathetically. The man's salty tears fell into the pool of freshwater as he described his lost wife and daughter.

"'You look for your wife and daughter, as they were, but they are not what they were, then; they have grown,' Salmon told him." Billy smiled at me. "'They're gone,' the man replied hopelessly.

"But Salmon was wise. 'They're not gone, only different. They are in the soil of the earth, the whispering breezes and the teardrop rains from the sky.'"

It was a comforting, guiltless and godless story, about how everything was connected, forever and ever.

Was it a true tale? I wondered. I'd always thought that there was some nugget of truth buried in legends. Maybe there weren't any talking animals, but maybe, just maybe there was something. Maybe somewhere, someplace in time, a man had remembered his wife's caress when the rain trailed down his skin; maybe he'd heard his little girl's laughter in birdsong.

Would Charlie be in the wind, in the ground I walked on?

But then I realized—truly realized—that he'd always be with me. People had told me that before, but now, as I gripped my father's cold hand with my right one—Edward's cold hand with my left—I believed it with everything I was. Charlie would be in me, in my memory, and I would be quick to see him in the world around me, because we're always reminded of those we love.

In the last moments of my father's life, I found acceptance.

Death is a strange thing to witness. The moment leading up to it may be loud and troubled, a bloody-knuckled fight, but when it finally comes, it's quiet, the softest of exhalations; and yet everyone nearby can hear it.

In one second, my father was in the room. And in the next, he simply wasn't. His fingers slackened; his breathing—the sounds of the oxygen tank—eased, then stopped altogether. Billy's story drifted to an awkward close, and this time his voice faltered.

Charlie Swan slipped and slipped, like a feather drifting to the ground, until there was one fewer person in the room.

I sat up from his shoulder to stare at his peaceful, gaunt face. He had what looked like almost a half-smile tugging at his lips, but he wasn't there. The man on the inside was gone.

This body was an imposter. Maybe it always had been.

"Bye, Daddy," I whispered hoarsely, and the tears came. Carlisle and Esme touched my shoulders. I turned and looked at Edward, as if searching for something. His eyes were golden butterscotch, tender and warm as they stared back at me.

He gave me a sad smile. "He loved you so much, Bella," he said. "He was at peace with you here."

"I hope he was."

"He was," Edward insisted. "Trust me."

The evening turned strange. It felt like I was dreaming—not half-awake and sleepwalking—but actually dreaming. Carlisle and Esme called the funeral home. I sent messages to Angela and Lauren, who'd kindly checked up on me with calls since I'd returned to Forks.

Jacob and Billy left.

"We should stay," Jacob had said to Billy, his eyes flitting around the room that was filled with those unlike him. Again, I saw his shoulders tremble.

Billy had shaken his head at his son, but said to me just the same, "If you need us, call." He'd given the Cullens and Edward a hard, chiefly stare that belied the fact that he was sitting in a wheelchair. I watched them leave and felt a piece of my past break away with their departure.

The body was removed. It had become that at some point—just a body. Genderless, spiritless. Just a suit of bone and muscle and skin, a mannequin lookalike. Not the man who'd pushed me on swings and taken me fishing, not the man I'd watched play baseball or proudly clap for me at graduation.

Now Edward, Alice and I sat on the front porch. Carlisle and Esme were inside—probably doing things I should, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember what, if anything, I was meant to do. I'd apologize to them when I was more myself, when thinking didn't only bring up white noise in my brain.

Alice handed me a cup of hot cocoa she'd made. Edward pulled the blanket around us tighter. It never seemed to warm his skin in this wintry weather.

"Thanks," I said to them both. It was so damn inadequate.

"Do you want us to stay with you tonight?" Alice asked.

"That's okay. You guys should get back home. You've stayed long enough, and I've really appreciated it."

"I could stay, while Esme and Carlisle go home," she offered, glancing at Edward.

I shook my head. "No, I think I just want to be alone."

"Alone?" Edward asked.

I looked at him. He had no idea how much I wanted him with me, but I wouldn't be stupid, not even tonight. My father had taught me better than that. "I should really be alone," I said as firmly as I could.

He opened his mouth to say something, but Alice interrupted him. "Fine, Bella, but you know we'll be knocking first thing tomorrow."

I snorted into my warm mug. "Your parents aren't that cruel. Only you would show up and beat my door down in the morning."

She grinned a little. "It works, though."

The Cullens left first. I basically had to shove them in their car. They didn't want to leave me alone, but all I could think of was how much I wanted—needed—to be alone, to not think of anything for a little while but my father.

Edward and I stood beneath the glaring white glow of the porch floodlight. He cradled my face in his hands that were made even colder by the outside air and kissed my forehead. "I wish you'd let me stay," he said. "I'll sleep downstairs on the couch if it'd make you feel better."

"I know you would."

"But that's a no, right?"

I half-shrugged. "I just need…" God, what did I need?

"Answers," he whispered.

My heart clenched. "And time, I guess." I managed to hold back the tears. I was already so tired of crying. I laughed a little and pulled away from him. "I don't really know what I need right now. It doesn't feel real. Sometimes it does, but mostly it doesn't."

Had it really only been hours since my father was alive and in the house behind me? I wanted to shout and scream and cry like the man in Billy's tale, and I wanted to do that alone.

Edward nodded. "It'll always be that way, you know," he said in that wise voice he sometimes had. "There was a great deal of truth to Billy Black's story."

We held hands for a while and shared kisses made salty by my tears—never on the lips now, but it was enough—and I wondered how it was possible to hurt so much. To hurt on the outside and inside, to miss the dead, to miss the living, to miss what had been and what might never be.

"You know that I'll come whenever you need me," Edward said as he held me to his body. It was a statement, not a question.

"I know," I whispered against his bicep, where I rested my face. I told him I loved him, and he replied in kind. And still, we both knew that that changed nothing about the other night.

Edward hated leaving, but I watched his car move into the distance just the same, and then I went into my father's house, into a still darkness that held more memories in its walls than my mind could ever hope to contain. I turned on the television to a sports channel that Charlie had once listened to every night when he was well. I turned on the clock radio in my room—to classic rock, which had been his favorite. I filled the house with noise, but it was false, a poor imitation of the man that had once lived here. B-Grade characterization.

I trudged to Charlie's old bedroom, which he'd not used in weeks, and pulled on one of his old shirts. I slipped beneath the sheets of his lumpy, squeaky bed. They were clean sheets and didn't smell like him, but I was happy knowing he had slept here for thousands of nights—since before I was born, even.

I curled up in a ball and held tight to the dragonfly fossil as I cried myself to sleep. The tears were different this time; they were almost cathartic. Everything was over, and it hurt—so much—like my chest was being torn open, but there was also peace, because death meant he didn't hurt anymore. Wherever he was—if he was anywhere at all—he was free from pain. I had to believe that.

When I finally did sleep, I dreamed of Charlie hugging me goodbye before leaving on a fishing trip with Harry Clearwater. "Love you, Bells!" he called from the driver's seat of his pickup truck. His tires kicked up a spray of settled water as he drove away.

Closing Notes: Sorry for the long notes. This is what happens when I don't individually reply to reviews. Many of you are wondering where SotPM's headed. All I will say is that there is plenty of foreshadowing. Unless I stray from my loose outline—always a possibility—there are about twelve more chapters to SotPM. We're entering what I consider to be "part three."

The Quileute story isn't real. If it was, inevitably someone would have been brutally murdered by something. What myths I could find were just grisly. Instead, the legend I made up is a mix of things from the region; the wise salmon mainly comes from Celtic mythology.