Chapter 1 – Color Spectrum
September. Everything about the word sounds like autumn. From the soft S, like the hiss of air slowly being released from an inner tube to the hard –ber at the end, the first of four months that each grow progressively colder, as if foreshadowing the snow and ice soon to arrive.
September was synonymous with football and homecoming, pumpkin spice candles, and leaves slowly starting their change from lush green to various states of scarlet, gold and amber. Most of all, September meant back to school, children embarking on a new year, their backpacks full of fresh notebooks and sharpened pencils.
September meant change – at least for most. Not for me.
No, this September, I would not be one of the masses rushing back to class, full of stories about my summer vacation. For the first time in my life, I would be watching from the sidelines as classes resumed. There would be no homecoming or football games for me (not that I'd ever participated in them anyway), no lectures or tests, nor would I be anywhere near leaves that changed color. I was landlocked in the desert, another year in the perennial summer of Phoenix, very quickly going nowhere fast.
"Come with us to Jacksonville," my mother, Renee, had begged me years ago. It had been September 22, 2006, just a week and a half after my nineteenth birthday. "It's time you saw something other than the desert. There are good universities in Florida, and plenty of jobs…"
She meant well; Renee always did. But I had a chance to do something I'd never done before - be truly on my own. I could sleep as late as I wanted, eat cereal for dinner if I wasn't in the mood to cook, and play any type of music as loud as I chose. I'd been the responsible, practical one for so long: doing the grocery shopping, reminding my mother to pay the bills, turning off the lights before going to bed. For the first time in my life. I was going to put myself first, or at least try.
So instead of joining the trek to Jacksonville, I thanked Renee and made up a flimsy excuse about not wanting to lose course credits, and wished her and my stepfather, Phil, a safe drive. Once they were out of sight, I loaded up my car and made the drive fifteen minutes west to claim the small efficiency apartment just five blocks from the Arizona State University campus. It had a Murphy bed that folded down out of the wall, a tiny little kitchenette, and an onsite laundry. For the first time in my life, I had a place that was all my own.
Over the course of the next four years, I added little odds and ends to the apartment in an attempt to make it feel more like a 'home.' I bought a simple love seat from a couple that was moving out down the hall, and draped colorful throws over it to cover the stains. I hung pictures and bought inexpensive plants, but in the end, this apartment wasn't home anymore than any other place I'd lived in. It was just one more stop in my long succession of layovers on the road to nowhere.
There were days where I regretted my decision to stay behind in Arizona. Making friends had not been as easy as I'd hoped. Maybe it was not living on campus or joining a sorority; the people I met had their own groups, and didn't have room to work in one more. It left me alone, on the periphery, watching as others lived and laughed in a way I'd never really learned how to do. When I did interact with others, the conversations were often painful.
"So Marie, do anything exciting this summer?"
"Not really, just worked," I mumbled, looking down at my shoes.
"Work is good, gives you practical business experience. I had this awesome internship with a museum downtown. Really gave me a good feel for what the working world is going to be like. I'm really starting to get excited. Any clue what you are going to do when we graduate?"
"No – well, I'm not sure yet."
These people had spent their lives figuring out what it was they wanted to be and do. Some had turned childish dreams into reality, working towards becoming doctors or lawyers. Others had discovered themselves at school, slotting into a potential profession easily. In a world where a person was defined by their profession (I'm an accountant, I'm a mom, I'm a cab driver), the only answer I could ever give was that I was a student.
Beyond that, I just flat out didn't know.
What I did know was that with my degree, I would be able to go somewhere and craft my own identity, something I'd never really felt like I had. With a bachelor's in marketing tucked safely under my arm, I would be able to move on, out of this wasteland where nothing changed, and find the place that I did belong.
Somehow, some way, I would find a way to turn this degree into an answer.
That is why, while other girls wandered off to parties and went on dates; I spent all my free time out of class at the large bookstore where I worked as a barista. The job not only funded my meager apartment and bills, it was the sole source of my tuition and provided an ample discount towards the books I needed for school. All that stood between me and my degree were just nine classes and about twenty thousand dollars. Nine more classes until I was free to roam the world, doing whatever it was I wanted, and hopefully never worrying about money again.
My desire to escape Phoenix was ironic, in a way, for I'd spent my childhood longing for consistency. Renee was never one to hold down a stable job, which meant the bulk of my childhood had been spent following her from job to job in little towns throughout Southern California and Arizona. Bakersfield, Barstow, Temecula, and Sedona; the names changed, but landscape always stayed the same. Miles of dirt, big rocks, and cheap apartments with cheery names like "Mountain Pines" or "Vineyard Hills". The properties rarely matched their lush names, and the swimming pools in the center courtyard were the only things that might be considered naturally green. They were usually neglected, the algae growing up from the bottom making the water too stagnant to touch. Anything green in Phoenix was manufactured, fake grass or watered within an inch of its life. Real grass would never survive in a state that averaged more than 300 days of sunshine a year.
Nor did leaves ever change their colors.
Ω Ω Ω
Crooking my jaw to the side, I stuck out my lip and huffed a quick breath, using the air's momentum to blow a thick lock of hair out of my eyes. The long brown strands drifted lazily to the side before dropping back down onto my forehead, which was damp with perspiration. It would figure that today of all days I would forget a ponytail holder.
I was still trying to figure out where the day had spun out of control. Waking with sun, I'd rolled over, watching the cars pass by my bedroom window with a bit of an odd feeling. I'd chalked it up to a case of the 'no school blues,' the first time in my existence I'd not been elbows deep in textbooks and assignments. In an attempt to shake off the depression that hovered at the periphery, I dug into practical things, like straightening up my apartment and making a dent in mountain of laundry that had accumulated in the corner. For six hours, I ran up and down the stairs, flipping loads from the coin-operated washer to the dryer, then shuttling them back upstairs to put them away. It was a monotonous task, but it numbed the doubt that had being gnawing at the edges of my mind. School did not define who I was, I did. I just needed to figure out how to do that.
The timer on my tiny microwave went off at 3:40, reminding me that it was time to move the final load of clothes from the washer to the dryer. I ran down two flights of steps, pulling up short at the large, wet pile of laundry on top of the dryer. The washing machine hummed as clothing agitated inside; clothing that wasn't mine.
"Thanks a lot for nothing," I mumbled, shoving my clothes haphazardly in the dryer and jamming three quarters into the coin slot. The people that lived in my building weren't particularly known for their manners, but this had to take the cake. Not trusting the washing machine thief to allow my unmentionables to toast in peace, I ran back upstairs to retrieve a book, and spent the afternoon perched on top of the dryer waiting for my clothes to finish.
The small laundry room was cramped, with no ventilation, and I was sore, sweaty, and in a foul by the time the buzzer went off. When I opened the dryer door, I could have cried. A single bright red tea towel, a gift from my mother, lay in the center of the dryer tub, flanked by piles of fluffy pink socks and underwear. Every single item of white clothing I owned was now a lovely shade of carnation pink.
"Fuck," I swore softly, tossing the clothes angrily into my laundry basket. I didn't have the money to replace the clothes, and I hated pink.
Tired and frustrated, I lugged the basket upstairs. Perspiration made my hands sweaty, and I almost dropped the basket twice, slipping on my way up the final flight. My neighbor, a sullen old man who worked in the maintenance department at school, pushed past without stopping to make sure was okay. He kicked a pair of pair of underwear out of his path on the way down.
It was just another day in the amazing life of Marie Geoffrey.
Once inside my apartment, I dropped the laundry basket on the floor next to the door. It was almost five, and I needed to be at work soon, but I didn't have the motivation to take a shower. Defeated, I sank down onto the couch, wishing I had something more to look forward to than
a menial job that I needed to feed my severely diminished tuition fund.
"I never thought I'd long for homework," I said, collapsing backwards. It was easier to close my eyes, and shut out the world for just a little bit; go to a place where the world expected nothing from me, and I could just be. I allowed myself to picture all the things that didn't exist here. Pine trees, acres of bright green grass, and gentle rainfalls in a place that changed color as the seasons ebbed and flowed - somewhere alive.
Like every other fiasco in my day, my nap had been an ill advised decision. A door slamming down the hall jarred me awake, and I scrambled to sit up, groaning at the digital readout on my DVD player. 6:10 – not enough time to sneak in a shower before work. I splashed water on my face and threw on my faded forest green polo shirt before half walking, half jogging the three blocks to the bookstore.
I arrived at 6:30, sweaty and ill tempered, desperate for a large glass of water and cool air. Fate had other plans, for the air conditioning was struggling to keep up in the early September heat, and the ceiling fans installed in the café area to circulate the smells of coffee and pastries merely pushed the hot air back down into the room.
"I love my job, I love my job," I chanted over and over as I balanced precariously on my toes. Whoever opened this morning had forgotten to grind coffee. Were it not for the almost empty thermos of coffee on the counter, I wouldn't have known until it was too late. The grinder was tall, forcing me to hold the large bag of beans high over my head, and angle the top down into the large chute. As I did so, my hair fell into my eyes again, and I tossed my hair, annoyed and hot. My body wasn't ready for the sharp motion, and the muscles in the back neck contracted in protest, sending needles of pain searing up the back of my neck.
"Owwww…shit!" I hissed, dropping the bag of beans. My hand went instinctively to the back of my neck, gently rubbing at the burning muscles as I fought back tears of pain and frustration. The aluminum pouch I'd dropped landed on the floor with a thwack, tottering precariously from side to side before settling into place. At least the beans hadn't spilled; if they had, I probably would have broken down in tears. It was the perfect cap on completely miserable day.
"That was impressive," a deep voice observed from behind me.
It startled me, and I jumped, letting out a little squeak of distress and flattening one hand against my racing heart. It was a ridiculous protective measure that would have done little to ward off an attack. The man's voice had literally come out of nowhere, no footsteps or throat clearing to indicate that someone might be waiting. I turned slowly to find a young man standing on the other side of the counter, his hands shoved casually in the pockets of his jeans. Paired with a long sleeved rumpled white oxford, the heavy jeans struck me as an odd choice given the fact it was over 100 degrees outside. Apparently Phoenix hadn't gotten the memo that September was here.
"The balancing, that is. It was impressive." He smiled and tipped his head to the side, a gesture I was sure most people found disarming, if not charming.
"Next time warn someone before you sneak up on them!" I said, taking deep breaths in attempt to slow my heart rate down. It slammed against my chest so hard it felt as though my shirt would probably move if I lifted my hand.
"I did." The man smiled, wide and bright, like he'd given me the most brilliant answer in the world. "I cleared my throat, and then you did this-" He flicked his head gently to one side, mimicking the exact same motion that had caused me to drop the bag. His blonde hair shifted easily away from his face, his muscles not rebelling at the motion. The blood rushed to my face, embarrassment and anger burning my cheeks and making my throat tingle. Yet another way in which everyone else in the world was superior to me.
Cocky bastard, I thought. He thinks he has the world on a string, and he's laughing at me.
"Did you want something, or are you just having fun at my expense?" I asked, struggling to regain my composure. The blonde man continued to smile at me, his expression gentle and almost indulgent, as if he could sense my mood and understand my frustration.
"Just a tall coffee please," he said, digging a dark brown leather wallet out of his back pocket. As he did, the hem of his untucked oxford flipped up to reveal a long, lean expanse of pale – no, white – skin.
"How long are you in town?" I asked, filling the awkward silence as I filled a cup of coffee. "You can't be a local with skin like that." Once the cup was full, I slid it across the counter. "That will be a dollar eighty. Lids and insulated sleeves are just to your left. Be careful, I just brewed it, so it's hot."
The man dropped two dollar bills on the counter, and retrieved a lid from the accessory caddy, along with a sugar packet. He slowly, almost methodically tore the top of the yellow pouch and tipped it into his coffee, then secured the lid. "I'm just in town for the day. I had some business to take care of."
No way this guy is older than I am, and yet he's 'in town on business.' He couldn't be more than twenty one, twenty two maximum, yet his wallet was clearly expensive, as were his 'casual' jeans and oxford. It only reinforced the nagging thought that had chewed at the back of my mind all day. You are a no one, Marie. Life is passing you by, and no one gives a damn whether you care or not.
The man laughed, a strange, almost strangled sound, which echoed off the walls of the quiet café. Through the large opening into the bookstore, I could see a handful of patrons loitering around open tables, but as a whole, the bookstore was quiet. It would seem almost everyone had better things to do tonight.
"So tell me, Marie," the man said, his eyes darted to my name tag affixed to my apron, "What is a pretty girl like you doing working at a coffee stand on a Thursday night?"
"Paying the bills. Why, is there something else I should be doing?" I answered flippantly.
"Oh, I don't know...maybe out with friends, on a date with a boyfriend, or maybe even hanging with family," he said causally. "Or maybe you are working tonight so you can take off the long holiday weekend?
"I don't have any of those," I said sharply. "And I am working the long holiday weekend because I need every penny I can make. I have an education to pay for."
The words came sharper than I had intended, but the man didn't recoil. Instead, he leaned forward, his fore arms resting on the counter, one bent to support his weight, the other wrapped securely around the cup of coffee.
"Everyone needs to take a break and have fun. I doubt you are working 24x7 until Tuesday morning. Come on - tell me you have some fun planned. A barbeque maybe? Lunch with a friend? Dinner with your mom?" He stared at me intently, his strange yellow brown eyes burning straight through me.
Maybe it was the fact that I'd spent all day invisible, that my underwear was now pink, or that my hair had been stuck to my neck for the last four hours. I found myself desperate for human contact, someone who would talk to me, treat me like I was worth something. This man was a total stranger, yet he had a kind smile, and he made me feel like I mattered with his simple questions about my weekend. His questions were not intrusive, probing at the things that I didn't know how to answer. He made me comfortable, melting my irritation easily into acceptance, something I would have fought had I not been so tired and defeated. I just wanted someone to see me, to find me interesting for just a tiny little bit, and I was willing to forget all other transgressions to get there.
You do matter, a voice echoed in my head. You are worth it.
"No, no barbeque or lunch with mom. I am going to go to the grocery store tomorrow to load up on food and bleach. I might go to a museum this weekend. And maybe I'll make some banana bread. Oh, and work of course. I make a mean cup of Joe." I bent down to retrieve the bag of coffee beans, folding the top neatly, end over end.
"That sounds rather lonely," the man observed.
"Yeah well, my mom and stepdad moved away, and I don't have a lot of friends here, so I guess it is what it is, right?"
"No, you shouldn't accept that. You deserve more. We all do."
"Yeah well, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride," I said dismissively. "I'm not the most impressive person in the world. It kind of puts a damper on the ability to make friends."
The man smiled, and I couldn't help but notice how perfect his skin was, no laugh lines freckles marring his face. "Oh, on the contrary, Bella. You are very interesting."
"Marie," I corrected him, pointing at my nametag. "My name's Marie, remember?"
The man tossed his hair back out of his eyes again. They were the strangest color, warm like toffee, with flecks of gold and orange around the irises. His hair had the same warm hues of gold and copper, mixed in with the lighter, flaxen strands. Were it not for the lack of tan, he would look like the stereotype of a surf bum. He was tall and lanky, and held himself in a way that spoke of natural grace.
"Do you ever wonder about your dad?" he asked, staring at me intently.
"You mean my stepdad?" I quickly corrected him. With anyone else, I would have felt uncomfortable, maybe even unnerved, but there was something about this man – his posture, his easy smile – it drew me out and made me feel relaxed. Maybe this is what it felt like to have a conversation with an old friend, someone you were close to, and saw you for you and not the airs you put on. "His name is Phil; my mom married him when I was 16. He's the only dad I've ever really known."
The man smiled, straightening up abruptly to retrieve his something from his shirt pocket.
"Well, Bella, you have another dad. And he's curious about you."
"I think you have the wrong person," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. This had all been too good to be true, and I could feel the energy ebbing slowly out of my body at the realization that this man's interest had been based on the assumption that I was someone else. "You keep calling me Bella. My name is Marie. Marie Geoffrey."
The man dropped a business card on the counter, the heavy, ivory paper with its raised glossy black lettering a stark contrast to the dark, forest green Formica. He extended his hand to say goodbye. "I have to go, keep the card. You may want it."
I awkwardly accepted his gesture, squeezing his warm hand gently. The man, whose name had never been proffered, had been kind to me, an ear when I needed it. Being rude or dismissive would accomplish nothing, even if it did sting that he'd been interested for the wrong reason. I simply smiled, and thanked him for the company.
"Call Renee," the blonde man said as he released my hand. "Ask her about Forks and your family. You have a right to know all about your life, Bella Swan."
He took two steps back, then turned and strolled leisurely out of the café into the bookstore. A minute later, I watched him push the heavy wood door open and exit into the hot Arizona night.
After he'd left, I retrieved the business card from the counter, stuffing it into my apron pocket. The cup of coffee he'd ordered sat on the counter, ice cold and completely full.
Ω Ω Ω
The rest of my shift was a slow painful procession, each minute dragging out slowly after the last. The stacks of books and magazines around me offered no distraction, and I was not in the mood to wander out into the bookstore proper to make idle chitchat with the other employees. Instead, I leaned against the counter, in a stance not unlike the strange man, and stared off into space as I replayed our interaction over and over again. There were so many odd things about our interaction; my willingness to open up to a stranger, his insistence that my name was Bella, his knowledge about Renee (I was sure I'd only referred to her in conversation as 'my mom'), and my inability to get mad or scared that he knew things I'd not disclosed.
Of all those strange little details, it was the cold cup of coffee that bugged me the most. Our conversation hadn't lasted more than twenty minutes, not nearly enough time to for the coffee to have dropped so radically in temperature. I'd immediately checked the thermos, depressing the stopper that regulated the flow. Dark brown liquid splashed onto me, scalding the tender skin on the inside of my wrist.
There was no way his coffee could have cooled that fast.
For the last hour of my shift, I tried to explain everything away. His questions and insistence at my name, the cold coffee, the strange business card he'd left behind, writing I'd refused to read. I drained the insulated thermos and rinsed it out and, cleaned all the utensils and counters. Autopilot took over, my body going through the menial tasks I knew so well as my brain continued to play what if.
At eleven o'clock on the nose, I flipped off the lights in the pastry case and placed the zippered pouch of cash in a small pneumatic tub that would carry it up to the manager's office. Before leaving the bookstore, I sent a quick text to my mother, asking her to call ASAP. It was just after one a.m. in Jacksonville, and if my mother was still up, she wouldn't be able to resist calling for the scoop.
My walk home was quiet, the streets empty. Most people were already home in bed or out at the bars, happy that the long holiday weekend would soon be upon them. Long dealt with emotions – anger, jealousy and, frustration all bubbled to the surface as I thought about an alternate universe me, dancing and laughing, maybe kissing a guy or dancing with a group of friends. The emotions were irrational, for it was my fault that I didn't live that life. I was perfectly capable of putting myself out there. I had in the past – it had simply never lived up to my expectations. In the end, it was easier to watch from the sidelines, imagining how the night would play out. A sense of envy was much easier to deal with than a sense of regret.
My phone rang just as I made it to my front door, the old school telephone pulse echoing through the empty hallway.
"Hey, baby girl," my mother cooed. She sounded so far away, her words faintly slurred. "I was just about to go to bed. I fell asleep on the couch waiting for Phil to call. I hate when he's gone on these road trips, it gets so lonely here."
I shifted my backpack, cradling the cell phone between my cheek and shoulder. "Hang on, unlocking my door." I flipped the key in the lock, jiggling it a bit to shake the bolt completely free of the lock. With a small shove it swung wide into the one room that served as my living room, bedroom, and study area. "Listen, Mom, I had to work tonight, and a weird thing happened-"
"Oh yeah?" my mom said. "Keep talking, I'm just taking the trash out." I could hear the clanking and clatter of the plastic bin that Renee and Phil used, a giant green monstrosity with a black top. "I swear, Phil bought this thing just to mess with me. You could put both of us in here."
"Mom," I said, trying to get Renee's attention. "I really need to-"
"I hate when he has to travel and I can't go. It's just-"
"Mom," I demanded, cutting her off, "who is Bella Swan?"
The phone line went completely silent. Were it not for Renee's heavy breathing on the other end of the line, I would have sworn we'd been disconnected.
"Are you still working at that awful bookstore? Honestly, Marie, you aren't taking any classes, why don't you come down here for the semester? One of the girls down the street nanny's for
a wealthy family on the other side of town. She's making $15 dollars an hour. You could get out of town for a bit, see some green, maybe even get a tan-"
Renee's rambling, usually so disjointed and flaky, felt forced. It set off more warning bells than a direct answer would have. Why was she evading me? What did she have to hide?
Who was I?
"Mom, you didn't answer my question," I said, my voice oddly calm. "Why would a strange man show up at work tonight calling me Bella Swan, ask me about my real dad and mention a town called Forks?"
"It's probably nothing," Renee answered quickly. "Someone just messing with your head. Don't pay any attention to it."
"He knew your name, Mom," I protested. This wasn't what I had expected. I wanted Renee to explain away my fears, to come up with some logical reason for why a complete stranger had walked into the bookstore where I worked, insisting he knew more about my life than I did.
If it had been a simple case of mistaken identity, I could have let it go, but mistaken identity couldn't account for him knowing my mother's name. No, this was something more. Something that terrified me, and I needed someone to explain to me why now, hours later, I was more unsettled than when the man had been peppering me with his questions.
"It's been too long since I've seen you," Renee said, brushing aside my comment. "I am going to make reservations for you first thing in the morning. I'll go online and book something— you'll have tickets waiting in the morning."
"I can't, Mom. I have rent to pay, a job, I can't just up and leave," I said. This was not the
kind behavior I expected from my mother. Flighty, laughing, maybe even asking me if she could have what of the weirdo was smoking, sure - but not this. No, something was not right.
"I'm going online now," Renee insisted, her voice now clear and sharp. Any vestiges of sleep were long gone, the lazy slurring replaced by a rushed, almost panicked tone. "I'll call you in the morning and tell you when-"
"Mom, you don't-"
"Not another word, Marie. I'll call you in the morning. Get some sleep, it will be a long flight."
When the line clicked dead, I sighed, and dropped my backpack on the floor. There hadn't been enough time for me to form expectations, but I'd not expected my mom to go into a mini meltdown. She was always quick to make a joke of everything, to turn the strangest of events into something to laugh about. Instead of turning the mystery man and his strange statements into something funny, she'd panicked. Renee was flaky in many areas of life, but she didn't throw around money easily – her insistence that she buy a plane ticket for me ASAP had spooked me more than anything else in our conversation. Why spend money she didn't have
to fly me halfway across the country for no good reason?
Something was rotten in the state of Denmark.
Sitting down on the floor in the middle of my tiny apartment, I pulled the small ivory business card from my backpack and laid it gently on the carpet. The raised black type, elegant and antiquated, seemed to belong to another time or place.
Rosalie Hale
Attorney at Law
500 Bogachiel Way
Forks, Washington 98331
The address block was followed by a phone, fax number and email address. No website.
I flipped the card over. Written in elegant black script one the back was a short message:
You deserve the truth
I closed my eyes, trying desperately to recall the simple state of calm that had wrapped around me, safe and comfortable, at the bookstore. The man's words rang over and over in my head. You have a right to know all about your life, Bella Swan
"I'm not Bella Swan," I said, my voice shaking. "My name is Marie Geoffrey. My mother is Renee Higgenbotham Dwyer and my stepdad is Phil Dwyer. I've never lived in Forks and I don't even know who my real dad is."
I repeated the words again and again, three times in total, as if the pattern would invoke some type of magical protection, an incantation to keep me safe and block the doubts and fear that swirled around in my head.