Chapter 3 – Actions Speak Loudest
"So this was all a logging town?" I stared out the window at the tiny houses below. They were cloaked in clapboard, shades of light blue, white and yellow sitting in the middle of large lots. Everywhere I looked there was green. Grass, trees, plants. There was something so soothing about the peaceful little town below, the vibration from the plane's engine rippling through me like a tiny little massage, soothing away any stress or apprehension. I was flying over a town that might or might not be the place I was born, and oddly enough, I felt nothing other than curiosity.
"Yeah, logging was a big deal here back in the forties and fifties. Now most of the town's revenue comes for the correctional center or the hospital," Jasper said, pointing out my window. "That's the hospital down there."
"I can't get over how different everything is. Phoenix had mountains, but it was all so neutral and dry. Everything here looks so…" I struggled, trying to choose the right word to represent the lush landscape spread out below me. "Wet, I guess. Even the dirt looks like it's half water."
Jasper laughed, gently banking the plane to loop back around the town. "In the winter months it probably is." He depressed a button on the yoke, activating the comm. "Forks Municipal, this is Whiskey Alpha Bravo six eight Echo, requesting clearance to land."
My headset burst to life, pops of static followed by a man's voice. "Whiskey Alpha Brava six eight Echo this is Forks Municipal tower, you are cleared to land from the North. Watch the trees this time, will you, Jasper? Folks complain when you come in too low."
"Roger, tower - will watch the trees as I come in too low. Whiskey Alpha Brava six eight Echo out," Jasper joked as he eased the yoke to the left, leveling out the plane as we began our approach. "Well, you ready to learn more about where it all began?"
"I don't know if I'll ever be ready, but I do think it's time," I said, watching as the ground slowly rose up to meet the tiny plane. Unlike my commercial landing in Seattle, this touchdown was smooth, no bumps or pressure forcing me forward. "Nice landing."
"I had precious cargo," he retorted. The hint of an accent flavored his a's, flattening them out just the slightest bit. "My sister-in-law has my antiques in the back."
We both laughed, and the levity helped take the edge off the knot growing in my stomach. I was in a strange town where I didn't know anyone, searching for a past I wasn't sure was exactly mine. Any laughter I could get was a welcome thing.
"I'm going to log this flight and grab the car," Jasper said, popping the release on the door. "Why don't you wait for me inside? It will be warmer, and you'll be out of the rain."
I followed Jasper's lead, climbing out of the plane after him. A fine mist, like the peripheral spray off a garden hose, fell gently, wrapping the tiny airfield in a gauzy veil. The moisture was cool, and I tipped my face back, enjoying water against my dry face. Motion from the main building caught my attention. A small, dark haired woman stared at us, her brown eyes wide, almost surprised. I was accustomed to the urban sprawl of Phoenix, where I was a nameless face, blending in with thousands of other people. In a town the size of Forks, I would not be able to blend in and escape inevitable scrutiny. It made me pull up short, wanting to hide behind Jasper and take comfort in his easy confidence.
"I'm going to wait here with you, okay?" I asked, my eyes never leaving the building.
"Why don't you go sit in the car?" Jasper said, not looking up from the storage area. "I'll be over in a second. That way you are out of the rain." He tossed me a set of keys, which I bobbled and fumbled until finally securing them against my stomach, the bulky sleeves of the jacket keeping the keys in place.
"Yeah, I think we'll let you keep score when we play baseball, Gracie," he teased. "I'll just be a minute. Black Suburban, just around the corner. Can't miss it."
Following Jasper's instructions, I crossed a median strip of grass between the tarmac and the security fence, slipping through a narrow gate instead of going through the building. The small woman was there inside the building, watching me, her eyes wide and smile bright as she waved hello.
"Well, I'm not in Phoenix anymore," I said to myself. In a town of three thousand, the arrival of someone new would probably be big news, something I'd not prepared for. Suddenly, life on the periphery didn't seem like such a bad thing. Fortunately, the large black SUV was parked just the other side of the security fence allowed me a place to escape, away from prying eyes. I deactivated the alarm and slipped into the huge vehicle, pulling the black jacket tighter around me to cut the chill. That same subtle aroma still permeated the material, and I closed my eyes, burying my nose in the collar and breathing deeply. Was this what Christmas smelled like in this small town? A fresh cut tree, wrapped in white twinkle lights and decorated with bright red ribbons, candy canes and little tiny cinnamon sticks? I'd never had a real Christmas, at least not in the traditional sense. Would this new world and new life grant me that?
The back gate of the truck popped open, and I could hear Jasper placing boxes and bags in the cargo area. "Thanks, Tyler, I appreciate it."
He slammed the gate closed, and quickly moved around the car to climb into the driver's seat. "You ready for this?" He asked, his strange, honey brown eyes boring into me - almost through me- with their intensity.
"As ready as I'll ever be. Where are we going?"
Jasper fired up the engine and flipped on the windshield wipers. "Well, first off to see Rosalie. She'll have some things to go over. Then we'll get you settled in."
"Is there a decent hotel around here?" I asked, calculating how much this trip would end up costing me. The flight had been covered by Rosalie's firm, but I'd not made any assumptions beyond that. Fortunately, I knew how to live thrifty, and I could make the small amount of cash I have stretch for as long as I needed it to.
"Why don't you worry about that after you talk to my sister?" Jasper said, effectively ending the conversation. "She's made some arrangements already.
It was the first indication of any type of relationship between him and Rosalie Hale. I'd noticed the gold wedding band he wore on his left hand. It hadn't been there when he visited the bookstore in Phoenix. I'd wondered if maybe Rosalie Hale was his wife, never considering that there could be another type of relationship between them. It wasn't my nature to jump to conclusions; I was usually more cautious, hanging back and assessing the situation. Lack of sleep, nerves, and fear of the unknown had worn me down, and I forced myself to take a deep breath. I needed to be level headed, to go into this with an open mind. If I had preconceived notions, it was likely I'd end up getting very hurt.
"You know, Isabella," Jasper said, "this town might surprise you. Things aren't like Phoenix. People handle things differently here."
"What do you mean by that?"
He smiled, and made a left turn onto a two lane highway, heading what appeared to be north. The houses and shops that lined the streets were older, but not run down. Faded store awnings were neatly kept, the window displays filled with bright colors. A number of the houses had mums on their steps, gold and orange and deep maroon setting off the ever constant green of the trees.
"People here know each other, grew up with each other. They approach things differently, and will view you as one of their own, even if you didn't grow up here. People here are going to want to know you, to help you out," he made another left turn, followed by another sharp left into a small office complex. "Life here is different. But that's not a bad thing."
Ω Ω Ω
If Jasper Whitlock had made a strong first impression, it was nothing compared with that of his sister, Rosalie. They shared the same coloring, fair skin, like ivory or alabaster, golden blonde hair and the same strange eyes. Unlike her brother, who filled the room as much with personality as looks, Rosalie dominated on looks alone. She was tall, close to six foot in heels, her long flaxen hair hanging smoothly down her back, and she carried herself like she belonged on a catwalk, not a law office. She wasn't waif-thin like the models in the magazines, no - she was more voluptuous, reminding me of the movie stars of the forties and fifties with their curves and tiny waists.
"I appreciate you coming up here on such short notice," she said, sitting down in the large leather chair behind her desk. "I know that this all has to be quite a shock."
She placed her hands on top of a thick file folder, the length of twine wrapped around twice around the width to keep the contents securely inside. "I thought we could go over the basics now, then go get you settled. I would assume you're tired after traveling all day."
Unlike her brother, Rosalie Hale was not going to crack jokes to put me at ease. She had a job to do, and would not be letting loose a smile or a joke just to ease me into the situation.
"That's fine," I said. "Settling in would probably be a good thing."
She nodded, unwinding the twine and extracting a stack of papers. "I'll give this to you once we are through. The simple facts are this. Your grandmothers, Helen Swan and Marie Higgenbotham, set up a trust in your name. You were their only grandchild, and they wanted to make sure that you had a connection to your family and your history."
Dumbfounded, I sat silently, trying to make sense of it all. My mind was a riot of emotions – anger at having been denied my family, sadness over all the things I'd missed, and most of all fear that they might not have loved me, for I was not the easiest person to get to know or love. Renee's protestations and lies had sent me running in this direction, desperate for another perspective on my life. I'd never stopped to consider the ramifications of what I might find, or how it might change everything completely.
"Are you okay, Isabella?" Rosalie asked, her eyebrows knitting together. "Do you need some water or something?"
"No, I – " I gulped for air, unable to form a coherent thought. "They didn't even know me. I don't know me."
She sighed, pulling a paper from the top of the stack. "Let's start with the basics. Your name, as noted on the birth certificate filed with the state of Washington, is Isabella Marie Swan. You were born at 10:27 p.m. on September 13, 1987 at Clallam County Hospital in Forks Washington to Charles Swan and Renee Higgenbotham Swan. Your parents divorced shortly after your first birthday. Your mother, Renee, told your father on March 19, 1989, that she was taking you to see friends in Seattle. It was the last time that anyone in Forks saw or heard from you again. Legal charges were filed against your mother for kidnapping, but after a year, your father dropped them, claiming that accusing a mother with kidnapping her child was ridiculous. I don't believe he ever gave up the search, though."
I'd been prepared for the words, the harsh reality that the life I'd grown up believing in had all been a well-crafted set of lies. It didn't lessen the impact of Rosalie Hale's words, and it tore at my soul. I did have a father, one who had wanted me. There was a whole side to my life, a history, that I knew nothing about. I'd spent years longing for a normal life, one where we could stay in one place longer than a year, and I could make real friends and have normal holiday. It had all been right here, and Renee had stolen it all away from me.
The question was, why?
Rosalie slipped the paper back in the folder, her expression softening. "This is an awful lot for you to take in. Let's try this a different way. Why don't you come with me." The request was posed as a statement, not a question. She stood and retrieved small key ring from a desk drawer. "I think I know a better way to do this."
She led me through the small office, flicking off the lights in the empty reception area. There was a desk and phone on the small table, but no pictures, no sign that anyone other than Rosalie Hale occupied this space. It could have been a temporary set, something easily constructed and torn down in a day, but I knew that was my overactive imagination, trying to make excuses or rationalize a situation that made absolutely no sense. Renee's insistence of con artists after my money immediately came to mind, and I bit back a chuckle. It would probably cost more to set up a fake office than I had in my bank account. Any con artist worth their stripes would know that right away.
"One of the things left to you in the trust was your Grandmother Swan's house," Rosalie said as she drove me through town, winding in and out of small residential streets. "It's been empty since she passed away, but your father has maintained it. Everything is in working order. I thought it would be more comfortable than staying at a hotel."
She made a left turn onto a narrow street, coming to a stop in front of a neat little white cottage, its pitched roof dropping down neatly over black shutters and a bright blue door.
A large black lacquer pot sat on the front steps, filled with brilliant orange mums.
Tears filled my eyes. This looked like a grandmother's house, with its neat yard and white rocking chair on the front porch. All that was missing was a big yellow cat curled up asleep
on the mat. This was everything I'd longed for and never believed I could have, and it had
all been right here waiting for me.
"Jasper already dropped off your things," Rosalie said as she passed me a small silver key. "Why don't you go in, unpack and rest for a bit. The refrigerator and pantry are stocked with food, so you'll have everything you could need." She glanced at the elegant gold watch on
her wrist. "There is a coffee shop on South Forks, just past the office. Do you remember
driving by it?"
I vaguely remembered the restaurant with its faded red awning and large oval sign. "I think so."
"Why don't you meet me there at seven? It will give you time to get settled and freshen up.
I have a few things I need to attend to, but making it back by then should not be a problem." She smiled at me, and for the first time it was genuine, the warmth lighting up her face, transforming her from a stunning woman into something truly radiant. "Go explore the other half of your life, Isabella. You don't need someone hovering over your shoulder to do that."
There was nothing imposing about the house, yet I was frozen in the passenger seat, afraid of what I might find inside. All those fears and doubts about not belonging suddenly took a very different spin, for I wanted to fit into this neat little world, filled with life and kind people who acted like they were truly excited to see me. This was my chance to finally fit somewhere, to belong to something more than a loyalty program at the grocery store. But that required me to go out on a limb and have faith that, as much as I wanted all this, it was for the right reason, and not purely to spite Renee.
"It's going to be okay," Rosalie said quietly. "Nothing is going to hurt you in there, Isabella.
I promise."
No, the hurt, the damage has all been inflicted already, I thought to myself. My entire life had been based on a lie, starting with my name. The one person I had trusted implicitly had taken that trust and twisted it when I needed the truth, using my faith in her as a tool to keep me close. She might have had her justification, but short of telling me something truly horrific,
like my father had been a serial killer or he'd been beating her or abusing me, I struggled to rationalize Renee's actions.
"Thank you," I murmured, reaching for the door handle. I needed time to myself, to wrap my head around the facts that had been laid out before me. "I'll meet you at seven at the coffee shop." I stood at the edge of the street, staring at the glossy blue front door as her little red
car pulled away from the curb. I could do this. There was nothing to be afraid of.
By force of will, I walked slowly up the paved path, the silver key gripped tightly in my hand.
It fit the lock perfectly, the bolt easily sliding back into the door. Instead of a knob, I depressed a lever over a wrought iron handle, and the door swung open quietly into a small living room.
I wasn't sure what I expected, but it wasn't the scene that I walked into. The room was dominated by a large brick hearth, a wood burning stove nestled into the alcove where logs
had once burnt. The mantle was littered with wood carvings and picture frames, and a large simple mirror was centered just above, the reflection of a pale, startled girl staring back at me.
The picture window visible from the front of the house was covered in heavy chintz curtains, complementing the taupe couch and love seat that sat in front of the hearth. Heart of pine wood plank flooring, finished in a satiny gloss, led to a small dining area just off the living room, where a rectangular table held small arrangement of silk flowers.
It was all too much - the simple, neat furnishings, the pictures on the mantle, the table meant to serve family meals that would unite everyone. I slowly sank to my knees, the tears coming unbidden. Strangers, people I didn't recall ever meeting, had loved me enough to leave their worldly possessions to me. Someone had put me first, moving things around in their life to make sure that I had something to hold on to. It was the kind of attention I'd longed for, that kind of pure, selfless love that could move mountains and cure all ailments. Right now, it was ripping a hole inside of me, one that I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to fill.
Wiping away tears, I struggled to my feet. The pictures on the mantle stared down at me, unfamiliar faces, frozen in smile. These were the people in my life, my relatives, the ones who'd done all this, and I was too afraid to go near them. Rosalie had given me the barest minimum answers, just enough to send my brain into overdrive. She'd mentioned my grandmothers' actions, my father's history. Beyond that, I had nothing to go on, no details to round out the picture. What if my father didn't want me here? What if he had let go of me, or had moved on? The what if's screamed at me, taunting me that I was a fool believe anyone could ever see me as special. They threatened to pull me down into a funk that I'd been fighting off for the last forty-eight hours.
Facts, I told myself, ground yourself in the facts. Find the answers, then you can react.
The easiest, most logical place to start was the kitchen. I found it just off the little dining room, neat as a pin with almond colored appliances and matching cabinets. Sunny yellow curtains framed a window over the sink, as well as the one built into the back door. There were no mementoes on the refrigerator, no pictures or notes, not even magnets. A small stack of paper and a thin book sat on the counter underneath an old rotary dial phone, the bright colors and the iconic hand, two fingers extended showing me exactly what I needed.
Picking up the slim phone book, I carried it through the house, looking in through open doors.
A small bathroom, the sink and tub bright porcelain white; a bedroom with a twin bed, blue curtains and a small desk. Another bedroom, larger, with a queen sized bed, dresser and vanity. My suitcases sat in the corner next to a closed closet door. Jasper had left a note on the bed:
I'm guessing you didn't pack for the weather. I raided the house - there are a few jackets and sweaters in the closet for you. Wouldn't want you to turn into a Popsicle up here. JW
Pulling the closet door open, I found a stack of sweaters organized neatly on the shelf, along with five coats in different styles and sizes. A bright red cotton sweater at the top of the stack immediately reminded me of the tea towel that had bled all over my clothes in the wash. How had that been just three days ago? At the time, I felt like I'd hit the lowest of lows, and now
it seemed like the most trivial thing in the world, like crying over spilt milk.
"I can't do this," I said, turning and walking quickly back to the living room, where I'd dropped my backpack. There was a tiny rack hanging by the front door, a ring with a large black knob that looked like a car key attached to it. I snatched it off the little hook, and let myself out of the house. I'd go to the coffee house, get something to drink, and look through the phone book there, away from all these memories that should have meant the world to me.
Ω Ω Ω
The inside of the Forks Coffee House was like something from another time. The booths and captain's chairs flanking the lunch counter all had light blue pleather coverings, circa 1985. A large head of something – either elk or deer – was mounted on a column in the center of the room. A television hung over the lunch counter, tuned to the local news with the volume down.
I walked towards the back corner of the restaurant, close to the lunch counter, and dropped down into a small booth. Someone had left the newspaper there, folded in half. A photo on the front page showed four young men, their arms thrown around each other's shoulders. When
I read the names listed in the caption, I couldn't help but laugh. Yorkie, Newton, Crowley and Cheney. I'd landed in WASP-ville, filled with English, Irish and Scottish names. It was a far
cry from the diversity of Phoenix. Everyone I'd seen since landing here had been young, or younger. No one over sixty from what I could tell, and everyone looked so healthy, so happy. The town would never be justified as a "Stepford," but there was an other-worldly feel about it.
"Can I get you something, hon?" a woman in an oversize plaid shirt, her bleached hair pulled back in ponytail called from the lunch counter. "Menus are on the counter if you need a second."
"Thank you," I called back, retrieving the laminated menu from a holder tacked against the wall. It held a litany of red meat and fried food options, and informed me that there was a three drink maximum. Laughing, I dropped the menu on the counter and scrubbed my hands across my face. This day just kept getting more and more surreal, and I hated to think would cap it off.
"Excuse me?"
I lifted my face, my hands still pressed over my nose and mouth. A man stood, looking down
at me, his hand resting on the back of the blue pleather bench. He wore a dark brown windbreaker, a large shield on the breast pocket with Forks Police inscribed in gold thread. His hair was a familiar brown, hints of red and gold streaked through the crown. His sideburns and moustache also held the faintest traces of gray.
"Bella?" he asked in a strangled whisper. My eyes immediately dropped to the other side of his jacket, where the name C. Swan was embroidered in the same gold thread.
Rosalie's recitation of my personal history flew through my mind. You were born at 10:27 p.m. on September 13, 1987 at Clallam County Hospital in Forks Washington to Charles Swan and Renee Higgenbotham Swan.
My father was standing just five feet from me, looking like he'd seen a ghost.
"Hi," I croaked, not exactly sure what to say. We stared at each other lamely for what felt like an eternity as I catalogued every single detail about him. The laugh lines around his eyes, which were probably a byproduct of time outdoors, based on the tan line on the bridge of his nose. His eyes were a deep, warm brown, so very much like my own. He was tall, maybe six feet, and lean, no beer belly or extra weight hanging over the utility belt that held a radio and gun. I could feel people staring at us, whispering behind their hands as this mini-drama unfurled in front of them.
"Would you like to sit down?" I asked, pushing my menu to the side. He slipped slowly down onto the booth bench, his big brown eyes never leaving my face. He was handsome in an unconventional way, the All American boy aging gracefully, the gray hair and start of wrinkles giving him an air of gravitas that tempered the youthful face.
"You look just like your mom," he said. I didn't want his first words to me to be about her,
so I quickly brushed them aside.
"No, I –"
"Actually, you're prettier than your mom. And you have your Grandmother Swan's hair. Women used to go into the salon here in town and try to copy it, but it never came out just right.
That color is something that can't be faked."
A dull ache settled in my chest, a knot that crushed my lungs, forcing all the air out of me.
A single tear escaped my eye, which I quickly batted away.
"I didn't know about you until two days ago," I said. It come out like an apology, and excuse for never writing or calling. What could I say to this man? I'd been fed lies for years, and here he was, sitting across a table from me with the kindest, saddest expression I'd ever seen.
"It's okay, Bella. You don't have to explain. I looked for you for so long, but it was like you just disappeared. After a while I had to stop, but I never gave up hoping." His voice cracked, and
he looked away, as if he was embarrassed by the show of emotion.
"Is that what you called me? Bella?" I asked, wiping another tear away. "Rosalie Hale kept calling me Isabella, and it didn't feel right. Bella sounds better."
He cocked his head to one side, frowning. "You didn't go by Bella?"
"No, Marie. Marie Geoffrey." I answered quickly. He laughed in irritation, watching the television. His left hand drummed absently on the table.
"With a G or with a J?"
"G. It's the only thing I ever knew about my real dad," I said quickly.
He laughed again, although I think it was to mask another emotion, something that made his cheeks turn pink and his jaw jut forward just the tiniest bit. "Geoffrey was my dad's name.
At least she kept a tiny part of your history for you."
It wasn't spoken with bitterness, although it would have been so easy for him to be angry. Instead, he sounded sad, like he'd expected something different. That resignation prompted
me to act, and I reached out across the table to touch him. He stared at my hand on top of his, brow knitted together. Then he slowly turned it over, his long calloused fingers wrapping around my smaller hand.
"I think I like Bella better than Marie," I said, the tears threatening to pull me down again.
He tried to smile, but his upper lip was wedged firmly in between his teeth, turning it into a grimace. "Is it weird to say I don't know what to call you?"
He laughed, and it was sincere this time. "Most people call me Charlie. Or Chief Swan," he hesitated, giving me a sheepish grin, "although I don't expect you to use that."
We sat quietly, periodically catching each other's eye and then quickly looking away. It was like an awkward first date, the man sitting across the table from me someone that I desperately wanted to know. I wanted him to know me too, to like me, and to want to be my dad.
Dad. I let my brain wrap around the word, molding it to fit this man with the kind smile and warm eyes. I'd spent years wanting something for my own, something that belonged exclusively to me, and now, within the course of a few days, I was finding a whole new world, filled with people who wanted to know me.
My brain kept going back to the strange dreams I'd been having, of the evil red eyes, the screams, and the warm comforting voice that could wrap me in an embrace and provide a level of comfort I'd never known before. That voice didn't match my father's, but the sensation was similar. Maybe, just maybe, this was all leading up to something – an unknown bigger revelation that would make everything to this point make sense.
I held onto that hope as I ate dinner with my father, listening to his stories and learning more about this strangle little town that I had called home for the first eighteen months of my life.
I didn't balk as he introduced me to the waitress as his daughter, Bella. Nor did I pull away when he stood to hug me goodbye as Rosalie Hale waited for me in a front booth.
It was followed by a promise to see me very soon. It was not an end. It was a beginning.