Thank you all for the love you showed for the last chapter. Ally has an army after her! Much love to Cappy for her continued help. I tinker even after she's done her beta thing so I apologize for any mistakes. Much love to the readers and reviewers xo
Those first few days and weeks after Ally left passed by in a blur. I didn't eat or sleep and stumbled around in a daze. Anger clawed at my insides, manifested itself as insomnia. The pounds melted away, leaving me pale and gaunt. My father had to verbally remind me to shower or I'd go for days without. I was living a fucking nightmare. I was terrified and overwhelmed. My parents, thank God for them, took care of Isabella and me.
My daughter was clingy right after Ally left which drained me completely. I remember pacing the floors with her, frustration making me bounce perhaps a little too hard, tears streaming down both our cheeks. I'd collapse into bed at night only to toss and turn, worried about our future and what it might hold. Some days, after the baby was in bed, I'd sit in my car, pounding my fists on the steering wheel; screaming in frustration, in anger, out of pure exhaustion.
Imagine walking across the span of the Grand Canyon on a tightrope, while juggling flaming torches at the same time. That's probably the best way for me to describe those first few months as a single parent. I might as well been blindfolded, too. I often had no idea what I was doing or even how I was doing it. Thank God that whenever I stumbled- which was often- my parents were my safety net.
On bad days, when it all became too much, I could feel myself crumbling beneath the pressure. I'd go upstairs and tearfully tell my parents I couldn't do it any more. I'd never abandon Isabella like her coward of a mother had, but I contemplated quitting school so at least that would be off my plate. They'd take Isabella from my arms and insist I take the night off. I'd get in the car and drive for hours. Windows open, music so loud I couldn't hear myself think. Sometimes, I'd stop at La Push and pace the stretch of beach. The wind whipping sand and salt water into my face, into my wounds. It was so cold I felt frozen to my very core; it was nothing compared to the numbness deep inside me. But having that time alone, even for a few hours, was enough to clear my head and relieve some of the heaviness which weighed on me.
Mom always said to me "Edward, the days are long but the years are short." Being in the thick of it, some days felt like they lasted a millennium. Looking back now, seeing how fast Isabella grew up, I wish I could slow time down or at least visit my 18 year old self. I'd reassure myself that everything worked out in the end and Isabella turned out okay- more than okay.
Eventually, I found my way. Because I had to - for Isabella's sake. But the pressure to be everything she needed was palpable. It showed itself in the way of creases on my forehead and bags ringed under my eyes. My first grey hairs grew in that year, right at my temples. I looked years older than I was, and felt it, too.
There weren't enough hours in the day so I was forced to drop one of my classes, take another by correspondence, and rescheduled one for the evening. I was grateful for Mr. Cope, the owner of the diner, who allowed me to pick and choose shifts that were convenient for my crazy schedule. Even working as much as I could, I knew I wasn't making enough money but there was always enough diapers, wipes, formula, etcetera. Like I said, thank God for my parents who helped me so much, on so many levels.
Eventually I settled into a decent routine with Isabella, but my confidence wavered daily like an ocean tide. Life pushed and pulled me in a multitude of directions between work, school, and home; employee, student, and dad. I was mostly lost, always overwhelmed, sometimes hopeful, and often lonely.
Most of my friends had gone away to college. When they came home for spring break, I discovered our lives were worlds apart. I wasn't partying, unless a pity party counts, or hooking up with girls like they were. I was tied to one girl and one girl only- my sweet Isabella. Though my friends and I drifted apart, I never faulted them for it. Our lives were so vastly different and I knew it was as equally hard for me to relate to them as it was for them to relate to me.
Being a single father isolated me; I was lonely. I tried dating, in the limited free time I had, but as soon as I mentioned I had a daughter girls were suddenly disinterested. I get that - a kid's a lot of baggage to take on. If I was a single guy, the last girl I'd hit on would be one with a child.
One day when Isabella and I were at the mall, an older woman commented on how adorable my little sister was. Light bulb moment! The following week when a girl at Starbucks in Port Angeles started swooning over her chubby cheeks and gummy smile, I said Isabella was my little sister. Bam! Instant babe magnet. Trouble was, one of her first words was 'Da Da' and she ratted me out, little stinker. Game over.
Feeling guilty about using Isabella as an unwilling ploy to pick up women, I made it up to her by taking her to bi-weekly story time at the library. It was me and a group of women. I learned a lot about the female sex through my time there - most importantly that women are far more competitive than men. I played championship high school football, and these ladies were way more cutthroat. It was all about whose kid was sleeping through the night first, who had the most teeth, or which child had the biggest vocabulary. When Isabella was the first to walk, at 11 months, I was ridiculously proud. It was then I understood the competitiveness. I loved that my kid was the best. As a bonus, I didn't have to carry her anywhere, she could simply walk beside me.
Have I mentioned I was delusional?
From then on, going for a walk anywhere with her was challenging. Isabella would go where she wanted, completely ignoring me. She refused to hold my hand, would scream if I forced her, and when I picked her up because she'd stopped for the eighth time to admire a squirrel/dandelion/rock/air, she would kick and scream something fierce. And yet, even with her face scrunched up and pissed off she was still freaking adorable, if I may say so myself.
Isabella was my best and, if I'm being honest, only friend. I could talk to her about anything and she'd listen intently, never passing judgment. She also couldn't talk, but whatever. It was nice to have someone to confide in. Sometimes I told her secrets I didn't dare tell anyone else. When I confessed to having a tryst with one of my TAs, Isabella clapped her hands in excitement - definitely not the response I got from my mother when she found out.
Through it all, I fell deeper in love with my daughter every day. The kind of love that makes you crazy with it. Where if you read a newspaper article about a child being harmed, you have no doubt you'd be behind bars for the retaliation measures you'd take if that were your baby who'd been hurt.
But my love for my daughter wasn't enough to suppress my resentment and hatred toward Ally. It always simmered inside me, like lava in the belly of a volcano threatening to erupt. There were times, though, when I all felt toward Isabella's mother was pity. When Isabella's giggles were a melody that filled the room. When her chocolate brown eyes were flecked with such pure delight they sparkled. Or the sight of her bare bottom as she streaked down the hallway to avoid putting her pajamas on. And there was nothing more serene than the feeling of her little body, still warm and damp from her evening bath, settled on my lap as I read 'The Paperbag Princess' for the umpeenth time. Ally missed it all.
Isabella's first birthday was a particularly important milestone for me. I'd kept us both alive and, damn it, we were going to celebrate. I decorated my parents backyard with pink streamers, helium balloons, even arranged for a mini petting zoo with bunny rabbits, a pony, and two baby goats. I invited everyone from story time, 11 friends in total.
And wouldn't you know it, on September 13th it pissed rain. The streamers bled pink raindrops onto the white tablecloths and the wind whipped through the yard, taking the balloons with it.
We moved the party, minus the farm animals, into the main part of the house. Isabella wasn't a fan of the attention bestowed upon her and clung to me like velcro. After the presents were opened (by me) Isabella was more thrilled with the gift bags and tissue paper than anything else. She did, however, thoroughly enjoy the chocolate cake- which she squished between her fingers, then smeared all over her face and pink, poofy, over-priced party dress.
The entire fanfare came and went - all without any acknowledgement from Ally. A part of me hoped she would've figured her shit out by then. That she'd come crawling back, begging for forgiveness and asking to be a part of Isabella's life. I wanted the satisfaction of telling her to go to hell. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case. Isabella and I carried on alone.
I got tired of always looking over my shoulder, wondering if or when Ally would decide to resurface so I sought sole custody. It took nearly 18 months to track her whereabouts but she signed her parental rights away without any protest. Without even asking to see our daughter.
I assumed that after the whirlwind year of firsts, I'd mastered the parenting gig; paving the way for smooth sailing from there on out. Go ahead and laugh, my parents certainly did. What I discovered instead was when you think you have it all figured out, you don't and you're a fool to ever think you did.