Love and War

With an alacrity that astounded me, little Edward took all of our hearts as his own in mere days. Everyone loved him- even Elizabeth didn't resent his perfectness. And indeed, he was a perfect child. Though he was born premature, he quickly strengthened and grew. A blooming baby, my friend Amelia called him.

Meanwhile, Mother recovered. Though perhaps 'recover' is a strong word. The agony of childbirth became finally too much for her body to bear. She never left her bed- even her meals had to be taken to her on a tray. I and my sisters couldn't bear to see her in such a state, but my father was only too happy she was still with us, no matter in what state.

Because Mother had become such an invalid, she was relegated to Eleanor's care. For all her sharp words, Eleanor was a good nurse, and she was perfect to take care of Mother. That left Edward all to myself.

I didn't mind one bit. Edward had opened a whole new side to my character- a deep, throbbing, raging maternal love. Though the intensity shocked me at first- I was only seventeen, after all, I quickly took it for granted. All the possessiveness, all the fierce, never-ending, never-dying love I gave to him, without any further thought. Somehow, I felt I would never lose any of this intensity, any of this passion within me… It would remain within me till my dying breath.

Edward himself took my love for granted. He never consented to be carried by anyone except Mother or me- and sometimes, Father. Everyone were rather disgruntled by his extreme pickiness, because they were only allowed to admire his divine beauty from afar.

For Edward was beautiful. He had lovely, warm hazel eyes, more brown than green. I had never seen more expressive brown eyes. He was of a perfect alabaster complexion, with lovely dimpled cheeks, and soft, smooth silky dark hair framing his face in a wispy halo.

The first few weeks were exhausting to the entire household. Edward had to be fed numerous times all through the nights, and I had to stay awake to help Mother feed him- for the first few days she wasn't even strong enough to hold the baby. Eleanor stayed awake, too- to help Mother, to give her her medicine every half hour as instructed, to help her turn over in the bed to prevent cramps… Elizabeth had nothing to do with this, except that Edward's cries kept her up. And, of course, Father couldn't sleep a wink when my mother was in such pain. So the entire Platt family didn't sleep literally for three weeks.

But soon we fell into a comfortable routine, with even little Edward, bless him!- quickly adapting to normal human hours of sleep and waketime.

And how time flew! The weeks turned to months, Edward grew more and more, and our love for him grew with him. Every little achievement of his was welcomed with much pomp and celebration. The first time he rolled over, the first time he crawled, the first time he could sit without support… The entire house revolved around him. Only my mother sometimes worried that it would spoil him- but none of us heeded her. Such a wonderful child was meant to be loved.

I only started to go out again more than six months after Edward was born. This time, my parents fairly egged me on to go out a little more. Eleanor was to be married very soon, and since I had already "come out" socially, I had to fraternize with my other brash young friends a bit more. But most of my inbred reclusiveness had come back by then, and my parents had to nearly kick me out of the house most of the time.

I don't see why they didn't understand that I couldn't leave Edward. He was my life, the very core reason of my existence. However, since Edward started to sleep more at night, I agreed to go out in the evenings.

Slowly, hesitantly, I resumed my social activities. I recommenced attending parties, going dancing… but I always came back home before Edward could even open his eyes. No matter how late in the night(sometimes very early in the morning) I returned, I was waiting bright and smiling every morning when Edward woke up. For a reason I couldn't explain, I never let these two spheres of my life mix. For all Edward knew, I was never out of his sight, and my parents never complained- only Eleanor did, at times, stuck as she was at home. And amongst my friends I remained the jolly, carefree Esme Platt- outrageously funny, and seductively sweet. All they knew was that I had a baby brother to help take care of, but none of them ever suspected just how much little Edward meant to me.

And so time flew…

Once, when Edward was about eighteen months old, I finally agreed to go to New York for a gay weekend party with some of my friends. I was terribly strung up the whole time- so much so that even my friends noticed and were concerned. I was relieved to be back home, and the first thing I did was scoop up Edward in my arms, and smother him with kisses.

"Did he miss me?" I asked Mother breathlessly.

"No, dear. He had me." Mother smiled.

For a moment I just stared at her, open-mouthed. Then I thrust Edward into her arms, and rushed upstairs to my room.

Edward hadn't missed me. My life revolved around him, but his didn't around me.

I locked myself in and collapsed onto the bed in a fit of stormy tears. Though Edward's lovely face had nearly driven the image away, behind my closed lids an angel's face rose out of the darkness. Golden-haired, golden-eyed…

The feeling of being unloved rose to the fore again. I hated it…

When I went down to dinner later that evening, I pretended there was nothing wrong. Even as I watched Edward play with Mother later in her room, my manner was completely normal. Mother was watching me closely, but she didn't say anything, for which I was thankful. I was already working hard to push the feelings to the back of my head. Edward wasn't my son, after all. I had to learn to be a little more detached.

So I started going out more. Tennis parties, weekend trips, evenings of dancing and drinking- the whole lot.

I don't know how, but the years passed quickly. Eleanor got married- to an Englishman, of all people! Mother recuperated slowly, but steadily. I still loved Edward with the same intense, passionate maternal love, but I was careful not to overdo it. Nevertheless, the were moments of irrational envy for my mother to endure as well. I knew it pained her not to be able to carry around her child in her arms. But little incidents always ended up causing heartache to both me and her in turns.

Once, while running about with all his childish fervour, Edward tripped on a rug and tumbled onto the floor, even as Mother and I were watching. Finding an appreciatively concerned audience, he burst into tears. Both Mother and I opened our arms wide- a reflex in both of us. But Edward ran straight past Mother- straight into my arms. I saw the hurt visible on Mother face for the first time- she had borne Edward's favour towards me stoically so far. Immediately I understood her and felt for her. If I could feel hurt, her pain would be ten times worse! Gently, I broke myself free from Edward's grasp, and steered him into Mother's still outstretched arms. As he burrowed his face into her dress sobbing away happily, Mother smiled at me, thanking me. I think the bond between me and Mother was strengthened even more that day.

While these little domestic intricacies were going on in our house, the world outside was far from tranquil. The year was 1914, and after Austrian Archduke Ferdinand's assassination, the worst war in history(so far, as I would later know) broke out. America wasn't directly involved in the war, so it didn't affect our lives much. None of us were really interested- only mildly curious as a way to keep ourselves informed about world events. But our country did provide supplies, if not ammunition, and we were definitely on the Allies' side. The war interested my father a lot- a fresh form of distraction for the men, I and Mother thought. Mother was slightly more concerned, since her son-in-law was an Englishman. I wasn't concerned at all. My new brother-in-law was a doctor(Eleanor had laid special emphasis on that for my benefit)- and he was so far removed from war and such mundane human activities, that one really didn't have to worry. James Whittaker, Eleanor's husband, was a celebrated neuro-surgeon, a relentless social worker, and an absolutely boring old man. For he was much older, with Eleanor marrying him mostly for the novelty of living in England married to a doctor. He was a good prospect in any case, so my parents had agreed.

And now their focus had switched onto me. I was nineteen, a good age to start looking for prospects. As for me, I wasn't ready to get married at all. There was still so much more to do, to live through, and experience without the husband tagging along! I tried to convince my parents, but in this case, they were adamant. 'Not ready yet? It was sheer madness. My mother had known I was ready since I was sixteen. Why wait more?'

And each time I'd give them my reasons, but they just weren't convinced. Probably because not one of the reasons I gave was the true one. The true reason came to me in my dreams on some nights. The true reason had golden hair, golden eyes and- most importantly- a heart of gold…