Chapter summary: "Oh, vampire me; lonely vampire me; leave me alone, L-..." Why does she get to call herself vampire? Wait a minute ... "lonely"? And did she just call me "L-something"? "L-something" what?
What just happened? I tried to recover from the shell-shock of the whirlwind that just occurred. I reviewed in my mind, as I sat, not moving an inch, on the bed, our little exchange.
Once she started breathing again, she just went blind. Why? I couldn't fathom a reason for that one. I wasn't bleeding anymore, but it seemed like things were worse than when I was bleeding, not better.
Hm. Why? Nothing came to me, so I guess I'll just have to let this one pass for now and maybe ask her about this when she came back.
It also seemed important that I stay away from her. Why? She was always carrying me to the outhouse and back. Why the 'stay away from me' distance now?
No answers for that one either. Strike two. Reflecting on what occurred, I was coming up with more questions than answers.
I pressed forward, hoping I'd get at least one answer somewhere in my thoughts. Well, next she had called herself vampire. She had called herself vampire twice just now.
Fine! She gets to call herself vampire, but when I do that, she bites my head off. Well, not bites my head off, but makes me go swimming in the snow, for crying out loud! Why the sudden reversal from 'I'm not a vampire' to 'vampire me, nomadic vampire, I'm all alone'? It was as if she were emphasizing the different between us, reminding me that she was a vampire and I was a human. It was if she were distancing herself from me.
Wait a minute. 'I'm all alone'?
When she had said that, she had corrected herself. She was going to call me something, but then she corrected herself and called me 'girl,' instead. And she didn't call me 'girl' with that disparaging tone; she called me 'girl' quickly, as if she were desperate to cover over a mistake. A mistake of what she was going to call me.
What exactly did she say? She said something about not making promises. She had said: "Don't promise me anything, L-..." something. L-something.
L-something? Like a term of endearment? Like what Mrs. Hungerford, who always volunteered at the cafeteria, called me? Like: "Love"?
...
I remember like it was yesterday now, the memory coming to me so clearly. I was in line at the cafeteria, and it was meatloaf for lunch today. Of course that meant it was Monday. Meatloaf on Mondays. Spaghetti on Wednesdays — the parents learned quickly to dress their children in dark clothes on Wednesdays: white shirts never survived the sauce flying off the noodles as you slurped them up. Friday was either fish sticks or fish squares. Tuesdays and Thursdays were crazy days, because you never knew what was for lunch those days. Some of those days I asked if I could pack a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and an apple, just to be safe.
Well, today was Monday. Meatloaf. I was in line, and Mrs. Hungerford put a slice of meatloaf on my tray, then she scooped out the mashed potatoes from the big chafing dish and plopped that scoop on my tray.
"Could I have a little bit of butter on that, please?" I asked her bravely. Well, I thought it was brave, but it came out rather timidly for a seven year old girl.
She looked at me with a long-suffering look with tired, watery eyes. Her look said she'd have to do that for every kid in line now. A look that said she'd been standing on her aching feet, and why was I asking her for extra butter when all she wanted to do is to go home for a nice nap.
"I'm sorry," I said, looking down and blushing at my selfishness.
She sighed, however, and put another whole scoop of mashed potatoes on my tray, swimming in butter. After she doled out the string beans, she handed me the tray, then fished out a nickel from her apron and gave it to me.
"Um, what's that for, ma'am?" I asked, not looking at the tall, old, old woman. She was probable forty-two or something really old like that.
"In case they charge you extra, Love," she responded, her voice surprisingly high. I had never heard it before.
I paid for the lunch, the cashier eyeing my tray. Do I need to mention that I blushed? But I didn't get charged extra. So I left my tray there and raced back to Mrs. Hungerford, holding out the nickel.
"I didn't get charged extra," I explained breathlessly, but she wouldn't take back the nickel, no matter how hard I tried to return it. She pointed her finger at me and looked all scary and exclaimed, "Now you listen here, Love," and told me to keep the nickel and told me to buy treats at Swanson's general store with it and told me she would check with Mrs. Swanson to see if I did and told me a wee skin and bones like me needed something to eat other than lunch and asked if my parents fed me at all or what?
I was running back to my tray by then, however, scared out of my mind, so I didn't hear the rest of her lecture. The cashier had to remind me that I had already paid for lunch. This reminder was a good thing because I was about to have a panic attack, holding a solitary nickel in my hand and a full lunch tray without the dime to pay for it.
After school, I was the most popular person at the store, because I bought a nickel's worth of treats and shared with everybody. Twice.
The next evening Pa cornered me while I was doing my homework.
"Bella, why were there so many kids at Swanson's asking for you today?"
"Um," was my witty reply, but Pa eventually dragged the whole story out of me.
"Well," he said, thoughtfully, "that's nice of her."
Ma then had asked what brought Mrs. Hungerford out here. She obviously didn't fit in, with a last name like Hungerford. And she wasn't even Catholic, for goodness sake!
I don't remember how Ma had said that. I don't remember what her voice sounded like anymore ... I wonder if that'll happen to me with Pa's voice. No, I thought, practically, I won't last that long, anyway.
"Her daughters moved out here with their husbands," Pa responded, "so she wanted to be with her grandchildren."
Ma couldn't believe that somebody would move all the way from Mobile, Alabama to cold-cold Ekalaka, Montana to spend time with family. She mentioned something about photographs being good enough. Pa responded it was probably about priorities, but this didn't seem to convince Ma.
...
Did Rosalie feel lonely? She had probably never been alone in her life. She was probably always pampered; a rich girl, always fawned over. She probably never had to stand on her own two feet, never had to take care of the whole family like I did.
Did I need to take care of her? Obviously not. But, did she want me to take care of her? Was she kind of like Pa that way? I mean, not at all like Pa, but like him because he could take care of himself. I mean he fought in the War, for goodness sake; he survive gas attacks and firefights. He could take care of himself, but he was happy for me to take care of him. That pleased him, and it pleased me to do it: taking care of Pa as he took care of the county.
Did Rosalie need that?
Of course, I couldn't ask her outright. I didn't have to guess to figure what her response would be. I didn't know what it would be exactly, but I bet ... um, no, let me rephrase that: I'm pretty sure it would involve a lot of shouting.
Me: "Oh, um, Rosalie, do you want me to take care of you?"
Rosalie: shout-shout-shout, followed by a pause to gather a lungful of air, followed by some more shout-shout-shouting.
Maybe she was shouting so much because she felt she had to do everything. And there was the whole thing about her wanting my blood more than drinking what she drank instead. Hm. Maybe if I said it would be okay for her to take a sip or two that would make it easier for her. Maybe knowing that it was okay for her to take an occasional sip would help her to worry less about it.
You know, she could, um, do it when I was sleeping, or something, so she didn't have to do all that work of sucking out my soul first.
Well, one thing at a time. First I'd help with some chores, and eventually take over the household work and then I could offer her the other thing after she got a little bit more comfortable with my help and she relaxed. Well, relaxed a bit. I added that to my To-do list, after (1) make Rosalie smile, then came my two new items (2) help with the chores and stuff, and (3) offer some of my blood, as like, you know, a dessert, I guess, after her main, um, meal.
Excellent!
Now, as for calling me "Love." Hm.
Hum. Hum. Hum.
As for calling me "love" ... well, obviously, she didn't love me, it was just like Mrs. Hungerford. Rosalie was just as scary ... well, okay, Rosalie was much more scary, but Mrs. Hungerford was just calling me "love." She didn't really love me, and she wasn't in love with me; she was just saying that. I bet she called all the kids she talked to "love." Not that I ever saw her talk to anybody else, ever, but if she did, then she'd probably call them "love," too.
I wonder how I could tell Rosalie that it'd be okay to call me "love" ... if she wanted to, that is. How I could tell her I didn't mind and that I understood that it didn't mean anything ... if she didn't want it to mean anything.
I imagined her calling me "love": "Love," she would say, "drink your water now."
Yeah, it was okay if she wanted to call me "love." That was fine by me. I mean, I know it doesn't mean anything ...
I'm repeating myself, aren't I?
Dammit, I'd probably flub telling her, and she'd be staring at me blushing the whole time I'd be trying to convey a totally innocent explanation. Honest! But then the shouting would start, wouldn't it?
I grimaced. Maybe I'd help with a few chores and try not to react to her calling me "love." Yes, that's probably the safest course for now. Help with the chores first.
A/N: It may be forgivable for the good people of Ekalaka, MT, being generally of Germanic stock, not to know how to eat spaghetti properly, but it's really very simple. With a fork in one hand and the spoon in the other one twirls some of the pasta into a ball around the fork using the spoon as the base, then one simply plops that into one's mouth. See? No mess, no fuss.
Now, one never-never-never cuts spaghetti with a knife or with the fork or spoon. Why not, geophf? Well, obviously, firstly, because that's just wrong. Secondly, go to Italy and do that. The chef will come out of the kitchen to give you what-for, personally. But I'll never go to Italy, so I can cut the noodles, right? Wrong, because they aren't "noodles," mkay? And if you're at my house, you'll get what-for. And, most importantly, you always have to be prepared for that inevitable Volturi summons, don't you.