Chapter Seven
Sunlight
-o-
One day, Jasper Hale appeared on her front door without warning. He wore a small smile, and in his arms was a ceramic dish covered in tin foil. Melissa looked at it, frowning.
"Did you cook the textbook?"
"It's a pie." He grinned, flashing perfect white teeth. Two fanged canines peeked out from behind pink lips.
Uninvited, the image of those pillowy lips on hers, drifting down her jaw and to her shoulder, waltzed through her mind in endless circles, refusing to leave.
She swallowed. "O-oh?"
He dipped his chin in a nod. "I wanted to test your theory."
"Oh. Was I right?"
"I thought you could tell me how I did," he said, "and we could do some revision."
Melissa glanced back inside. Anna wasn't home, but a quick look at the clock told her that her father would be soon.
"Actually, now's not a great time," she said. "My dad will be home soon."
"Hmm." He shifted his weight, boots scuffing over the concrete step leading inside. "That's alright. Does tomorrow work?"
"Sure. After eleven." Her father would be long gone by then at Westbrook's.
"Great." He looked down at his dish. Then, with arms extended he offered it to her. "Can I expect a review then?"
"Of course. I'll try to save you some." She smiled. "No promises."
He left, and she took the pie in the kitchen, and stowed it away in the fridge. She didn't think anything of it until her father came home soon after.
He was in a bad mood to begin with. Melissa had been avoiding him at work, always busy sweeping floors or adjusting book displays. She had been avoiding him at home too, hiding in her room or leaving to visit Rita or to go for a walk. It was easier that way, with the two of them constantly missing the other, moving along opposite parallel lines, their worlds spinning along two threads that never quite met. She didn't have to think about lying. She didn't have to think at all.
He came home that evening in a bad mood, and she knew it was because of her. He didn't like his daughters living as ghosts, as if they did not owe him their presence. He reeked of beer and had lost a button from his shirt, revealing a section of his red splotchy chest as he swept past her and into the kitchen.
Melissa didn't think anything of it when he opened the fridge. She sat at the table with her unopened can of coke, pressing it against her hot and sweaty neck, and tried not to draw his attention.
"Whose is this?"
She looked up. Her father was holding Jasper's pie, the ceramic dish teetering this way and that on his flat palm. He lifted his hand up, angled his neck, and squinted at it.
"This isn't one of our dishes," he said.
Melissa bit her cheek. Like a frightened animal, she sat still and watched him. Waited to see what would happen.
He peeled back the tin foil. The pie crust beneath was golden brown. He sniffed the dessert.
"Apple pie?" He raised his head then and looked at Melissa, who shrank under his glare. "You made apple fucking pie?"
She swallowed, looked him over, assessing. He was very mad, but also quite drunk. If he swung at her, and if she were lucky, he would miss. He liked when she stood still for discipline, when she didn't flinch. If was drunk enough, he wouldn't notice her dodging with the room spinning.
In the next instant, her eyes darted from her father's face to the exit. Running was also a good option, but it ran the risk of angering him further.
Slowly, she set the red can down on the table. She kept her eyes on him.
"You know I hate it," he said, putting the pie dish on the counter. "Your mother made apple pie. Did you know that? It's all she would eat when she was pregnant with you. She made them herself, too."
Melissa hadn't known.
"She made you little apple-stuffed sweets. Laboured for hours all the time." He stepped towards her. "Everything she did for you, and then you fucking killed her."
He darted forwards, shoulder pulled back, hand moving forwards. Melissa cringed, lifted her arms over her face. But he wasn't swinging at her. That had been Melissa's error. Miscalculation.
He reached for her soda. Snatched it. With the cold side of the metal can, he struck her cheekbone. Or tried to. Her hands blocked it. Instead of the unforgiving metal can colliding with the bone, her fingernail dug into the flesh beneath her eye. Sharp pain. Her father stepped back, set the can down on the table. When Melissa drew her hand away, she saw blood under her nail.
She stared at it, that splash of bright red against her natural nail. It was all she could see: red.
Her father turned. That could have been the end of it, but something in Melissa had snapped. She wasn't a killer, and she hadn't killed her mother. Her father was a criminal, a real criminal. How dare he accuse her of something so awful? All this over a pie? It was just a pie. It was just an apple pie a boy she liked from school had baked for her. And she was good, wasn't she? Good enough for apple pie?
She curled her fists. Her fingernails bit into her palms. "I didn't."
Slowly, her father turned to face her. "What?"
"I didn't kill my mother," she said through clenched teeth.
He walked towards her until he was standing too close. Still, she sat, forcing herself to keep her chin raised. That anger she had felt seconds before, that injustice, was quickly fizzling out. Something worse rose in its place. Something that shrank and shrank and shrank in on itself.
Fear.
"She died giving birth to you. You killed her. You ruined this family. You destroyed my happiness." He leaned over, his face hovering in front of hers. "You were a mistake."
And then his knuckles appeared in the corner of her eye, and disappeared just as quickly between her ribs. She gasped, the air rushing from her lungs. Pain blossomed in her side. She rounded her spine, clutching at her ribs. She didn't hear or feel anything break, at least. But the pain was immense, and it radiated through her torso when she inhaled. Holding her breath helped; the pain wasn't so bad. Breathing shallowly helped, but nothing completely stopped her from feeling it. This was the sort of punishment her father had fully intended for her to feel.
He stood.
"Never bring that shit into this house again."
Then he took a chilled beer from the fridge, and stumbled to the living room. Soon after, Melissa heard the television turn on.
All this, and the whole time she was doubled over in pain, trying not to breathe, trying to forget how to breathe so she would not have to feel the ache, the blood pounding in her ears. Her, alive. Her sorrow that, because of this, her mother was not.
-o-
Melissa went through with the tutoring session the next day despite her aching rib. She took some pain pills, iced her side for as long as she could before Jasper arrived, and tried not to breathe too deeply or move too quickly. Jasper Hale was none the wiser, stepping into her house with a small smile.
"Did you like the pie?" he asked.
Melissa turned and walked slowly into the kitchen, eager to hide her grimacing face from view. "I haven't tried it yet. Would you like some?"
A moment's hesitation.
"You made it." She took the pie out of the fridge, then gathered plates and a knife. "Don't you want to see if it's good too?"
"Alright."
She served two slices, and heated each one up in the microwave, one at a time. Quickly, the kitchen smelt of pastry and cinnamon. She worried about the smell settling into the chair cushions, the tea towels, the cupboards. Her father would be upset.
She looked at Jasper. "Could you open the window, please?"
He stood from his seat, leaned over the table, and slid the window open. "You don't keep this locked?"
Shuffling back to the table with the two plates, she said, "No. It's just convenient."
And it was, though probably not in the way he thought she meant.
She, of course, was referring to having to throw herself out of a window to escape her father's fists. Though, that was more of a last resort kind of thing. Climbing out of the windows was unseemly, and bound to get her or her sister in greater trouble. Only Anna had ever done it, but the window had been locked back then, and she hurled herself through the glass to escape their father one evening, after dinner. She was a child then. Looking back, Melissa couldn't even remember what she had done wrong. She was beginning to wonder if there ever was a reason at all, something they had done wrong to deserve what he did to them.
The pie smelt delicious, and Melissa was relieved to know that the scent was wafting out the kitchen window rather than further into the house. She ate a bite of it, and her eyes widened.
"You actually made this?"
He nodded, pulling apart his slice with the side of a fork. "Do you like it?"
"It's very good. You're sure your mother didn't help?"
"Not even a little."
"I was right then," she said, eating another forkful. "You have the face of an award-winning pastry chef."
"A chef," he mused, putting down his fork and leaning back in his chair. "I don't see that being very viable for me."
Melissa frowned. "Why not? You're clearly talented."
"I don't," he paused, eyes drifting to the window as he considered his words. "I don't have the palate for it. I'm not good at isolating flavours."
That made sense, she supposed, though it was a shame. She wondered if it was something that could be improved like her maths grade, or if it was like having an eye for art or a sense of rhythm, something you either had or not, as Rita always said.
"By the way," he said, "I'm having a party next week for my birthday. Will you come?"
Melissa looked at him. "To your party?"
"Yes," he said.
"I'm invited?"
"Yes."
"To your party?"
He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Do you not want to come?"
Melissa had only ever gone to Rita's parties. Even as a child, she was only permitted to spend time with Rita. With money. With the children of people who had money, who, consequently, also had money. So growing up, she had very few options for friendship, and very few party invitations, in the small town of Forks. There were not many wealthy people choosing to live in relative isolation.
But never, not once, had she ever thought she would receive a party invitation from a member of the Cullen family.
"I, um- Okay."
"Great. Do you remember the address?"
She nodded.
He smiled. Then he set his plate aside and reached for his textbook. "We should probably start."
But his pie still sat on his plate, mostly uneaten and still warm. Outside, the sun shone fiercely, and a warm breeze swept in from the street and over Melissa's skin.
"It's summer," she said.
"It has been for a while, yes."
She huffed. "Can't we have some fun and study later?"
His head still tipped down, his eyes flicked up to her from beneath his lashes. "Fun?"
The tips of her ears burnt, and Melissa was glad she had worn her hair down. Discreetly, she moved her orange locks to hide them. "We could go hiking, maybe. Or swimming?"
He looked at her, blinked. His eyes dragged from her face back to the textbook in front of him, lazy. "I suppose I know a place," he said. "Not today though."
She pouted, but knew it was probably for the best. While her heart longed to be outside, enjoying the summer sunshine, her rib protested against these suggested plans. And when she slumped in her chair, upset with this offer, they laughed at her loudly, taunting her with a dull but fierce pain. She grunted quietly, and corrected her posture.
"Are you alright?" Jasper's concerned eyes flicked over her face.
She nodded and faked a smile. Jasper began to explain the next section of the textbook. Melissa tried to listen, but all she could think about was the slice of pie next to his elbow, and the smell she wouldn't be able to wash out of the kitchen if he didn't finish it soon. And how for the next few hours, he didn't pick at it even once.
Maybe he didn't like his own cooking. Maybe what he said about having a bad palate was true.
Melissa could think of nothing more unfortunate.
-o-
That night, she dreamt of Jasper Hale shirtless. Under her palms, his shoulders and chest were smooth and firm. He was in her room, crawling on top of her, honey-coloured locks brushing her skin as he lowered his head to kiss her. And the way he looked at her, as if she were something he longed to devour…
She sat up in bed and ran her hands over her face, pushing hair away from her neck, sticky with sweat. This was simply inappropriate. He was her friend. She shouldn't have been thinking about him like this. Melissa shook her head and flicked on her lamp. But as the room lit up, she couldn't help her eyes from dancing about, seeking him out as if it hadn't been a dream at all and he was truly, really, here.
She slapped her cheek lightly and climbed out of bed. She needed a cold shower.
-o-
Melissa burnt with shame in her therapy session. Having dreamt about Esme's son last night set an awfully strange tone for their appointment. She couldn't even look the doctor in the face, let alone her eyes.
"Would you like some water?" she asked politely.
"I have son- some. I have some here." She bent down and fished her water bottle from her hiking bag. She unscrewed the lid and gulped down a third of it, hoping against all odds that it would sap the colour from her cheeks.
"Busy day planned?"
Melissa nodded, dressed head-to-toe in athletic wear. "I'm going hiking later."
"That will be nice," she said. "There's a lovely spot-"
Melissa, for the first time that session, lifted her head and looked Esme in the eye. Sensing the change in mood, the doctor trailed off and smiled warmly, inviting whatever it was that Melissa was about to say.
"What did my father say?"
"What do you mean?"
"When he made the first appointment," she said. "What did he tell you?"
Esme looked at her. Something in her expression shifted. "Your sister organised the appointment."
Melissa froze.
Her father had nothing to do with these sessions. This whole time, she had been terrified that he was telling Esme things that were untrue. She was worried that he and Esme were discussing her sessions behind her back, but he had nothing to do with these sessions. He didn't even pay for them.
But that meant Anna had lied to her. Her sister, the one person in all the world who knew the truth, who understood. She had sat back and watched her father call Melissa crazy that morning and play the hero, and she had said nothing.
Why? Did she, like her father, think she was crazy? Did she think she was uncontrollable, and bad, and evil like her father did? Was she worried she would black out again in a dark rage and punch another hole in a wall?
Did she think she was a monster?
Melissa was trying desperately to see a way out of the conclusion that her sister had done something wrong, to see that her sister really was good and nice and kind to her, but all she could think about was the memory of her father telling her she needed professional help and that there was something wrong with her. All she could hear was her sister's silence. All she could feel was the pain that her sister, her ally in all of this, had abandoned and lied to her.
"Melissa?"
"He has no money," she said finally. "He spends it all. That's why Anna organised this for me."
"Growing up in a house without financial stability can be difficult."
She shook her head. "Anna pays for what we need."
"It sounds like you have a supportive sister."
"I guess."
A moment of silence.
"Melissa, what's troubling you right now?"
"What did Anna say when she booked my appointment?" Melissa sat up straight and looked Esme in the eye. "What did she say about me?"
Esme hesitated. "She said that she was afraid for you."
"Afraid?"
She nodded. "She said that she didn't want you to go through life too angry and absent to enjoy it."
Melissa considered this. "Did she tell you I punched a wall?"
Esme's gaze grew no colder. She didn't look at her like she was some uncontrolled animal like her father had. Her eyes were warm, her mouth soft, her tone sympathetic when she asked, "Why did you do that?"
She said nothing for a bit. "My father wasn't being fair to me."
Dr. Cullen didn't say anything. She just stared at her, willing her to break the silence that settled between them. But Melissa would not, could not, expand on that. She only had a little longer. A few more months, just another year. She would turn eighteen, and she would graduate, and then she would leave. Maybe not for college, as she had hoped, but there was something else out there more tolerable than this.
There had to be.
-o-
"Oh my God, you had a sex dream about Jasper Hale?!" Rita's shout echoed around them, falling over the nearby cliff and rolling over the trees and river below.
Melissa slapped a hand over her mouth. "Shut up."
Rita pulled back, breaking free. "Oh my God," she repeated, loudly whispering now, "you had a sex dream about Jasper Hale?!"
"I wouldn't have told you if I knew you would be weird about it." Melissa sighed and tested the smooth surface of a rock ahead of her with the toe of her hiking shoe. Though it was an easy trail, picked because Melissa's side still ached and Rita complained about more technical terrain, she still wanted to be safe.
"I'm not being weird," she said. "You're the one being all secretive and mysterious. You can't just drop a bombshell like that with no follow up!"
"Can we stop talking about this?" Melissa asked. "We're supposed to be looking for stuff to photograph for your art class."
"Right, photo ops!" Rita clapped her hands together and shuffled around in a tight circle. She flung an arm out and gestured towards a cluster of grey boulders peppered with yellowish-orange lichen. "You'd look killer leaning against that."
"I thought your project was on nature photography?"
"Rocks are nature. So are people."
"No."
Rita huffed. "Fine. God, you're so strict. Do you get it from your dad?"
Melissa's heart sank. She stumbled, tripping over her feet before quickly righting herself. Rita's hand wrapped around her bicep to steady her.
"Hey, you okay?"
"Yeah," she mumbled. Was she really like her father? Was she really just like him?
Once, she might have thought it was a compliment. She loved him. She wanted him to love her. And maybe if she were like him then he would like her well enough, the way one likes parody; not as good as the original, but a bit of fun that made you smile. But now she didn't want to be anything like him. He was a criminal, and a liar, and an alcoholic, and he had wasted away her future on beer.
"I'm only joking. You know that, right? I think you're really fun."
"Yeah, of course." She nodded and tried to smile.
The two girls continued along their nature trek, the snap of the shutter interrupting the crunch of dirt and tiny rocks beneath their feet. They continued for some time along the path, until Rita spoke.
"This is a lot trickier than pottery," she said.
Melissa turned. Rita was scrolling through the pictures on her camera, one hand shielding the display screen from the sun.
"Let me see." Melissa walked over and stood beside her, leaning over to peer at the photos.
"These all suck," Rita said.
Melissa pressed her lips together. She was right. There was something off about the composition, or the brightness, or the contrast, or the clarity of the photo. Every one of them wasn't quite right, though they were of interesting enough things - a line of ants carrying goods back to their hill, a lizard sunning on a rock, a bird tilting its head curiously at the camera.
"It's alright," Melissa said after a moment. " You tried your best."
Rita looked at her with wide eyes. "You've never said that before. What happened to being perfect?"
She shrugged. "Should we head back to the car?"
Rita nodded, but before Melissa could pass her, she wrapped an arm around her shoulders and held the camera above their heads.
"Smile or I'll scream," she said.
The two girls grinned. Rita took the picture.
-o-