The old woman shuffled back into her room after breakfast service, grateful to get away from the crowd – and the morning's planned recreation.
Line dancing! Imagine me line dancing? she thought to herself as she flicked on the lamp and looked over her space. Nothing was out of place. The kids had done an amazing job helping her feel comfortable and safe here – bringing just the right things to make it feel like home, without feeling like a museum.
Along with standing frames on nearly every surface, two large multi-picture frames filled with memories graced the walls; one across from her armchair, and the other on the wall perpendicular to her bed, so she could look at it as she lay. She did more and more of that lately, even though she tried to hide how tired she was getting.
Obviously, I didn't hide it well enough. She had tried to spin her choice to move into assisted living as a move to a retirement community, but she knew she hadn't fooled anyone. She remembered the way her daughter watched her a little too closely whenever she got up, and how someone, usually one of the boys – men, now, she finally had to admit – always seemed to linger outside the door while she used the restroom or took a shower. The way that new grab bars and seat lifts starting showing up in the house. The day she came home to a brand-new walker beside her favorite chair, "just for the bad days, Mom; just in case." It took a while to notice when everyone started lifting and carrying things for her, but she eventually did. Soon, someone was coming by every day "just to say hi." The hardest part was when they started to tell the little ones not to jump or climb on her lap, and to walk, rather than run, into her arms.
When she sat down on her chair and leaned her cane against the side table, it bumped a clay sculpture that wobbled a moment, but stayed upright. She breathed a sigh of relief. The crudely-shaped and painted dragon – nobody would have guessed that's what it was – had survived decades longer than its maker, and she wasn't ready to lose it today. It was the last thing he had given her before it happened. One day, her sweet, red-cheeked boy beamed with pride as he presented the treasure he'd crafted at preschool, the next day the fever hit; by the end of the week, he was gone. Just a simple infection. She kissed her fingers and touched the sculpture, and, with a hint of sad resignation and a pang of dulled, but still-powerful, grief, made a mental note to place it somewhere more secure, even if that meant it would be a little less visible.
Beside it, though, was a photo of pure joy: her newest great-granddaughter. She had thought that little – not little anymore, she reminded herself – Vincent would never settle down. Always in and out of trouble, shacking up or breaking up with a new girl, starting a new job, trying to find a new place, making sarcastic and nasty, if admittedly amusing, comments at family gatherings – if he showed up at all. But when he met Rose Ritchie, he met his match. She chuckled to herself when she remembered the day Rose led him into the house, looking like she was on a mission. The sheepish look on his face as he pulled $75 out of his pocket and held it out was priceless.
"What is this?" she'd asked. He sighed.
"When I was fourteen, I stole $40 out of grandpa's sock drawer. And I'm paying back with interest. I wish I could still give it to him, but, well." The rest of the thought hung in the air unspoken. Rose had taken his arm gently then, and she'd seen something shift in him. From that day on, he'd worked hard to mend fences, reestablish real relationships with the family, and started to get his life in order.
Now, what seemed like just a few short years later, they'd given her a seventh – no, a sixth – great grandchild. Her youngest grandchild came after some of the great-grandchildren, and she rubbed her forehead as she tried to sort them out. It wasn't hard to keep track of their faces or names yet, but the order they came in, and which generation they belonged to, was becoming more difficult. Once in a while, she would see her own babies' faces on the little ones, just for a moment, and she worried about the day she would begin to make mistakes. But too many to keep track of was a pretty great problem to have, she thought, all things considered.
She thought back on all the kids. Sarah was born sleeping. Raymond – her sweet, chubby angel – left them at four. Three more they'd never met. Six lived. Tina was difficult; Charlie was not; the twins, Roger and Bernadette, were exhausting; Frances was quiet and wise, but tricky; and the baby, Josephine, was a surprise six years after they thought they were done, and thoroughly spoiled. Until, of course, Charlie went home, too, at 47. That wasn't any easier than losing his brothers and sisters, though there was at least some consolation in knowing he'd really lived – and in those two wonderful kids of his.
How had they managed at all? She smiled to herself at the memory of announcing the baby. She hadn't meant to do it then. It was early morning and she'd been trying to get everyone ready for school. Tina was upset about something with her friends and making it everyone's problem, while the twins ran circles around the house, trying to avoid getting ready. Charlie was helping set the breakfast table, and Frances was nowhere to be found. Despite all the chaos, when her husband walked in, it began to settle, just a little. The kids weren't afraid of him, but they respected him – even Tina, though she would never admit it. He'd laughed at the scene and wiped some batter off of a cupboard, then opened the fridge to find the milk jug almost empty and no food but some bologna and ketchup, and one badly-bruised apple.
"We really committed to the 'for poorer' bit, huh?" he'd said, closing the refrigerator. She'd taken a deep breath and chewed her lip, knowing that the budget was about to get even tighter soon. He seemed to have noticed her worry and swooped over to whisper in her ear, "It's a good thing you can make magic."
She relaxed and giggled a little.
"Guess we're going hunting this weekend, Charlie. Deer season." Their son nodded, but she'd made the mistake of picturing the deer draining in the shed and swayed, just a little. He caught her and helped her down onto a chair "You rest, I'll finish breakfast. I know you're really tuckered out," he'd said, and winked. She'd hoped the older kids didn't catch it, but Tina's loud gag proved they had. She tried to get back up, but he just shook his head.
Then the twins came barreling back into the kitchen, and Bernie was making a beeline right for her. The girl had a habit of headbutting people right in the stomach when she reached them, but she'd never minded it – unless she was pregnant. When she'd instinctively shielded her stomach and turned away before impact, her husband noticed right away.
"Wait! Are you?" He'd never been one for subtle discretion. She thought again of how the kids would be following up their fried bologna breakfasts with bologna sandwiches for lunch, and felt guilty for a moment.
"I know it's going to be tou–" she'd started, but she never got the chance to finish, since he'd already picked her up and was swinging her around the kitchen, beaming from ear to ear.
No matter what they'd gone through, his optimism had remained. He wasn't some unrealistic dreamer, just someone who always and consistently found a solution – or at least tried his damnedest to do so. She was the worrier. In their own ways they both took care of everyone the best they could. It had been hard for him to be taken care of, though, when the time came, and hard for her to accept that he wasn't the strong, gentle leader he'd always been anymore.
It started with the stories. It was so subtle at first that everyone just rolled their eyes, thinking he was repeating them because he really thought they were funny, or were his favorites. Then, the questions started.
"Oh, are you planning to go back to school? You were always a smart one."
"No, Gramps, I already graduated last year."
He forgot what everyone was doing, how old they were, and how many kids they had. Eventually, he started to forget who they were. For a while, she would go through all the photo albums with him, reminding him of names and events, and recounting memories. The glimmers of recognition got fewer and farther between. One night when she crawled into bed, he screamed for his wife, and she knew it was time for help. He fought it every day, with every bit of his dwindling strength. Her husband, who had always had a kind word and a crude joke for everyone, became belligerent, uncooperative, combative, and humorless.
She said goodbye to him months before he finally passed away, but that didn't make it easy when the time came. Her memories of him were still big – large and full of life, with the biggest smile, the loudest laugh, the tightest hugs – but his body had wasted away. Even tough, stoic Tina sobbed like a baby at the sight of her unnaturally tiny father in his casket.
Making her family take care of her the way she had taken care of him was out of the question. Her mind was still sharp, though her body was failing, but so long as she could make decisions, she would make them.
She was interrupted by a quick rap on the door, before it opened, and Emil came in. She smiled.
"How are we this fine morning?" he beamed, as he brought the cart in.
"Fine?" she chuckled. It had been grey and rainy all week.
"It's what you make it, Mrs. B." he said, and he laughed, too. The light bounced off his shiny, bald head and she resisted the urge to pinch his chubby cheeks, so much like her little Raymond's. He held up a blood pressure cuff and raised his eyebrows.
She shrugged off her cardigan and noticed movement by the door.
"Oh yeah, we got some high school kids doing job shadowing today. Hope you don't mind."
Emil chatted about something or other, but his voice was fading away. It can't be him! Maybe her mind wasn't so sharp, after all. She stared at the boy in the doorway – tall, pale, with ruddy-brown hair. He looked at her briefly, nodded his head politely, and looked back down at the floor. She looked back at Emil, who appeared concerned.
"Low today. Are you drinking your water?"
She tried to answer, but couldn't form the words. Water won't help, she thought. Looking back over to the door, she tried to examine the boy's face again, but he wouldn't look directly at her.
"Only the one glass with breakfast," she finally got out. Emil looked disappointed. "I'll drink more today. I will." He packed up the cuff and sighed.
"I'll trust you this once," he said with a smile. "Don't let me down. This place needs its most eligible bachelorette to stick around for a while. Give the old guys a reason to leave their rooms." She rolled her eyes.
When Emil and the student left, she drank a bottle of water as promised, and spent the morning reading.
She had been settling in to sleep when she heard the knock. It was after visiting hours, and she had no medication scheduled, so there was no telling who it could be. It couldn't be him, could it? she thought. No, that's impossible.
"Yes?" she called out, fighting the urge to pretend she wasn't there.
Slowly, the door opened, and he stepped into her room, closing it gently behind him.
Edward Cullen.
He looked exactly as he had seventy-one years earlier. It would have been terrifying if she didn't feel completely safe in his presence, even now.
"Wh– how?" she started. "It is you!"
He smiled, and it was still dazzling, despite how shockingly young he now looked to her.
"It's you," he said with a low chuckle. They stared at each other for a few moments, taking everything in. She thought of how self-conscious she would have been at seventeen, for him to see her lying in an adjustable bed and covered in heating blankets, looking every bit the octogenarian she was. But there was nothing in her that felt that way now.
"You're the same," she finally said.
"Sad, isn't it?" His face fell just a little, but he perked up. "I could scarce let myself believe it was you when I saw the name on the chart, but the moment I saw your face," he looked around the room, "I didn't need to see anything else to know."
"I didn't think I'd ever see you again."
He picked a frame up off the dresser. It was the only professional photo they'd had taken when the kids were still young. She couldn't decide if he looked happy or sad as he examined the faces. He set it down gently, and brushed some dust from the top edge.
"I'm glad that you didn't, Bella." He took a deep breath. "Of course, I would have loved to be the one in all these photos with you, but that was never possible."
"I'm glad, too," she said. He did look hurt for a moment, but she continued. "Eight children, twenty-five grandchildren, and seven – six – great grandchildren. That's my legacy now because you let me go. You set me free, Edward."
He stepped closer to her and reached out for her hand. She gave it to him. She thought she'd remembered how cold his skin had been, but it felt even colder now after so many decades of warmth.
"Did you have a wonderful life? Were you happy? Please tell me you were well taken care of." He sounded almost desperate.
She laughed.
"Those are all very different questions. I've had an immensely fulfilling life. We struggled a lot, my heart broke a million times over with those kids, and there were really tough times; unbearable times, even. There are things I would change if I could. I took care of myself and my family, and they took care of me, too. I have joy and I have grief, but I regret nothing."
He examined the lines on her face, her white hair, and paper-thin skin and smiled to himself.
"Still beautiful. The wolf was a lucky, lucky man to have you." He looked pensive for a moment. "That's the real saying, you know."
She raised an eyebrow. He continued.
"In the Book of Isaiah. It's not the lion and the lamb, it's the wolf. 'The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb.'"
Her thoughts turned back to her husband, to his easy smile and warm embrace, to the way he commanded attention and made you feel like the only other person in the room at the same time, and the way he protected everyone around him. Yes, in a literal sense, as the wolf protector of his people, but also in the way he would protect your happiness, and guard your dignity. There was nowhere in the world she'd been safer than curled up next to him.
"Jacob was so much more than a wolf." She noticed him tense up. "Don't. I'm not telling you to hurt you, I'm telling you to thank you. He didn't only protect me and give me children; he helped me grow and change over the years. You know I went to dark places sometimes, but he shone a light in them, and that let me find my own way out. His light helped me avoid more dark pits over the years, too.
"You remember a big, hotheaded teenager, and he was that." She smiled to herself, thinking of him so young and chaotic. "Until he wasn't anymore. He grew into a good man beside me as I grew into, I hope, a good woman beside him. We became a team of equals, not just a strong wolf and a helpless lamb. We worked beside each other and built together. Our home, our babies, our lives, our future – we built it all as a team. Team Black.
"None of that – not one good thing that came of all those years – could have happened if I ran off with you and became a vampire. I'm so very grateful that you didn't let me turn, and that you left me alone to make a human life for myself. And if Jacob were still–" she paused, and then laughed. "Well, if he were still here, I don't think he'd say thank you. But I would tell him that he should."
The pale boy looked at her with shining eyes. If there were tears in his body, she was sure they'd be welling up.
"I had heard of his passing when it occurred. Our family desired to send condolences, of course, but felt it would not have been appropriate." She nodded solemnly. "I wanted to go to you then, but Rosalie – she talked me down."
"Good. Did you come here on purpose today? This morning?" she asked.
"No, that was pure coincidence. The climate in this region is ideal for us, and we felt it had been long enough to come back, especially to a different town. I'm here with Carlisle and Esme; we only recently moved."
"Oh. And when you saw my name?"
"My heart leapt for the first time in seventy years." He smiled again. "I hoped it would be you, and it was."
He lifted her hand to his face and inhaled the smell of her wrist.
"Bella, if you want it, I can take you with me now. You had time here – honest, human time – let me give you all eternity. Please."
Again, she thought of the teenager who fell in love with this sweet, terrifying creature and wanted nothing more than to become like him. That girl would have been soaring above the clouds if he'd said that to her. He was offering what she would have considered the best of both worlds.
But she was not a teenager.
"Edward," she sighed. "You're sweet. I don't want it."
He looked confused, but she continued.
"I know I only have a short time left – a few years if I'm lucky. I don't know what the other side will be like, or if there even is one, but if there is, I have people waiting for me. I need to see them again. Some of them," she inhaled deeply, "some I'm aching to meet for the first time. I can't give that up."
"Your soul," he whispered, and gently set her hand back down on her lap. "You were never religious," he said at a normal volume.
"I'm still not. I'm just hopeful."
It was Edward's turn to laugh.
"Bella Swan, hopeful. Who would have imagined?" He got serious again. "I will always respect your wishes."
"I know you will." She reached out and patted his hand again. "I'm getting very tired. It was wonderful to see you again. Truly."
"Of course, yes." He walked to the door and opened it, but hesitated. "It stands. My offer. Until your last breath."
She smiled, but shook her head.
"Edward, don't wander forever. I hope I see you on the other side someday."
Without another word, he was gone.
She picked up the photo frame on her bedside table – a diptych with her wedding photo, and a photo taken on her 40th anniversary – kissed the boy and the man, and switched off the lamp.
That night, she dreamed of their little red house. She ran across the yard as Raymond ran out of the door toward her, hands outstretched and tiny teeth gleaming in a radiant smile. A little girl toddled behind and "Sarah" rang through her head; two more boys followed. As she gathered them all in her arms, she looked up and saw her husband waiting, young and strong and glowing, with a baby girl on his hip and Charlie – kind, helpful Charlie – beside him. She approached them reverently, the other four still in tow, and he took her hand and opened the sliding glass door. White light glowed out from inside. She couldn't see into the house, but she wasn't afraid, and they all stepped through together.
