In Grandmother's House

God!

I am awake, and shivering, even wrapped in both quilts. But not quite back in my room. The new nightlight shows the shapes of the furniture dimly, with a faintly golden hue.

A forest filled with snow. That is where I was. I recognize it all. I have dreamed about the picture in the book in my grandmother's house. I don't remember what the book was about any more. Just that it was big, and heavy, one of those art type books with lots of pictures, that people put on their coffee tables.

There on the page. It was a photograph of a forest filled with snow. A deer, running, bounding through the chest-high drifts. A mountain lion had just leapt onto the deer's back. Somehow the camera had caught that single moment when the lion landed, and grabbed on. Front paws splayed wide, claws just gripping the deer's shoulders, hind paws also, clamping on, jaws just closing on the slender neck. How long had I stared at that picture as a child? Imprinted it on my mind? No wonder I dreamed of it with such crystal clarity.

I dreamed I was the deer. And even now I can feel the ghost of the mountain lion's weight on my back. So heavy. So real. Even the winter fur, so deep and thick.

In cartoons or drawings, or the staged attacks in television or movies, the predator is always shown with ears back and eyes glaring, teeth bared in a savage snarl. But this photograph, caught unawares, not staged by man, showed something so different. The cat's ears are forward. The face is reposed, even though the jaws are wide, to bite. The eyes gaze deeply. The pounce … is an embrace. The deer also, shows no whites of the eyes, only single intent. One point. To run. Just as the deer is the one point for the lion.

We always think of them as enemies. But the camera shows that they are not. They are lovers. Ready to become one flesh. And if one may die so that the other may live, is that not the greatest love of all?

I huddle under my quilts, pull them around me, to feel the mountain lion still on my back. But it was just a dream. And now chills are running up and down my spine. I put my hand to my forehead. It's hot. I have a killer headache and the back of my neck feels stiff. Soon I will have a running nose. And sore throat, and everything. This is what I got from walking into the forest yesterday, in the rain.

I don't even know what time it is; only that it is before any daybreak. I stagger out of bed with the quilts still around me. There has to be some Tylenol or something in the bathroom.

I'm still rifling through the mirror cabinet when my Dad comes to the door, with squinting eyes and bed head. I wish I hadn't made enough noise to wake him up.

"What're you doin' up, Bells?" he asks.

"I was looking for some Tylenol."

In an instant, the back of his hand is against my forehead. "Damn." The way he says it, the word becomes two syllables. "Hold the phone." After a bit of ransacking, he comes up with an old mercury thermometer. He's probably never used it since the last time I was here. For all I know it may be the very same one that Grandma used for him when he was a kid. I try to imagine him with smooth, boy skin, and no moustache. I can't. He sits me down on the closed toilet seat, and pops the thermometer into my mouth. "Stay right here."

"Yes, Mom."

Jesus Christ, why did I say that? But my Dad's back is already retreating down the stairs, his footsteps heavy and clumping, except for the fourth step from the bottom, which creaks right on cue.

In the end he does find some Tylenol, sheepishly telling me that it was in his tackle box. I bet a lot of weird stuff ends up in there. I have a temperature of 102, and so I have to stay home. No amount of whining about tests and homework will budge him. He's going to send his deputy around to the school to pick up any make-up work I'll need, and bring me some Nyquil, vitamins, and chicken soup. There's nothing I can do about this because it's a Friday, and Dad knows as well as I do that I'll be able to catch myself up and then some over the weekend. He stays as long as he can, and leaves a tray of hot tea and Pop Tarts at my bedside.

I don't know when I fell asleep. Some time between my Dad leaving and it getting light out. I wake up to more chills and fever, and now, sweaty sheets. The tea and Pop Tarts are still on the bedside table. I thought for sure I'd eaten them, but I guess I'd fallen asleep instead. There's grey daylight coming in through the window, and my alarm clock says 10:37.

The next hour is just wrestling. Wrestling out of my clammy pj's, through a not-quite-hot-enough shower, and into something dry; wrestling my sheets and pillowcase off the bed; wrestling the whole messy bundle down the stairs and into the washing machine. Luckily all of that is just off the kitchen. The house has no basement, just a crawlspace. But the staircase is too narrow, and I'm all clumsy in my sweats and poufy parka, and the whole struggle with linens and machines and laundry products leaves me shivering and light-headed. I should have eaten something first. Well, I guess I'll eat something now.

I wait for the water to boil, and wonder if Deputy Dave (yes, that really is his name, poor guy) has come by yet. If he couldn't raise me by ringing the doorbell, he could well have left the stuff on the porch. I'm hoping so, since leftovers from the diner aren't looking too appetizing right now, and the Pop Tarts are too dry and too sweet.

I've got one quilt over me, just for good measure, and I open the door a crack to peek out. Sure enough, there's a brown paper bag right in the middle of the porch. Smiling to myself about deputies and drug drops, I tiptoe out to pick it up … and nearly hit myself in the face with it. The bag is way lighter than my muscles had expected; way lighter than it has any right to be.

I crouch down there on the porch to open the bag. It has two parcels inside, wrapped up in what looks like butcher paper, but not quite as slick. I pull one out. It's very light, and a little rustly inside when I shake it. It smells like my Mom's spice rack at Christmas. The drizzly wind moves between the porch posts, and sends a swirling chill straight down my back. There is no sign or sound anywhere of a person or car or anything, no clue to who may have left this, or even when. But I can't stay out here catching my death a second time, so I bring the bag and its parcels inside.

The water is whistling on the stove already, so I have to detour to turn it off before pulling the parcels gingerly out of the paper bag and onto the kitchen nook table. Something is left at the bottom of the bag. I pull it out. It's paper, tightly folded, a little larger than a silver dollar, but octagonal. I don't notice anything else about it because I have recognized what is on it. Handwriting. Precise. Rhythmical. Beautiful. Edward's handwriting. Yes, I know his handwriting. Sitting in the front corner of the class, I'm the one who collects all the papers when they get passed forward to turn in.

And who else writes in a hand that looks like the penmanship primers from that 1901 schoolhouse our class visited, back in third grade?

My vision goes a little bit black, and my fingers go a little bit numb, and the folded paper with Edward's handwriting on it drops to the table. It's been too many hours since dinner last night. I really should eat something first.

But instead I sit down and pick up the paper and start to pry it open. It's folded like a spiral, or a rose, with the corner of each petal tucked under the one right next to it. This kind of intricate folding work needs slender fingers. Like a girl's. Or like Edward's. Not that I actually ever saw his fingers. They were hidden in tightly clenched fists. But from the finely wrought contours of his knuckles and wrists, I could infer. Edward Beaux-mains.

I can't help imagining Edward's fingers touching the paper, creasing and coaxing it into this spiral-flower-coin shape. Opening it petal by petal, my fingers are touching the same paper. I feel as if my fingertips and his are brushing each other.

Oh stop it! Just stop.

Nobody thinks that way. Nobody feels that way. You're the only weirdo.

The fever from the cold sends its heat up my face again. I have the paper completely open now. Managed it without ripping anything. It's nice paper, not too heavy, not too flimsy, a soft cream color. Perfect for writing on. With a fountain pen, no less. He likes beautiful things. Old fashioned things. So do I.

I read what is written.

Cinnamon Twig Decoction

Ramulus cinnamomi cassiae

Radix paeoniae

Rhizoma zingiberis officinalis recens

Fructus ziziphi jujubae

Radix glycirrhyzae uralensis (mellis praeparata)

Latin. And beautiful handwriting. I'm a little bit hypnotized.

For fever and chills that are unrelieved by sweating, accompanied by headache, aversion to wind, stiff neck, nasal congestion, dry heaves, no particular thirst. Thin, white, moist tongue coating. Floating pulse that is either moderate or frail. Condition contracted after exposure to wind and cold. May also be used for similar presentation in convalescent and post-partum patients.

I have no clue about pulses, but I have to fight off an impulse to run upstairs and see if my tongue has a thin, white, moist coating. The rest of the symptoms fit me to a 't'. Exposure to wind and cold. Did he see me, then, coming back after lunch period, cold and bedraggled as a drowned rat? He was noticing me? ….. ?

Foundation formula from the Shang Han Lun, ("Treatise on Cold Injury"), by Han Dynasty physician, Zhang Zhong-jing.

Chinese medicine? He knows Chinese medicine? Or is Doctor Cullen a closet herbalist? I pick up one of the paper parcels. Where would he even get this stuff? There's no Chinese pharmacy in Forks, that's for sure. I doubt there is even one in Port Angeles. He'd have had to go all the way to Seattle and back. In one night. Unless his Dad has some kind of a stash at home.

None of this makes sense, and it's time to get back to reality.

"She stinks!"

Murderous black eyes that made my hair stand up.

So 'allergic' to me that he has to sit in the farthest possible corner away.

I turn the paper over, and sure enough, there are directions for how to prepare the 'decoction'.

It's a trap!

For all I know this stuff will give me a horrible, long lasting rash; or the runs; or make my hair fall out. I've seen bright, mean boys do stuff like that before, though I have to admit, Edward has pretty much outdone everyone, here, with such beautiful and elaborate lures.

Dammit!

I take everything upstairs to my room and Google the bejeezus out of it.

Almost two o'clock. I still haven't eaten. My tongue does have a thin, white, moist coating on it. And unless he's sprayed the herbs with anthrax or something, Edward's care package is legit. We don't have any rice to make gruel with, so I'll have to prepare it the modern way, just straight. (Yes, he'd very thoughtfully copied both preparation methods down for me.)

Forty minutes later I'm at the kitchen table, sipping the densely spicy 'tea', and nibbling on a bit of microwaved mashed potatoes and pork chop. Already I can feel my insides getting warm.

The telephone rings in the dark, downstairs. I must have slept again. I've sweated again, too, but I think I feel better. I stumble downstairs to the phone, with the quilt still around me.

"Hello?"

"Bells."

His voice sounds tired. "Hey, Dad."

"How you feeling?"

"Better, I think."

"Dave come by with the stuff?"

"Yeah, I got it all. Thanks, Dad."

"Listen, I'm gonna be a little late. You go ahead and eat. I'll get something at Bessie's on the way back."

He's really not used to having someone in the house with him. But now that I'm here, I don't want him to live like a nomad. Even if I have taken every trace of Edward's care package and hidden it up in my room.

"It's ok, Dad. I was saving some of the soup for you."

There's a long silence at the other end. I wish I could see. Is he happy? Sad? Angry?

"I'll be home as soon as I can."

I'm upstairs with Trigonometry when my Dad makes it back. I hope he doesn't ask me about the weird smell in the kitchen. I suppose I can say it's herbal tea, but I'd rather not lie. Even though Dad seems to like Dr. Cullen, I don't think he's quite ready for me to be drinking Chinese medicine left on our porch by his adoptive son.

Dinner is the usual quiet affair. I figure it's my turn to try to make conversation, so I ask.

"How was work?"

My Dad looks up and cracks a smile.

"Busy."

Maybe he sees my look of disbelief. How much crime can there be in a small town like Forks?

"Some fool snowboarder's gone missing out at Wolf Creek. Got the whole ski patrol and rangers searchin' the mountain, tonight. Fred's up there with the dogs right now."

Lost in the snow and the cold and the dark. I can't help shivering at the thought.

"They'll find him though, right?"

"Her. It's a girl." And I see on my Dad's face that he is so very glad right now that his daughter is too clumsy to stay upright on anything that moves. I don't press him further, and the conversation dies a natural death.

As soon as the meal ends, Dad shoos me upstairs. I'm glad enough to go.

Edward's paper 'coin' is on my desk, next to my homework. I've refolded it, then opened it up, then put it back together again about a hundred times already. I know how the folds go, now. It's intricate. Like a puzzle. I should finish my Trig homework at least, before turning in. But instead I'm just playing with the paper. I open it one more time. I love looking at Edward's handwriting.

I can't figure him out. He's like the paper. Folded in complicated ways. He was so mean to me on first sight. So what is this now with bringing medicine to my door? Is he trying to apologize? I read the last line that he wrote, underneath all the instructions.

In the future, try not to get yourself soaked and chilled on the same day that you decide to skip lunch.

Hardly a grand apology. But showing is stronger than telling. Actions speak louder than words. (Don't they?) He saw me leave – or at least noticed that I wasn't at lunch. And he must have seen me come back all rained-on and blue-lipped. He brought me medicine; maybe drove all night to get it and bring it back. And he gave me all the information I would need to judge for myself if his gift was sincere. Or useful. More than that, I have the recipe, now, in case I ever need it again, or in case anyone else does. And instead of the grand apology, he gives me instructions to keep me safe – at least from the common cold. Actions speak stronger than words.

But not without poetry.

The cinnamon twig … is an olive branch.

...

The paper with Edward's handwriting on it comes with me to bed. And sleeps under my pillow.

A/N: "Edward Beaux-mains" : Beaux mains is French, and means 'beautiful hands'.

The Decoction:

Ramulus cinnamomi cassiae ~ Twig of Cassia Cinnamon

Radix paeoniae ~ Root of Paeony

Rhizoma zingiberis officinalis recens ~ Tuber of fresh Ginger

Fructus ziziphi jujubae ~ Fruit of Jujube (date)

Radix glycirrhyzae uralensis (mellis praeparata) ~ Root of Licorice (fried in honey)

... The formula, its source, preparation and use are all authentic, folks. You can Google it.