The Dubious Philosophy of Salmon

This year, February has 29 days. Bella wonders if this means that she needs to change her calculation of the deadline she is racing against. Most of the trees around Forks are spruce, fir, hemlock, or cedar. It's too soon for these to be putting out their new little candles of green. But, in the small places where deciduous stands live, she has seen a subtle change in the color of the twigs. If she looks from afar, lets her vision blur … Nature's first green is red — the blush of sap rising. She wonders if, in the eastern woods, people are hanging buckets on the maples.

Meanwhile, Presidents' Day has passed into memory, with its long weekend, and the Valentine dance held between candy hearts and founding fathers. Absent from it again, she had tried to garner a chuckle from her father by quipping that it was because no one would go in for tricorn hats or hoop petticoats, pink or otherwise. He'd smiled for her, but she saw the worry in his eyes.

Tonight, the pages of the lost journal — companion of all those nights last year — fill her mind again, sitting like a heavy stone in her chest. Loss of that trace of Edward's human life feels like a bad omen. The scrapbook also, of course, is lost with it. Burned together, with all the bodies.

Under the bare bulb in her closet, she weaves with steady hand but shaking heart. Doing battle with finalities.

She has barely settled under the quilts, barely buried herself in the dark, when she feels a chill breath sweep through the room. She never knows if she should remain hidden under the covers, like that afternoon long ago, in the hospital, after the van; or get up to stand and face him there, by the window and the radiator and the rocking chair. But tonight she is restless, and so rises, and in a heartbeat they are clasped together. The floor beneath her bare feet is cold, even through the thin rug. He sweeps her into his arms with a small flourish, and she wonders if he, also, in this moment, this gesture, is thinking of weddings and gowns and thresholds.

He settles her back into the bed, pulling the quilts around her. Forever fussy about keeping her warm, he tugs at the back of her collar now, to cover her nape. Suddenly, his hand, all of him, stops cold. One finger has brushed the uppermost edge of her tattoo, the ever-so-faint ridge that the ink makes in her skin. "Bella." His eyes burn into hers as his fingertips gingerly explore lower between her shoulder blades.

"Bella, what … What is this?"

"It's my tattoo."

"Tattoo?"

She sits up, turns, to kneel on the bed with her back to him, and pulls the back of her pajama top up and over her head " — No! Bella! Don't — " She stays still, holding the shirt bunched at her chest.

He traces the outline of the salmon, the intricate images of the relations etching its flanks — raven, wolf, orca, owl — and the arc of its spine, that brings mouth almost to tail.

His fingertips have raised goose bumps on her skin. "Who did this to you?" he asks. "Who would do such … ?

"The people."

"The Quileutes?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I was in a coma. They had to take me to Seattle. My mom said nobody could figure out what was wrong with me."

He is silent, fingers still lingering on the talisman inked in her back. She has told him about that night. The trees. The moonlight. The voices calling her name.

The decapitation.

"Mom said the doctors gave up. They were going to send me to … a place. Like a nursing home, I guess. Where I would be taken care of. My mom wouldn't let them. She made my dad bring me home."

"To Forks?"

"No. La Push. Auntie Sue's mom. She's like … not exactly a healer. Like … a spirit woman. She has magic. My mom … I guess Uncle Billy convinced her. So they brought me home."

"I can't believe the hospital let you leave."

"You don't know my mom." She spares a small laugh, and hears him snort softly. "She kind of … she told me after. Her and my dad had a big fight because she took my breathing tube and feeding tube out in the car on the way back."

"Oh my God, Bella." He reaches around to the bunched cloth she is holding against her chest. "Put your shirt back on."

She complies. He helps her pull the shirt down, snugs it around her, wraps on the bedclothes for good measure, and gathers her against his chest.

"The people did a sing over me. Great Auntie Bay — that's Auntie Sue's mom — she said my soul had gone wandering away, out on the water. Looking for you."

"No! No, no, no." His voice is soft and low and mournful beside her temple. "Oh, Bella."

"They did the sing to find me … to call me and guide me back. This …" She reaches over her shoulder, under the bedclothes and sleep shirt to touch the tattoo, "It's like … like a seal. To keep my soul inside my body."

"They've marked you," he sighs. "You belong to them now."

The silence stretches out around the two of them, tight with finalities, and she feels his chest heave and shudder as they lie back down together among the bedclothes. "At least you're safe," he says. "At least you're safe."

She nestles into the curve of his shoulder, in this strange envelope of warmth and chill that they make between them, her eyelids almost brushing his throat. In the quiet and the dark, the remembered scent surrounds her with sadness, and she reaches up, searching by touch for the mark of Carlisle's bite on his neck. He is as still as death under her fingers, as she finds and follows the ever so faint crescent ridge that it makes on his skin.

"You have one, too."

A tremor passes through him.

"Do you belong to … Carlisle?" The name feels strange in her mouth, and yet, never in their conversations has Edward called him "Dr. Cullen."

"For a time, I did," he answers. Her hand has gone to his face, now, and she feels him close his eyes. "For a time, I did."

She wonders at the sadness in his voice.

"He kept your soul inside your body."

"You really believe that, don't you."

"Yes. Forever and ever."

A sound comes from across the hall. Her father is stirring, getting up from his bed. The springs of it complain under his shifting weight. On her own bed, Bella and Edward freeze. He, not breathing at all; she, only barely. The sounds continue. It is not right. Edward whispers in Bella's ear, "He's getting dressed. Putting on his sidearm." Her heart rate spikes. "Hide!"

Faster than she can follow, he has disappeared behind her bed. She looks over, and sees him crouched, between her bookcase and the bedside.

Her father's footsteps come out into the hall. She is rigid on the bed, gripping Edward's hand with all her strength, listening as hard as she can. The footsteps do not pause, but continue to the stair head, and then clumping down the stairs. The fourth step creaks, then clump, clump, clump, and he is in the hall.

Edward is back up on the bed with her. They are embraced, listening. To the shuffling of a heavy jacket being put on, a pause, more footsteps, and then the sound of the front door opening.

This is not right. Bella steals off the bed and goes to the window, echoing her father's footfalls across the narrow porch. Edward stands beside her, their arms twined around each other's waists, and they watch through the curtain as the shadowy form traverses the short yard. The cruiser's engine growls to life, the headlights come on, and then it crunches over the gravel drive and turns onto the street.

"Does your father have a shift now?"

"No. He doesn't do nights. Not since I was little."

The tail lights are gone, disappeared down the street. She cannot think of a single reason for her father to suddenly take himself off into the night like this. Specters of violence shadow up from memory, and from all the stories she has now learned.

She turns to the ghost beside her. Wonders, where is it possible for him to go? Or do.

"Can you … ?"

"Yes." His answer is immediate, without hesitation. "I'll make sure he's ok."

She throws herself into his arms. Again. "Thank you."

He guides her back to the edge of the bed, puts his hands over her eyelids to close them. Kisses her forehead.

"I'll come back. You stay here. Stay."

She nods. Brings her hands to cover his, over her eyes.

"Stay," he says again. "I'll come back. I promise." And then it is only her own hands over her eyes. She holds her breath. Listens. Feels.

Nothing.

When she opens her eyes, only a chill is left in the room.

Time passes. She fidgets on the bed. Lies down. Gets up. Paces. Opens a book. Puts it back. Lies down again on the bed. Tangles herself in the covers. She can't sleep, but can't stay alert either. The darkness feels like ink around her, and she doesn't know if she is sleeping or awake.

Suddenly she is cold, feels the quilts lift beside her. She turns to see Edward returned.

"I woke you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"No!" She clings to him again. Pulls the quilt around, to make the closed space that will warm him, if given enough time.

He is stroking stray hair from her face, circling her with one arm, giving his report. "Your father can't sleep. He's at the station. Going over the case files from last year."

"The 'bear'?"

"Yes. And our family. All of the deaths … weigh on him."

She knows. She is a bad daughter. Sequestering herself upstairs in her room, while her father sits in a darkened den, staring sightlessly at a flickering screen, and drinks cheap beer alone.

"He lost his childhood friend."

"Waylon Forge."

"Yes. He was … my dad was kinda looking after him. But he couldn't … couldn't save him from … the bear."

The quilts feel like a shroud. That night in the police station — her father and the men coming back in from the dark and the rain, the guns and their coats and the heavy boots, their faces grim with what they had seen.

The cot in her father's office at the station had been wobbly, but she had slept anyway, under a pile of emergency blankets. Back then, it had still been … a bear.

"He misses your dad, too," she says. "Wishes he were here. He thinks Dr. Cullen could help him with these cases."

"If Carlisle were still here, he'd …he'd have to lie to your father. That's … hard to bear."

"I know." All too well she knows. Couldn't she help her father solve all of the cases? Just as well as Dr. Cullen could. She burrows deeper into Edwards embrace. She is a bad daughter. Sworn to silence by Auntie Sue.

And what about the silence, and the secret, that she is keeping from the dead boy in her bed? The cloth. And its purpose. And what she is preparing to do.

"I … we … made mistakes," he is saying. "The Quileutes were right. We didn't protect the land. People died."

So did you! She clutches at his clothing, and whispers it aloud. "So did you."

Tires crunch on the gravel. They freeze. Together. Listening. The engine growl cuts. A door opens, then closes. Footfalls, scuffing and flat on the concrete walk, hollow on the wooden porch. The door opening and closing. Shuffling and puttering noises as the jacket is hung on the hook in the hall. A long, quiet pause, then clump, clump, clump, creak on the warped step, and onward up to the landing. Another silence, punctuated by a long, audible breath. Then nothing. Then —

The footsteps turn toward Bella's door.

She barely suppresses a squeak, heart huge in her throat. Edward has climbed over her body and disappeared — between bed and bookcase again? That won't hide him if her father comes into the room.

There is no time. She settles herself motionless under the covers, back to the door, as the knob turns.

Breathe. Just breathe. Soft. Even. Slow.

Her father's footsteps walk quietly toward the bed.

Breathe. Inhale, exhale. Don't move. Not even your face. Especially don't move your face.

It seems like an eternity that her father just stands there. That she has to hold herself motionless except for her breath, mimicking an untroubled sleep.

Where is Edward? Is he hidden? Or gone?

She senses movement, and hears her father grunt softly as he gets down on one knee. She feels the heat of his hand hovering above her ear, then gently brushing the hair that lies messily behind her on the pillow.

Breathe. Just breathe. Oh Dad …

The low voice is barely audible, "Whatever's hurting you, Bells, you don't have to only talk to the counselor. You got me, too. Any time. Day or night."

Don't make a sound! Keep the rhythm. Soft. Slow. Even. Only breathe. Only breathe. Nothing else.

"Your mom, too. If that's easier … "

Inhale. Exhale. Don't cry.

Her father's breathing is rough behind her, the bulk of his body palpable in the space at her bedside. Just staying there, knelt in the dark and the nightlight.

Where is Edward? Is he UNDER the bed? Clinging to the slats that hold up her mattress … like some kind of kung fu hero clinging to the rafters above everyone's heads?

Suddenly she feels her father's hand on her shoulder. Did she startle? Did he feel it? Or was it all lost in the heavy sigh that he heaved as he got to his feet again …

But all she hears is his footsteps crossing her room, back to the door. A brief pause, and the door closes quietly.

Don't move yet. Don't move. Just breathe. Listen. Breathe and listen.

He stops at the bathroom. Splashes his face. Then to his own room. Mattress springs, and shoes being shed. More that she can't decipher — the sound track of his getting up two hours ago, now running backwards.

Silence.

But still she doesn't dare move. Until she feels Edward climbing back onto the bed. He was underneath it. The ninja image flashes again.

She sits up at last. Cannot make a noise. Must not. Can only breath in silent gasps and sobs, hands held up helplessly, face screwed into ugly cry.

Edward holds her. Just holds. Until she can breathe again. Can say words.

"Stay?", she asks.

"Yes." He folds her deeper into his arms and lies them down together. "Until first light."

Another wave of hitched breath overtakes her. "Everything is wrong and I can't fix it."

"You don't have to. You don't have to. Just tell him that you love him."

"I will." She thinks of the note she will leave on her father's dresser when she completes the cloth. And loses sight of the house behind her as the road bends away for the final time.

Edward holds her against the shudders that claw out from her chest and throat. "Your father loves you. Your family. Your friends. You're important to them."

"I know."

It takes a long time for her insides to quiet, but at last they do. She looks at the boy beside her. His face is as close as that day they were caught between the red truck and the green van, under the flying glass. The first time that she almost died.

How many times is it now? Death circling back to find her. Keeping her in sight.

In the dim glow and darker shadow of her nightlight, the outlines of his face are soft and uncertain. His eyes show as nothing but dark. But his breath is cool, and the treasured incense fills the air they share.

She runs her fingertips over his face, memorizing the edges of his brow and cheekbones and jaw. Not merely beautiful to her now, but familiar. Known. As is this gesture between them. She touches his lips. "You're important to me, too," she pledges.

His face tightens, and all the muscles in the front of his body contract, as if he has been struck.

Her hand goes to his heart in alarm. "What! What's wrong? What did I say?"

"No, Bella. No. It's not you. It's …" The softest sigh. "It's ok. It's ok."

She keeps her hand there. Just waiting.

In the end, he brings her closer, surrenders his cheek to hers. "Everything is wrong," he echoes. "And I can't fix it either."

Notes:

The title of this chapter comes from this amazing post by catadromously on tumblr:
tumblr dot com / catadromously / 628896981561016320 / the-dubious-philosophy-of-salmon