May 2014
Twenty-Four / Twenty-Six
Esme Masen, formerly Swan, split her time between Manhattan and Seattle. In Manhattan, she resided in a neogothic high-rise. In Seattle, Esme Masen lived in a neo-Georgian townhouse. After her divorce, Esme had toyed with purchasing a nest egg in a modern high-rise – but she despised modern architecture almost as much as she craved seclusion.
Furnishing the townhouse had given her activity. Esme was a creature of refined taste, and she surveyed her townhouse with a sense of satisfaction. The ground floor, a testament to her meticulous attention to detail, was a haven of understated elegance.
Soft, natural light streamed through tall, arched windows, illuminating the space. The fine proportions of the Georgian house did well with stronger hues, and Esme had painted the walls an understated French blue with grey undertones.
The living room was a symphony of blues, with a sapphire-blue camelback sofas and matching armchairs in dark mahogany. Slowly, as if fighting from a trench, Esme had retrieved those artifacts that she had lovingly picked out for her home of two decades – a Boca-do-Lobo floor-length mirror. An Italian Carrara marble console sat against the wall. Esme enjoyed the Baroque twists of the antique table on which the console sat. She had rescued the table from that man's grubby clutches. Esme adorned the table with matching Staffordshire figurines of swans – which she had inherited from her mother – and a Swarovski cut-glass vase that she filled with lilies.
Their rental car pulled up slowly, and Esme walked to her arched windows.
Edward parked the car, and Esme's lips twitched dotingly from afar. Edward looked just like his father – tall and strong without being burly. Edward had always been a very handsome little boy. As a grown man, Edward had been blessed with perfectly chiseled features. His aquiline nose had sharpened, and his jaw was as straight as a ruler. Glowingly, Esme thought that Edward favored his grandfather William. He exuded the same cold, calculating confidence that William Cullen IV did –worldly, self-possessed.
Edward circled the car to open the trunk. He rushed to the passenger's side with Isabella's crutches, where Isabella had opened the car door.
At the sight of Isabella, the weight of Isabella's many offenses hit Esme, wounding her afresh. Esme had been so egregiously offended by her Isabella. The girl had been the object of her every effort and devotion for nearly two decades. Her baby. A baby she had rescued from horrific parenting. A baby she had molded into a gem. A baby she expected to keep forever.
Esme had secured Isabella's e-mail password when Isabella turned seventeen: Isabella had never changed it. Esme had kept abreast of her daughter's life by regularly inspecting every sordid detail of her e-mail. Before the fatigue of chemotherapy depleted her energy, Esme had taken some comfort in reading that correspondence when she could not sleep. It made her feel like she was in control of her daughter again – privy to every thought and detail. It comforted Esme to feel like she once had – like when Isabella was in Pre-K and Esme dictated all the rhythms of her life.
Esme had been privy to every single piece of correspondence between that woman in New Mexico and her daughter – and every word was an affront to Esme's very soul.
Isabella and Edward gazed at each other. Underneath her eyelashes, Isabella's eyes sparkled and her lips twisted into a smile. Goofily, Edward grinned back. He bent to steal a kiss, kissing the tip of her nose before pulling away.
In a flash, unwelcome memories exploded in Esme's mind. All her life, Esme had been haunted by vivid imaginings every waking moment, unless she was actively concentrating elsewhere – on conversations, on plans, on hobbies.
The memories were as vivid as if the scene were unfolding before her eyes.
Thousands of times, Esme had seen Carlisle kiss Elizabeth's nose. Her cheek, her temple, her hand. Carlisle had given Esme a handshake, after their one solitary date. Though nearly thirty-five years had elapsed, the memory stung embarrassingly and angrily, like acid to a fresh wound.
How many times had Esme envied her sister for it? Esme's stomach lurched acidly. Esme had been robbed. Charles Swan – and Charles Brandon, for that matter – had the charm of wet socks. Now Isabella was lucky like Elizabeth had been lucky before her. Just like his father, Edward was charming, gentle, and cloyingly romantic when he was in love.
Esme was a maelstrom. That acidic jealousy Esme had levied against her sister had found a new target – but Esme had not been able to hate her sister, let alone her baby. Deep in her heart, she was filled with contradicting emotions –happiness, contentedness that warred with concern.
Esme took a deep breath.
She walked to the floor-length mirror of the study, and gazed her reflection critically. A silk Hermés scarf was wrapped artfully around her head. It concealed the uneven bald patches where Esme had lost her caramel-colored hair. Underneath the off-white scarf, she wore her hair in a patchy pixie cut.
Losing her hair had been almost as distressing as the cancer diagnosis itself, even more so than the partial mastectomy: Esme had cried herself to sleep many a night. Rail-thin and gaunt, Esme wore belted silk trousers and a wraparound blouse. A small, bespoke prosthesis concealed the full mastectomy of her left breast. Esme couldn't bear to look at the scar on the sagging skin where a mound had once been.
When the doorbell rang, Bruno ran excitedly to the door, alternating glances between the door and his mommy. He made Esme smile, and she cooed at her puppy. "Who is it? Who is it, darling?"
Esme opened the door, and her heart lurched. There she was.
Isabella.
Even as a little girl, Isabella had always looked like that woman - her so-called birthmother. Consequentially, she had always been strikingly delicate. Every inch of her face – the most beautiful thing Esme possessed – was etched into Esme's heart. Esme and Elizabeth were both beautiful women, but Isabella was gorgeous. Esme was always struck by it afresh after every separation.
After the cancer diagnosis, Esme spent time revisiting different chapters of her life. Her two decades as Isabella's mother had been, overwhelmingly, the happiest of her nearly seven decades. Raising Isabella had been Esme's proudest achievement and her life's greatest joy. Isabella was Esme's crowning glory, and the best thing Esme had ever shaped and created.
Isabella was dressed decently, as she had been the last two or three occasions Esme had seen her. The outfit she wore was lovely, and it reminded Esme of her little doll. Isabella wore her hair in a half-updo, pairing an off-white blouse with skinny olive-green trousers. She leaned heavily on both crutches, but to Esme's trained eyes, she seemed to be standing taller.
Esme's eyes caught the ring with hawkish precision. It had spent decades on her sister's ring finger, and Esme's stomach lurched at the sight. The Marquise-cut stone, weighing several carats, was nestled in a delicate yellow-gold setting, intricately designed with swirling patterns and intricate filigree. The band, equally ornate, complemented the diamond's brilliance, creating a piece of jewelry that was both timeless and exquisite.
Esme's warring feelings intensified, but Esme kept her smile ice-cold. Who was the target of her jealousy? Was it her daughter in all but name? Was it her nephew? In tandem, Esme felt something akin to joy, muted by her jealousy and tempered her concern. Her nephew had given it to the woman he loved, and Esme could not think of anybody more worthy of him..
And yet.
When Isabella was in college, Esme had been privy to Edward's lengthy e-mails – missives that retrospectively were so evidently love letters. Everything reminds me of you –you're in the songs that I listen to and in the ice-cream flavours I try. Sometimes, thinking of you makes me smile. Other times, I miss you so much it hurts.
Despite being privy to years of intimate correspondence, the relationship hit Esme like a bullet train.
Esme had seen the relationship blossom when they were teenagers. She had seen how Isabella had cracked gradually at Edward's shell, eliciting smiles and earning his trust. Esme had seen her daughter develop a crush on Edward – one that was certainly unrequited despite Edward's growing adoration. She would turn completely scarlet just looking at Edward; other times, Bella could not tear her eyes off him. It didn't help that Edward adored her.
Esme was concerned. What if Edward loved her less? Edward was so experienced in so many ways. Esme knew every candid, grotesque detail of Edward's sexual encounters when he was a teenager. Esme knew the extent of Edward's years of heavy partying. What if her daughter didn't?
When Esme opened the door, Isabella and Edward were in the middle of a laugh – glowing at each other goofily. Edward was grinning at her with his lopsided grin, and both of her kids looked beautiful. Bruno charged at Edward's slacks, chomping at his ankle. Edward yelped and grunted, attempting to shake off the dog without hitting them.
Isabella saw Esme first, and the color drained from her face, leaving her skin chalky. Tears welled in her eyes. "Mom. Oh, Mom," she croaked.
Esme could see the glow from the engagement fading from Isabella's face. Guilt took root. It spread across those features Esme so loved – twisting that rosebud mouth, metastasizing in Isabella's doe eyes. The roaring glow of her engagement faded.
Esme smiled bitterly, hit anew with Isabella's multiple acts of backstabbing and abandonment. Edward looked up – and just like Isabella, he blanched. "Oh, God."
"Hello, dears. Come in."
Click, click, thump, drag. Click, thump, drag. Isabella followed suit.
"Sit. Please, sit," Esme called out prissily over her shoulder.
Without waiting for them to settle in, Esme flitted to the kitchen. There, her housekeeper had prepared cold canapés: smoked salmon on rye bread and small savory tartlets, to complement the meal Esme had painstakingly prepared. She returned to her darling sitting room bearing a silver tray. Pursuing her lips, Esme set the tray before them. Her housekeeper followed suit bearing pink lemonade.
"Thank you," Bella said politely, smiling at the housekeeper. The housekeeper looked curiously at Isabella – the girl featured in dozens of pictures in Esme's study and bedroom.
On Esme's velvety camelback sofa, Isabella and Edward looked two decades younger: frightened like children that had just seen a ghost.
Edward recovered faster.
He revealed a bouquet of chrysanthemums that had lost its integrity on the doorstep. Edward had brandished it to swat Bruno away. "We brought you flowers," he said awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. "It was Bella's idea."
Esme's smile was muted. "That's lovely. Thank you."
She handed the bouquet to her housekeeper. "Zafrina, would you please put these in water? And if you could please start searing the scallops?"
While they visited, Esme resorted to a masterful combination of conversational platitudes and conversational warfare. "Did you have a pleasant flight?" she asked breezily. Only Isabella took the bait.
"We flew Delta," she began pleasantly like Esme had taught her to do – but her eyes were glassy, screaming their sadness and guilt. "They don't offer meals, but we had little TVs. I watched Gravity."
Edward ignored the pleasantries. He was thoughtful, studying Esme calculatingly. He put his hands to his knees, and his expression was searingly intense. "How long ago were you diagnosed?"
"Edward," Esme tittered, clasping a hand to her clavicle. "Must we jump straight into difficult conversations?"
Edward was unfazed. "Yes," he said sharply, with that cold authority that only the very entitled could brandish.
"It's somewhat indelicate, but I had a mammogram done last winter," Esme said demurely. "The oncologist suggested chemotherapy as a first line of treatment."
Bella made a sound like a whimper and a yelp, and tears flowed freely. She wiped them with her sleeve.
"Mom, I… I'm so sorry," Bella whispered. She looked completely destroyed, and her lips were trembling. Edward curled around her protectively – one arm around her shoulders, head turned towards her. He whispered comfortingly into her ear and wiped tears gently with his fingertips. He squeezed her closely.
Freshly aware of Isabella's betrayals and abandonment, Esme relished her guilt. Isabella had not accompanied her to a single chemotherapy session, nor inquired about her health.
"What kind and stage?" Edward asked intently.
"Stage III breast cancer," Esme admitted demurely.
Bella's tears intensified.
"Invasive, non-invasive, inflammatory?"
Esme would have been proud if she wasn't so miffed. "Invasive lobular carcinoma," she said primly.
"Does my father know?" Edward asked somberly, his expression full of compassion.
Esme pursed her lips, and then they twisted into an acid smile. "Your father is a busy man, Edward."
"You kept this a secret," Edward said flatly, in a voice that so reminded Esme of his grandfathers.
"Like your engagement," Esme retorted acidly. "Were you ever going to tell me?"
"Yes," Bella swore earnestly, and the tip of her nose was red from crying. Her voice sounded nasal. Edward turned to her completely, cradling her hand in both of his. "We got engaged two days ago. We haven't even told my dad."
That pleased Esme. "Oh. And are you planning on informing or inviting that poor, addicted woman in New Mexico?"
Edward's face was stone. "Renée Dwyer isn't an addict."
Esme tittered a giggle like cold water. The guilt in Isabella's eyes was as evident as hazard lights to the two people who knew her best. Uncertainly, hesitantly, she began to shake her head. "No," she finally squealed. "No, uh. No."
Edward looked at Esme with seething dislike, and at Isabella with growing concern. He learned to whisper something in her ear, cupping his hand over the place where he spoke. Pleadingly, Isabella shook her head. Don't start, her expression seemed to beg.
"Isabella, have you started to plan the wedding?"
Bella looked taken aback and abruptly overwhelmed, and she shifted uncomfortably. "I was imagining something small," she said bashfully, and her enthusiasm grew to a faint ember. Edward smiled. "Small, intimate ceremony with some friends and family. I'd like it to be outside, by the forest. I don't – uh, I don't know if that's OK."
Edward's voice was so soft, in that achingly sweet tone he used for her only. "Of course it's OK. That sounds perfect," he said gently. "We can do whatever you want."
Esme disagreed fervently. She made her feelings clear by pursing her lips with displeasure. "I know my input is quite possibly unwelcome," she began acidly, "but I think that is wholly inappropriate."
"I want to hear your input, Mom. I want to take your advice." Bella said fervently, shaking her head.
"How the tables turn," Esme said with cold amusement. "You've been keeping me at arm's length for so long."
"Mom…"
"You started stonewalling her years ago," Edward interjected mordantly.
Bella touched his hand in warning, in the way she would still him when he fidgeted when they were teenagers. "I don't care about that," she told them both, and her tone was pleading.
wiped off her tears and plastered a thin smile on her face.
Edward's and Esme's responses to that statement were diametrically at odds. Edward sucked in an irritated huff. He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Esme was delighted. Ever haunted by vivid fantasies, Esme had imagined her wedding to Carlisle since 1977 – from the instant Carlisle called her to invite her to lunch. Then twenty-six, Esme had crafted the wedding of her imagining from the moment she hung up the phone.
Inadvertently, Isabella had given Esme the gift of living her greatest fantasy vicariously. Esme felt a fresh swell of deep adoration for her darling girl.
"You're my sweet little pea," Esme said cooingly, and she touched the tip of Isabella's perfect nose. "For one, sweetheart, I think it's very important that you remember you'll be the next Mrs. Cullen."
Edward cringed and Bella blanched. Her lips turned so chalky and pale Esme almost worried she would faint. The guilt that had settled hauntingly into her features – replacing her glow – was turning into doubt. She looked at Edward with muted embarrassment, shaking her head so infinitesimally that the movement was imperceptible.
Edward looked furious. "It's our goddamned wedding. If she wants to get married in the middle of a swamp by a shaman, it's her call." Bella's grip on his hand tightened.
"May I finish?" Esme said pleasantly, raising a hand without raising her voice. She knew how to stop this train in its tracks. Esme spoke to Bella alone.
"Darling, unlike other Cullen brides…" At this, Esme's heart hurt. Isabella had two strikes against her: a set of severe disabilities and an utterly scandalous background. She touched the orthosis on Isabella's right leg very pointedly. Edward did not see the gesture, and Isabella's shoulders fell crookedly. Bella looked devastated, and Edward looked pained and angry.
"It is especially important for you to demonstrate you're up for the role. There's generations of family prestige to be considered."
Even Esme could see the weight of expectation falling on Edward's shoulders at that moment, making them curve. In those eyes Esme could read like print sentences, Esme could see seeds of strain. Edward was a heady mix of his grandparents and parents: his baser instincts battled his better angels. Edward did care – about image, about position, about prestige.
"That should be your north star throughout your planning process," Esme continued, with fresh enthusiasm. "I wouldn't be surprised if you started to develop a calendar of social engagements this next fall."
Bella paled even more and sank deeper into the cushion, looking like she wanted to bury her face in her hands. "I… Really?"
"Yes," Esme said, comfortingly. "For instance, Edward, are you taking Isabella to the Board Meeting in Manhattan? For Cullen Corporate Holdings? I know your aunt Siobhan organizes a gathering for family."
Bella looked up at Edward in terror, and Edward glowered at his aunt hatefully. Bella's head whipped back and forth – from Edward's to Esme's. "Is it important?" she asked Esme with dread, reminding Esme of her as a little girl.
"I would have never missed it," Esme said, in a tone meant to educate. She omitted to mention that Elizabeth had skipped the family gathering with religious zeal. "And, darling. This is a lovely outfit, but it is so evident you bought it at JC Penney's or some such. The fabric is cheap. We need to buy a wardrobe that is up to par."
Esme was now glowing, vividly imagining picking Isabella's outfits for these early stages of her newlywed life – imagining the babies that would follow. Esme's grandchildren. Like fantasies so often did, these fantasies came vividly and unbidden almost instantaneously.
"We need to set a budget," Esme continued brightly. "We should request an engagement announcement in the papers. The guest list should be expansive enough to cover family friends and…"