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The Falling

Summary:
In the action itself, she is weightless and free. The flight is not to be feared, only the impact. A story on the life of Esme Cullen. Image Hosted by ImageShack.us Banner By incredible Iris!


Notes:
I may submit this to the official site. What do you think?


59. Chapter 59

Rating 5/5   Word Count 636   Review this Chapter

That just traps you,

“Of course you’ll stay here,” Eileen says, with a definitive air of that settles it.

“Thank you.”

I am certain she hears the relief in my voice. “Why do you sound so surprised, Esme? You surely didn’t think I planned to throw you to the wolves!”

“That’s what my mother did,” I explain.

“Ah, dear cousin. How do I put this politely… your mother is a loon. Come, let’s get you settle in.”

After this initial meeting, my life took on a distinct shape remarkably quickly. I slept in Eileen’s spare bedroom. Her affable giant of a husband and I became close friends. I gossiped with Eileen until the wee hours of the morning, like we were two schoolgirls again. Halfway through the second week, I told her about Carlisle, and after that a favorite source of amusement was guessing his mysteries.

I didn’t work after all. I didn’t need to. We had plenty of money, and Milwaukee, not Ashland, as I’d thought, had no shortage of schoolteachers.

It was a happy quartet of months. I lived like a queen. Eileen and I regained our youthful familiarity instantly. We were effortless friends. She treated me so kindly, so generously, and so gently.

I had forgotten the feeling of love in my life. My only experience with joy was my daydreams of Carlisle and my anticipation of this child.

It was something I recovered living with Eileen and Neil.

I remember one day particularly. I am six months pregnant, huge already, with what Neil confidently predicts will be a “lusty little lad, won’t he?” in the best manner of his Irish heritage.

I have my hands folded over my copious stomach, and Eileen is supporting my back in one hand and a picnic basket in another. The sun is shining pleasantly, and I enjoy the feelings of the beams beating down on me.

Freedom, as the green of the leaves is illuminated by the sunlight which filters not only through chinks in the foliage, but also holes in each individual leaf, seems ridiculously attainable.

I could live like this forever. Admittedly, I’m not supporting myself, not really contributing to my own life at all, but I am a good guest—I do whatever work I can with my vast stomach and help my friends to lead a generally pleasanter existence. Eileen and I joke that it’s days like that picnic that make a permanent houseguest terribly convenient, since one would feel a terrible glutton for purchasing all that food to eat oneself, but if it’s merely a kindness for a friend, well…

I would those sorts of days could last forever.

But happiness in my life is always fast.

I see the poster on a stroll into town, laughing as I’m sandwiched between Neil and Eileen.

“Look!” I exclaim.

Eileen hurries over, and gasps, “Oh my God.”

“Dear Jesus,” her husband echoes.

The poster reads: Wanted, one Esme Anne Evenson, twenty-five years of age, possessed of heart-shaped face, brown hair the color of honey or caramel, and generally good features-

“They make you sound like a horse for sale,” Eileen snickers-

for abandonment of her husband, one Charles Evenson, kidnapping of his unborn son, Charles the Second, and thievery of his automobile. With information, call her parents or Mr. Evenson…

I stop reading there. The fact that he named my child sticks in my throat, and the black letters swim on the page.

“Good-bye,” I say to grave faces, and I am escorted back home.

Eileen and Neil see me out of town within the hour.

To another threatened fall,