Page 46 of Life and Death: Twilight Reimagined (The Twilight Saga)

H ER DRIVING WAS JUST FINE , I HAD TO ADMIT—WHEN SHE KEPT the speed reasonable.

Like so many things, it seemed to be effortless for her.

She barely looked at the road, yet the truck was always perfectly centered in her lane.

She drove one-handed, because I was holding her other hand between us.

Sometimes she gazed into the setting sun, which glittered off her skin in ruby-tinged shimmers.

Sometimes she glanced at me—stared into my eyes or looked down at our hands twined together.

She had tuned the radio to an oldies station, and she sang along with a song I’d never heard. Her voice was as perfect as everything else about her, soaring an octave above the melody. She knew every line.

“You like fifties music?” I asked.

“Music in the fifties was good. Much better than the sixties, or the seventies, ugh!” She shuddered delicately. “The eighties were bearable.”

“Are you ever going to tell me how old you are?”

I wondered if my question would upset her buoyant mood, but she just smiled.

“Does it matter very much?”

“No, but I want to know everything about you.”

“I wonder if it will upset you,” she said to herself. She stared straight into the sun; a minute passed.

“Try me,” I finally said.

She looked into my eyes, seeming to forget the road completely for a while. Whatever she saw must have encouraged her. She turned to face the last bloodred rays of the dying sun and sighed.

“I was born in Chicago in 1901.” She paused and glanced at me from the corner of her eye.

My face was carefully arranged, unsurprised, patient for the rest. She smiled a tiny smile and continued.

“Carine found me in a hospital in the summer of 1918. I was seventeen, and I was dying of the Spanish influenza.”

She heard my gasp and looked up into my eyes again.

“I don’t remember it very well. It was a long time ago, and human memories fade.” She seemed lost in thought for a minute, but before I could prompt her, she went on. “I do remember how it felt when Carine saved me. It’s not an easy thing, not something you could forget.”

“Your parents?”

“They had already died from the disease. I was alone. That’s why she chose me. In all the chaos of the epidemic, no one would ever realize I was gone.”

“How did she . . . save you?”

A few seconds passed, and when she spoke again she seemed to be choosing her words very carefully.

“It was difficult. Not many of us have the restraint necessary to accomplish it. But Carine has always been the most humane, the most compassionate of all of us. . . . I don’t think you could find her equal anywhere in history.” She paused. “For me, it was merely very, very painful.”

She set her jaw, and I could tell she wasn’t going to say anything more about it. I filed it away for later. My curiosity on the subject was hardly idle. There were lots of angles I needed to think through on this particular issue, angles that were only beginning to occur to me.

Her soft voice interrupted my thoughts. “She acted from loneliness. That’s usually the reason behind the choice.

I was the first in Carine’s family, though she found Earnest soon after.

He fell from a cliff. They took him straight to the hospital morgue, though, somehow, his heart was still beating. ”

“So you have to be dying, then. . . .”

“No, that’s just Carine. She would never do that to someone who had another choice, any other choice.

” The respect in her voice was profound whenever she spoke of her adoptive mother.

“It is easier, she says, though, if the heart is weak.” She stared at the now-dark road, and I could feel the subject closing again.

“And Eleanor and Royal?”

“Carine brought Royal into our family next. I didn’t realize till much later that she was hoping he would be to me what Earnest was to her—she was careful with her thoughts around me.

” She rolled her eyes. “But he was never more than a brother. It was only two years later that he found Eleanor. He was hunting—we were in Appalachia at the time—and found a bear about to finish her off. He carried her back to Carine, more than a hundred miles, afraid he wouldn’t be able to do it himself.

I’m only beginning to guess how difficult that journey was for him.

” She threw a pointed glance in my direction and raised our hands, still folded together, to brush her cheek against my hand.

“But he made it.”

“Yes. He saw something in her face that made him strong enough. And they’ve been together ever since.

Sometimes they live separately from us, as a married couple.

But the younger we pretend to be, the longer we can stay in any given place.

Forks is perfect in many ways, so we all enrolled in high school.

” She laughed. “I suppose we’ll have to go to the wedding in a few years. Again.”

“Archie and Jessamine?”

“Archie and Jessamine are two very rare creatures. They both developed a conscience , as we refer to it, with no outside guidance. Jessamine belonged to another . . . family, a very different kind of family. She became depressed, and she wandered on her own. Archie found her. Like me, he has certain gifts.”

“Really?” I interrupted, fascinated. “But you said you were the only one who could hear people’s thoughts.”

“That’s true. He knows other things. He sees things—things that might happen, things that are coming. But it’s very subjective. The future isn’t set in stone. Things change.”

Her jaw set when she said that, and her eyes darted to my face and away so quickly that I wasn’t sure if I’d only imagined it.

“What kinds of things does he see?”

“He saw Jessamine and knew that she was looking for him before she knew it herself. He saw Carine, and our family, and they came together to find us. He’s most sensitive to non-humans. He always knows, for example, when another group of our kind is coming near. And any threat they may pose.”

“Are there a lot of . . . your kind?” I was surprised. How many of them could walk around with us all totally oblivious?

My mind got caught on one word she’d said. Threat . It was the first time she’d ever said anything to hint that her world wasn’t just dangerous for humans. It made me anxious, and I was about to ask a new question, but she was already answering my first.

“No, not many. But most won’t settle in any one place.

Only those like us, who’ve given up hunting you people”—a sly glance in my direction—“can live together with humans for any length of time. We’ve only found one other family like ours, in a small village in Alaska.

We lived together for a time, but there were so many of us that we became too noticeable.

Those of us who live . . . differently, tend to band together. ”

“And the others?”

“Nomads, for the most part. We’ve all lived that way at times. It gets tedious, like anything else. But we run across the others now and then, because most of us prefer the North.”

“Why is that?”

We were parked in front of my house now, and she turned off the truck. The silence that followed its roar felt intense. It was very dark; there was no moon. The porch light was off, so I knew my dad wasn’t home yet.

“Did you have your eyes open this afternoon?” she teased. “Do you think I could walk down the street in the sunlight without causing traffic accidents?”

I thought to myself that she could stop traffic even without all the pyrotechnics.

“There’s a reason why we chose the Olympic Peninsula, one of the most sunless places in the world. It’s nice to be able to go outside in the day. You wouldn’t believe how tired you can get of nighttime in eighty-odd years.”

“So that’s where the legends came from?”

“Probably.”

“And Archie came from another family, like Jessamine?”

“No, and that is a mystery. Archie doesn’t remember his human life at all.

And he doesn’t know who created him. He awoke alone.

Whoever made him walked away, and none of us understand why, or how, he could.

If Archie hadn’t had that other sense, if he hadn’t seen Jessamine and Carine and known that he would someday become one of us, he probably would have turned into a total savage. ”

There was so much to think through, so much I still wanted to ask. But just then my stomach growled. I’d been so interested, I hadn’t even noticed I was hungry. I realized now that I was starving.

“I’m sorry, I’m keeping you from dinner.”

“I’m fine, really.”

“I don’t spend a lot of time around people who eat food. I forget.”

“I want to stay with you.” It was easier to say in the darkness, knowing how my voice would betray me, my hopeless addiction to her.

“Can’t I come in?” she asked.

“Would you like to?” I couldn’t picture it, a goddess sitting in my dad’s shabby kitchen chair.

“Yes, if you don’t mind.”

I smiled. “I do not.”

I climbed out of the truck and she was already there; then she flitted ahead and disappeared. The lights turned on inside.

She met me at the door. It was so surreal to see her inside my house, framed by the boring physical details of my humdrum life. I remembered a game my mother used to play with me when I was maybe four or five. One of these things is not like the others.

“Did I leave that unlocked?” I wondered.

“No, I used the key from under the eave.”

I hadn’t thought I’d used that key in front of her. I remembered how she’d found my truck key, and shrugged.

“You’re hungry, right?” And she led the way to the kitchen, as if she’d been here a million times before.

She turned on the kitchen light and then sat in the same chair I’d just tried to picture her in.

The kitchen didn’t look so dingy anymore.

But maybe that was because I couldn’t really look at anything but her.

I stood there for a moment, trying to wrap my mind around her presence here in the middle of mundania.

“Eat something, Beau.”