What am I? Well, these days, I seem to be a lot of things--so much has changed. First and foremost, I am a woman--a mother. I'm the only female jeweler in Forks; often the butt of many chauvinistic jokes. In my years of absence, I'd all but forgotten how small town this place could be. There had been many ladies in school with me. GIA was the pinnacle school in the world, and I'd been easily accepted—welcomed with open arms.
There is no jewelry store in Forks itself; I commute to Port Angeles each day. My playground is a 10'x20' neutral colored, solidly windowed room. The repair shop is my home away from home; my getaway. Diamonds and stones of color are my toys. I twist and contort precious metals into shapes pulled from deep within the human psyche. I can set stones the size of golf balls, and not bat an eyelash. Even watch repairs are not beneath me. I'm just as comfortable as a horologist, as I am as a jeweler. Custom design is truly my forte; I'd developed an eye for design—even in New York I was acclaimed for my skills. My passion for metal smithing was all I had left, after my heart—my soul—left me.
"It shall be as I never existed."
I am powerful in my trade, especially when regarding my age—a mere 23. When I came back home, after the incident, with my sick child, Charlie didn't know what to say. He didn't even know we were having issues. I didn't tell anyone about what my husband was doing—or had done to me. Everything started out great, we fell in love, had an intimate wedding, and I had my son when I turned 21. My son, my little Aaron, was the turning point in everything.
Quickly after my son was born, he turned very ill. He was in the hospital for weeks, with tubes inserted in places I didn't realize he had. He was in incubators with strangely colored lights, and the nurses whispered things about heart murmurs, jaundice, and apnea. My beautiful little boy would just stop breathing. Nobody knew why—it was just a talent of his—to evoke panic in everyone in the room. He would turn colors, and then as quickly as it started, it stopped.
Time passed, and my newborn grew, as did my unending love for him. Each day, my heart grew just a little bit bigger. As my love waxed, my husband's waned, and soon he turned cruel. I knew that he did not love me—I just didn't know how to escape. It was only when he turned violent that I found the strength to leave, and never looked back. Those last few weeks had been hell, and had left it's marks on my now fraile exterior. Charlie was on the first flight from Washington when I called him; from the hospital this time. My son, almost two year old, had been on one of his crying jags. Toddlers are known for that, but my husband was never big on patience.
Especially now that we know he has a genetic disorder—a disorder that had been pinpointed to my husband's side of the family. He threw me down the stairs because I could not make our son stop crying. I had broken quite a few bones, but I'd been worse off. Most certainly I'd known worse pain. Just knowing that Charlie had my boy, and that Renée was on her way, was enough to pull me through this time.
There was so much to do, and I wouldn't be recovered enough to pack our things for a few weeks, at the very least. I had told my father that I wanted to come home to Forks. I'd had enough of Manhattan, and now that my husband was in jail, and the divorce would be uncontested, I could start over. Again. I'd done this before. The only difference is the sick child, whom I could not hold in my arms because they were broken—I was broken. Nobody knew better than I did, how love had the power to break you.