One more chapter and this book is over. shucks...
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It was a long plane ride back to Washington, leaving me with a great deal of time to think. Ántonia's complex plan for my life ran through my head over and over again. In the time I spent rationalizing it, I realized she had some moments of sanity. I did want something more than what had been offered to me thus far, but overthrowing the Volturi? Most vampires wouldn't think of that unless they wanted to risk their lives. The topic came up often when I was traveling with Ántonia, when we were safely beneath the blanket of her stealth and secrecy. I had always considered the discussion in theory, not practice, but what was the point of the talk if one never acted upon it? Perhaps Ántonia thought I would carry on her work and encourage my family to follow her plans. In actuality, I hadn't thought of much else besides Sasha and me since he and I got together.
I was no revolutionary. I was a selfish, lovesick girl.
Jacob dropped me off in front of the house with little fanfare. We barely spoken since we'd left the castle, so why start now? A simple wave and a promise to call me the next day was all he offered. I appreciated it. That was all I needed.
My mother was sitting in the living room when I entered the house with a leather travel bag on my shoulder. Just her. No one else, despite the fact that I'd been gone for several days. For the first time in seven years, I was not the center of attention. There were no lights on, and the overcast sky prevented the sun from illuminating the space. Regardless, my mother sat with a book in her lap. She closed it quietly when she saw me come in from the foyer. "Welcome home, sweetheart," she murmured.
I didn't know why those words broke me. Perhaps I'd been quiet for too long, alone for too long, despite how much I may have wanted that at one time. It was too much for any one person to handle. I crumpled to the floor. My chest seized up as painful sobs wracked my body. Tears stung my eyes with no foreseeable way to stop them.
My mother was there at my side, protecting me from the hardwood floor. She rocked me as I moaned and wailed nonsense. She flinched when my hands flashed picture after picture of Sasha's lifeless face, but she didn't let go. My mother kissed me and cradled me like she had when I was very young, when she believed I was going to be ripped from her. Overwhelming guilt crushed me that she had indeed gone through that, only it hadn't been the Volturi who tore me away; it had been my own doing. And still, she held me when I was falling apart.
"Was it very bad?" my mother whispered. I'd counted the ticks of the clock as I cried; my sobbing finally subsided about thirty minutes ago. She had coaxed me to the comfort of the sofa. We left the lights off. I lay on my side with my head in her lap as she slowly ran her fingers through my tangled airplane hair.
"Yes," I whispered back. I tried to imagine what Ántonia was doing right now, since it couldn't possibly be what I was doing. She was alone, but I had no doubt her pain was comparable to my own. I wondered if Sasha's paintings were still there or if Ántonia ripped them from their mounts and destroyed them in her grief. It seemed like a natural reaction, and yet, I couldn't quite envision it. Could Ántonia ever let herself lose control like that? "It's hard to know what Ántonia is thinking, but I'm sure she hates me." I swallowed. I'd failed to protect her best friend. I'd failed to follow through on her plans. Of course, my mother did not know that, and I had no idea how to begin to tell her about it.
"Ántonia cares about you. She doesn't hate you," my mother said easily.
Tears continued to slip sideways down my face even though I believed there couldn't be another tear in my body. I debated going into Ántonia's plans for me. Somehow, I couldn't make my mouth form the words. Ántonia's ideas were dangerous and so volatile. Simply giving my family knowledge was risky. Ántonia had given-or forced-this burden on me. I needed it hidden for a little bit longer. I would keep it safe and in turn keep my family safe. I'd kept secrets before and I was confident I could do it again.
"She'll never forgive me," I said instead, keeping the conversation from that hidden path.
"Would Sasha have forgiven you?"
"Sasha is gone," I said harshly.
"He had no regrets. Those were his own words," she murmured. The words were etched into my mind. Sasha had spoken reverently about how our love woke up his sleeping heart. Although he had many fears, he had no regrets about pursuing it. And in refusing to let him erase my memories, I proved to him that I did not regret it either. "Ántonia knew following you here was the right thing for Sasha. And she loves you for loving him."
I closed my eyes, searching for darkness. Even with the lights off, I could see too much.
"Ántonia may be angry right now, but when she remembers that she'll realize there's nothing to forgive," my mother carefully reasoned.
Nothing to forgive? That was very difficult for me to accept. I didn't forgive myself and I probably never would. This was just my mother insisting once again that no one was at fault the day that Sasha died. But someone had to take responsibility and she wasn't going to convince me otherwise, not today anyway.
Her statement, however, led me to think about forgiveness and everything I had done to wrong her. I wanted that behind us. I didn't have it in me to fight anymore. "Do you forgive me?" I inquired, my voice sounding weak.
My mother knew I wasn't talking about Sasha's death because as she previously stated, she believed nothing needed to be forgiven on that subject. Everything else between us had yet to be addressed. And truth be told, it never would be beyond this night. Everything else that we fought and argued about had suddenly become so trivial, it didn't require additional attention.
"I forgive you, Renesmee," she cooed, sliding her cool fingers through my hair once again. Her gentle tone offered me the promise of her sincerity.
"I love you, Momma" I replied. It had been so long since I called her by that endearment. My mother and I had failed to communicate on so many levels, but I hoped in that one word she would know that never did I stop loving her. I never would.
"I'll always love you, baby."
Sleep took me that night in a sweep of jetlag, remorse, and absolution. For a fleeting moment, I felt terror at the idea that every night would feel this way, but it was soon calmed by the gentle touch of my mother's hand.
