Mortality

Unnatural Shade

Windows down, my mother and I cruise through the blistering Phoenix sun. I watch the perfect, cloudless blue sky with a wry smile and a heavy heart. I already miss the sun, the heat. I look at the hooded flannel on my lap, my fingers lightly tracing over the edge of my sleeveless t-shirt. I bid my freckled arms farewell, clutching the green and gray cover to my chest. My only other carry-on is my phone and earbuds. I face northward, to my distant destination.

All the way in Washington state, a town named Forks exists, protected by a thick covering of clouds and rain. When I was a baby, my mother escaped from its oppressive shade, though she sent me back every summer for 14 years. I stopped visiting the north between fifteen and now, content to see my dad over Skype instead. Looking back on it, I think I hurt really him doing that.

It is to Forks that I now exile myself — an action that I take with a lump in my throat and fear creating little tooth marks on my lower lip. I'm so used to the heat and sun of Phoenix, the idea of a day where sixty degrees is considered warm sends a shiver down my spine.

I'd better get used to shivering.

"Bella," my mom, Renee, says putting her little car into park, "I'm going to say this again; you don't have to go. Especially when you're so close to finishing high school."

I face my mother, Renee Dwyer, my doppelganger in all ways but hair length, with a weak smile. There's a small spasm in my chest at the sight of her wide, childlike blue eyes. It's cruel of me to leave her. My erratic, harebrained mother. So harebrained she can hardly cook for herself, let alone care for the home. How can she fend for herself out there? I consider accepting her offer right as logic cuts in. She's married, has Phil. She'll have food, gas, and someone to call when she needs a shoulder.

Renee doesn't need me. Not like she used to.

"Mom, I want to do this," I lie, pushing my glasses up my nose. "You know I hate traveling so often, and this way I can focus on completing school." And you won't be stuck in Phoenix while your husband goes on the adventure you crave. She looks visibly relieved at that, her hands even reaching to tie her long hair back.

"Alright. This is just ... sudden. I'm going to miss my little dancer." I mentally cringe at the nickname. I haven't danced in years. I want to remind her, but I don't. I let her win this round.

"I'm going to miss you too, Mom. I'd better get in there before the plane abandons me. I love you."

"I love you too. Text when you get to your dad's house," she leans over and gives me a tight squeeze of a hug, making my shoulder blades pop in the process. I don't complain about it, she never listens when I ask her not to touch me anyway. I gather my belongings and head to the doors.

It's a four-hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, another hour in a small plane up to Port Angeles, and then an hour's drive back down to Forks. I spend the entire time blasting music that varies from Disney to grunge and back to pop, my hands scribbling in my little notebook about everything I see out the window. It's a little dizzying, but it keeps me from thinking about the hour I'll traverse with my dad. I'm dreading it.

Charlie—that's my dad—is a sweet, friendly fellow, and has been really nice about the whole situation, even seeming genuinely excited for me to move in with him. But after three years just talking over the computer, things are bound to be awkward between us. Neither of us are very talkative to begin with. Knowing this makes me wonder if we'd even have something to connect over.

I ... don't know my father.

We land in Port Angeles to a light sprinkle of water, thunder far off in the distance. I pull the hood up on my flannel and take my bags, eyes scanning the parking lot for a car or truck with Charlie beside it.