I could picture him writing this scrawling the angry letters in his rough handwriting, slashing through line after line when the words came out wrong, maybe even snapping the pen in his too-big hand that would explain the ink splatters. I ran my fingers across the page, feeling the dents where he had pressed the pen to the paper so hard that it had nearly broken through. She paused, too, and then we both smiled at the little awkwardness. What had she been up to in the past six years? Was Pop okay, and had they found each other, wherever they were?-but she opened her mouth where I did, so I stopped to let her go first. see me, I was about to ask her a question I had so many What was she doing here in my dream? Apparently, she hadn’t been expecting either. Our mouths-hers a wizened pucker-spread into the same surprised half-smile at just the same time. Like a dried apricot, but with a puff of thick white hair standing out in a cloud around it. The skin was soft and withered, bent into a thousand tiny creases that clung gently to the bone underneath. Gran hadn’t changed much her face looked just the same as I remembered it. Gran had been dead for six years now, so that was solid evidence for the dream theory. The reasons I was so certain were that, first, I was standing in a bright shaft of sunlight-the kind of blinding clear sun that never shone on my drizzly new hometown in Forks, Washington-and second, I was looking at my Grandma Marie. I was ninety-nine point nine percent sure I was dreaming. Of course, she had Phil now, so the bills would probably get paid, there would be food in the refrigerator, gas in her car, and someone to call when she got lost, but still… New Moon How could I leave my loving, erratic, harebrained mother to fend for herself? I felt a spasm of panic as I stared at her wide, childlike eyes. My mom looks like me, except with short hair and laugh lines. “Bella,” my mom said to be – the last of a thousand times before I got on the plane. It was to Forks that I now exiled myself- an action. That was the year I finally put my foot down these past three summers, my dad, Charlie, vacationed with me in California for two weeks instead.

It was in this town that I’d been compelled to spend a month every summer until I was fourteen. It was from this town and its gloomy, omnipresent shade that my mother escaped with me when I was only a few months old. It rains on this inconsequential town more than any other place in the United States of America. In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington State, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. I was wearing my favorite shirt-sleeveless, white eyelet lace I was wearing it as a farewell gesture. It was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, the sky a perfect, cloudless blue. My mother drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down.

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