I am dying.

Over and over, in my head, those three words played. It wasn’t as frightening as I always expected death to be. Death meant relief, and that was something I would welcome, no matter the cost. But something more was cutting into the revolving litany running through my head.

So is Edward.

Edward. My son. His father was already gone. His last day was spent in violent spasms, as the horrid hacking became almost constant. He had shared the cot next to me, and I was able to hold his hand as he left this disease-ridden room for greener pastures. I was glad he was finally past the pain, and I was glad I would be joining him soon. But not my Edward.

Not my son.

As the last rays of the sun slid through the dirty, cracked windows of the crowded ward, I prayed. I prayed harder than I ever had in my entire life. In fact, I would say that any conscious thought I had now was strung along with pleas to the Lord to help my boy, the baby I waited so long for. Fought dying so long for. Perhaps wanting him to survive this was greedy – after all, was not Heaven the ultimate goal? Did we not belong with our Lord? Wouldn’t this death be kinder to him than the one he wanted to face on the battlefields of Europe? Silly boy, wanting to be part of something so dangerous. And it was not that he was not brave enough, because I knew my Edward was already very much a man, in thought and deed. But he was my only child. Surely a mother should be allowed to grow old with at least one child beside her?

If I had had the strength to laugh, I would have. There would be no growing old for me, or my Edward.

As they had so many times through the last few weeks, my thoughts scattered. The pain was almost overwhelming now, much worse than the dull ache that signaled the beginning of the end for me, for all of us. As I fought to stay quiet, for his sake, I struggled to remember a time when the fire did not consume me.

It was June, just days before Edward’s fifteenth birthday. His father had taken him to see one of the new short comedies playing at the theatre on State Street. Edward always had enjoyed going into the city and riding the streetcars as a child, and as far as I could tell, his excitement had not waned one bit. Their animated chatter reached me in the kitchen as they came up the front walk.

“Just think, Father. Wouldn’t it be fantastic? So many people will have access to the city now that the Post Road Act has passed. This will be a huge boon to everyone.” Of course Edward would be excited about this. He had many friends who lived in rural areas. Always thinking of others. I smiled as I heard his father’s attempt at rebuttal.

“Well, son, that’s all well and good, but you know that the government intends those roads to be used by the post. That’s why they named it such as they did.” I could hear the laughter in his voice. He knew very well that a reply like that would not go unanswered.

Edward did not disappoint. “You really think people are not going to take advantage of these roads? Really, Father, I thought you’d have given this more consideration…”

I was ripped from my reverie by the addition of a heavy weight on the end of my shabby cot. I opened my eyes slowly, my head in agony as the bright lights of the ward greeted my weakening pupils. Bit by bit, surroundings became clearer. I saw a halo of golden locks, and exhaled in relief. Ah, Dr. Cullen. I liked him so much more than the other physicians who tended us. He was infinitely kinder than most, and never seemed to be in a rush. I closed my eyes again, and felt myself relax just a bit as I heard the rustle of papers and then his softly accented voice.

“Well, Mrs. Masen, how are we feeling tonight?” He had to have known it was a futile question, but the fact that someone out there was still aware I could think consciously was a blessing itself. Since I was no longer blinded by the bare fixtures overhead, my head had calmed and I could bear to joke, just a bit. Surely I deserved something good as I lay here, dying.

I am dying. “Well, Dr. Cullen, I’m feeling quite a bit better today. I believe I shall pack Edward up and we may just stop at the market on our way home. I think he would like a roast tonight.”

A very indelicate snort was the reply. Such banter had come to be common between us, and it was yet another blessing, because if I had to deal with the reality of this every moment of every day, I would not have been able to bear it.

“Hmm… I see. Well, let me just write your discharge. I am so glad you’re feeling up to cooking.” He patted my ankle gently, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Won’t you bring these poor nurses whatever ravenous young Edward does not eat?”

“Oh, to be sure, Dr. Cullen, to be sure. I wouldn’t dream-“My words were cut short by the hacking cough that was becoming my constant companion these days. Dr. Cullen remained perched at the end of my shoddy bed. I cracked my eyelids just in time to see him signal to someone, and moments later a cool glass was pressed into my hand. My sides ached so, I almost couldn’t stand it. Through it all, Edward remained quiet next to me, pale and still in sleep. The way he slept lately had begun to frighten me. It was as if he was already… gone. To be so still, so quiet, even in rest… it wasn’t natural. I looked back towards the end of my own cot.

The smile had slipped, and in its place a look of concern marred the doctor’s beautiful features. As kind and good as I knew Dr. Cullen to be, there was still something not quite right about him. I could feel it. But at this moment, when every blink, every movement, every breath was being counted, I decided it did not matter. He was kind enough to offer the comfort that others did not. That was enough for me.

He looked directly at me now, his eyes solemn.

 “Elizabeth. Truly, how are you tonight?”

“In truth, Dr. Cullen-“

“Please, call me Carlisle.”

Another kindness. To most, I was a number on a chart. To him, I was Elizabeth, and I was a person worthy of knowing, not just someone waiting for space in the morgue.

“Carlisle. I do not know. The pain is becoming worse. I do not recall most of my day, actually.” This was the most frightening of all. Even though death itself did not hold me in fear, the process did. And I had spent days watching my beloved husband slip in and out, in and out, wondering if he would come back to me again. Last Monday, he slipped. First in, then out. And he did not come back. Had Edward really been sleeping all day? Did he see me? Was I slipping? Was he afraid? So many questions, not enough time. Every breath, measured.

“My dear, I do know you appreciate frankness. But this is one of those times that I will not be direct with you.” His features changed again, sliding into sadness. Even as my mind registered what he was not telling me, that it would not be much longer, I was abruptly distracted by a bright shimmer near his hand. A nurse had walked by with a large candelabrum, but there was nothing to reflect the light anywhere near Dr. Cullen. Hmm. Maybe my time was now. Shimmering beams would take me to the pearly gates, and there I would greet my husband, and wait for Edward.

Not Edward.

“Carlisle.” I had to pause again, as the hacking resumed. I had not spoken more than four words at once throughout the day, and my body was resisting this pathetic attempt at conversation. I began again, hoarser than before.

“Carlisle. Tell me how Edward is doing.” My baby. My little boy. Flickers of memories, Edward as a young child, floated through my consciousness. It was difficult to catch anything clearly, now.

Dr. Cullen rose gracefully, and much more quickly than I expected him to. I was startled, and jumped ever so slightly. This brought on another fit of coughing, and he glanced at me apologetically.

“I am so sorry, Elizabeth. I did not mean to frighten you.” He looked quite rueful. I shook my head at him, unable to answer but wanting to convey that it was alright.

A stirring came from the cot next to mine, and I glanced over in time to see Edward slowly open his eyes. He appeared to be having the same problem I was with the brightness of the room. His voice was worse than mine, although it had been somewhat rougher in recent months anyway, due to his age. He was becoming a man. Oh, how I wished I could be here to see it. That he could be here to live it.

“Mama.” He turned his head towards my bed, and I could feel the tears beginning to form behind my lids. How long had it been since he’d called me ‘mama’? “Mama, are you alright?” He extended his pale hand toward me, and I clasped it in mine as the coughing subsided.

“I am quite fine, my love. I was just telling Dr. Cullen here that you and I were going to be leaving today, and that I had plans to make you a roast tonight.” Perhaps an attempt at humor would soften the bleak look in his eyes, just a little.

He smiled at me, that same crooked smile that made me fall in love with his father. “That sounds very nice. Shall I go out to the larder and get you some carrots and potatoes, or do you prefer the turnips?” His nose crinkled at that. He disliked turnips. Immensely.

Throughout our exchange, Dr. Cullen watched Edward indulgently. There was a certain degree of tenderness to his expression as he regarded my son, and it made me wonder if he had children of his own. I was ashamed to realize I had never thought to ask him. Well, it wasn’t like I did not have a good reason to forget the pleasantries. As I glanced from him to my son, I realized that Dr. Cullen’s color was not all that much better than Edward’s. Perhaps he was becoming ill, too. He never wore a mask, and never shied away when examining his patients.

“Dr. Cullen, are you feeling well?” Surely he was getting ill, too. This was unacceptable. I could not make it through my last days without the comfort he brought me, and Edward, too. I was just selfish enough to want him to remain well long enough for me to die. Long enough to save Edward.

He continued to gaze at Edward, who appeared to have fallen back asleep, head still turned towards mine. He did not cough as much as his father and I, but his breathing was labored and this seemed to concern the doctor. “I feel quite fine. Please, Elizabeth, do not worry about me.” His gaze remained fixed on my son. “You have enough to concern yourself with.”

I glanced at Edward, too, and chided Dr. Cullen gently. “You never did answer my question. How is Edward?” I needed to know.

“He is doing better than some.” He hesitated. “However, this disease has been known to progress unsteadily. Those who are well one day may be very ill within two or three.” He sighed. “And then those who are stubborn,” he glanced at me, and smiled slightly, “well, they continue to hang on.”

I knew he considered me to be one who could fight this, if I tried hard enough. I had nursed Edward and his father the best I could while we were here, but it hadn’t been enough. But even though my mind was far from wanting to give in, my body was already done. I could banter with him no longer tonight. The fatigue was overwhelming, and I could feel the burning increasing. My poor Edward. He would have to fight this on his own, because I could not stay, no matter how stubborn I was. Just as I began to speak, the nurse with the candelabrum walked down our tight little aisle again, and I caught the reflection I had seen before more fully. It was coming from Dr. Cullen’s hand. From his skin. This man was not average, that I knew already. However, the more I came to know him over the past few weeks, the more I was convinced that it was not a bad thing. In fact, maybe it could be very good.

For Edward.

My voice was not as strong as it had been five minutes ago, and I knew that I did not have much time left.

“Save him,” I croaked.

He came back to my cot, sitting closer to me now so that he could take my hand in his. I felt horrid that he was risking himself, his health, to comfort me, but I was too weak now to pull my hand away from his.

“You know I’ll do everything in my power.” He patted my hand gently, and the frigidity of his skin was like a balm to me. I focused on that coldness.

“You must.” I could feel what was left of my resolve solidify. I had never believed in the supernatural. But in this moment, when every breath counted, and I could feel my tenuous grasp on consciousness slip, I knew that Carlisle Cullen was something different. And that he was the key to saving Edward.

Save my son.

“You must,” I repeated, “do everything in your power. What others cannot do, you must do for my Edward.”

He replied, but I did not hear him. Only one thought was in my head now, and it stayed with me, even as the darkness closed in.

Save my son.

Save my son.

Save my son.