"I never saw her again after that," he finished. "This…animal of a man made sure of that. To this day, I sit and think about why he did it. And the truth is…I don't know. And I probably never will. The only thing I can guess at is how he did it, and even that, I don't think I'll ever truly know."
There were tears pouring from his puffy, red eyes and rolling down his swollen cheeks. "She was my best friend," and Jasper Hale finally succumbed to sobs. He lowered his face in his hands and sat there, in the hard metal chair of the conference room, bawling his eyes out in front of complete strangers.
The counselor put a re-assuring hand on Jasper's back, rubbing soothing circles and smiling sadly at him. The woman had a pale, plastic smile. One she had used about a million times in a million different situations. It was so bland that it blended perfectly with her light gray pant suit and starchy white business shirt. It practically disappeared on her face.
"Thank you, Jasper. Now, everyone, Jasper has been coming to these meetings for three months. Let's give him a round of applause for taking the first step toward recovery." She paused and everyone clapped politely. Despite her kind, though forced, words, Jasper didn't seem at all re-assured. He was still crying, though his sobs had quieted.
"Now, is anyone else ready to share?" asked the counselor. She looked pointedly at me. I diverted my gaze. Every single week was the same. The counselor would ask for volunteers then stare directly at me. I wasn't about to stand up and tell my life story.
About a year ago, after he died, my mother-in-law suggested I go to a group counseling session. I couldn't see how it would help. Would telling my whole intimate story to a room full of strangers bring him back? Would he miraculously appear, cancer free, in our living room? I didn't think so. But, Esme was only trying to help, so I agreed. I didn't like to worry her. She was more a part of my family that she could ever understand.
So, I had grudgingly started attending the sessions, which were run by one of Esme's friends from college. Though, I didn't see how this plain, boring woman could have held Esme's attention. Esme was one of the most influential, diverting, interesting people I knew. She was always telling the most profound stories, and introducing me to very important people. I didn't see where this mouse of woman, sitting in a depression clinic in the middle of Nowhere, Washington, fit into Esme's life. But, Esme wanted me to work past my issues, so I decided to give it a try.
The sessions were really pretty boring. And they were very predictable. Most people sat quietly in the corners, listening to the stories for the first few months. Generally, after about four months, they would break out and explain how their loved one died, quickly succumbing to tears or simply losing the will to speak any more on the subject.
I'd been coming for over a year and I had yet to speak. Other people's stories were depressing, yes, but they weren't our story. Nothing could compare to the loss I felt. He'd been my everything. Before him, I was nothing. A struggling musician that was too scared to perform. I had been terrified of people, of myself, of everything that meant anything to me. He'd given me my strength.
Sometimes, when I lay awake at night, I thought that maybe I had stolen his strength. As I'd grown stronger, prouder, more confident, his strength dwindled and finally died away. I knew I was being irrational by blaming myself, but I guess that's why they call it Survivor's Guilt. You feel guilty for not dying. For living and watching the world turn when the person most precious to you could no longer see the rotations.
I sat silently, in the uncomfortable chair with the amazingly straight back, through the rest of the session. I wasn't interested in sharing. I was barely interested in listening. But, I'd become addicted to other people's sob stories. The book Fight Club explains my feelings perfectly. I had trouble sleeping most nights, simply laying awake imagining him walking through the bedroom door and climbing into bed with me. He would kiss me on the head and murmur a near-silent goodnight before snaking his arms around my waist, cuddling me like his own personal life-sized teddy bear. But, after listening to the stories of others, it was easier to keep my mind occupied and I was able to sleep. I know that doesn't sound nice, but whatever. I'm not here to be nice. I'm here to feel better. And it's working. At least in some ways.
I stepped out of the small building and headed toward my beat up, old, red truck. He had hated this truck, I remembered with a sad smile. He couldn't understand why I would never allow him to buy me a new one. But, this rusted piece of rolling tin was my last connection to my father. My father had died a few months before I met him and this truck had been his last gift to me. He had bought it off an old fishing buddy and driven it until it was nearly dead. When he died, the ancient truck was passed to me. And I couldn't even bear the consideration of driving another vehicle.
I yanked open the driver side door with a loud screech and watched the rust fly from the hinges. I shoved my purse into the passenger's seat and slid in. I quickly reversed out of the parking space and peeled out of the parking lot, not even looking back at the off white building.
It didn't take me long to reach my little town house. I parked my truck on the curb and stepped up onto the sidewalk. I slowly made my way to the little white picket fence that surrounded the walkway to my front door. I stopped and stared at the home that was supposed to be filled with life. I remembered when we bought the house. It had taken forever, as decisions often did with us. We must have looked at every house on the market before finding this one. I remembered the tone in his voice when he'd told me, "Bella, this is the one." He was convinced that I would love it. He began telling me all about the life we would have here. The Christmas dinners, the July barbeques, the Cullen family reunions. The children. I could see him standing in the doorway now, holding a two year old boy in his arms, smiling at me as I stared at the door step. I felt a tear slide down my cheek at the life I would never be able to enjoy.
I pushed open the gate and rushed up the walkway, shoving my key into the door and twisting. The door fell open. I slammed it shut behind me just as I fell to the floor sobbing. It was a few moments before I was able to quiet my crying. I slowly stood, re-locking the door behind me, something I'd done since he'd died, and walked into the kitchen.
I looked at the stove and remembered my one birthday when he'd tried to make me dinner. He wasn't the best cook and it had turned out horribly. I remember coming home and seeing food all over the counters. He'd tried to make me tortellini soup and had spilled it in between the burners on the stove. Needless to say, we'd had pizza that night. The bitter smile once again braced my lips as I decided I wasn't hungry.
I dragged my feet up the stairs and opened my bedroom door. I pulled off my shoes and socks and dropped my skirt. I tugged on a pair of his old sweatpants and pulled down the covers. It was only 6:30 and way too early for bed but I decided that there was nothing I wanted to do but sleep. These sessions were beginning to wear me out.
My eyes snapped open. I was losing my one safety net. What was I supposed to do now? Maybe I could try telling my story. I snorted as I imaged Ms. Mousy Depression Clinic dying of shock if I opened my mouth during a session.
That was when I, Bella Cullen, decided that that was exactly what I would do.
"Okay, everyone. I'm glad to see that you've all persevered through another week. Would anyone like to start us off?" the rent-a-shrink asked the next week when we'd all convened in the freezing back room of the community center.
I quickly stood up and stated, "My name is Bella Cullen and my husband, Edward, died of leukemia on January 7, 2009."