Fried Egg.
A/N Summary: Bella Swan gets diagnosed with HIV/AIDs. An inspirational story of how a young woman takes control of her life. Also involves an elderly hippie, stolen red mittens and the importance of fried eggs. All human. ExB
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me
I sat in a vinyl seat designed to bruise my backside. The cacophony of machine whirrs, shouting patients and gossiping nurses wasn't loud enough to distract me from my current predicament, in the waiting room of Seattle's largest clinic. They never asked you to come all the way down to the hospital for good news.
"Your first time at the clinic?" I glanced at the woman striking up a conversation. She had more wrinkles than the sky had stars and amber dye practically dripped off her roots.
"Yeah, I'm getting married in a few months," I said, falling into the habit of divulging too much information when nervous. "I know, we're young. But when you're soulmates why wait, right?" I was 21 but could easily pass for a minor. Probably my disposition to blush several times a day and have such small breast, my chest might as well be concave.
When was the doctor going to be available to see me anyway? My imagination had spiralled out of controlled since booking the appointment and now I was expecting some grotesque, incurable disease to bed bound me until an agonising, premature death.
"How long does he usually make his patients wait?" I asked, my fingers drumming on a battered copy of Elle.
"Long enough that my ass-print will forever be etched into this plastic seat."
I chuckled but my throat convulsed with jittery nerves. "Edward got his news over the phone you know? And everything checked out. But for me, it's like, 'you need to book an appointment at your earliest convenience." I blew out a frustrated breath, my too-long fringe catching in its wind.
"Isabella Swan? Doctor Ebenstein will see you now."
I jumped out of my seat, grabbing my overfilled purse. The nurse had barely looked up from her clipboard but pointed towards the closed door with a distracted wave of her pen.
"Good luck, honey."
"Thanks, it was nice to meet you," I said with barely another glance to the older woman. Everything was going to be fine. My pessimism was just another facet of my personality. The reality almost never reached the horrors I conjured up with my overactive mind.
It'll be fine.
I opened my mouth but no sound came out.
"I realise this is shocking news but they are many treatments available. As long as you take your medication as instructed, your life expectancy will be almost as long as someone without HIV/AIDs."
Still, my vocal cords refused to work. Even my ears seemed to have shut down after the doctor had disconnected from the computer long enough to tell me … his news. Everything was muffled. My neurones were sluggishly firing as though they had been dipped in maple syrup.
"You must have made a mistake," I finally croaked out.
I couldn't have HIV. I mean, come on. It was impossible. I jogged every morning and ate good food and I've only ever slept with Edward, using protection. And he's clean.
I'm the healthiest person I know.
It didn't make any sense. The only time I… but it was a stupid mistake. I've spent the last two years paying for it. My mouth felt dry. I couldn't swallow without choking.
Was I going to spend the rest of my life paying for the Dark Ages of my life?
For the rest of the consultation I went into autopilot. The next appointment booked and scribbled into my calendar, a tight smile stretched across my face, a hearty handshake and I was out of the door. My feet dragged me to my recently painted red truck.
I dropped all the pamphlets and booklets on 'living with HIV/AIDs' and 'your diagnosis: how to cope' when I reached into my bag for the keys.
"Damn it," I swore, sliding my purse off my bony shoulder. It fell on my toe with a dull thud. "Damn it, damn it, damn it."
I thrusted open the door to the truck, almost wrenching it from its hinges.
Then I sat on the worn seats and wondered why I wasn't crying.
"Love?" I heard Edward call out as soon as I stepped into our small apartment. My toe ached when I took off my shoes to step onto the freshly-vacuumed carpet that led to the kitchen. "I know we usually have Chinese on Wednesdays, but I found this new recipe online for traditional Italian lasagne so I was thinking we could officially celebrate our engagement tonight, just the two of us."
I sat down at the kitchen table, with a noncommittal hmm.
"It should be ready in a bit, why don't you take a nice hot bath? I'll set up the dining room table."
"That sounds great." My voice sounded hoarse. Even though I wasn't really listening to his words, I could hear the excitement from his tone and the sheer volume of his monologue. Edward was famous for his ability to listen, not babble on endlessly.
Edward stepped away from the oven to glance at me. He had a streak of tomato sauce on his cheek, smudged, by a half-hearted wipe of his hand and my heart constricted with my utter devotion and adoration for this man.
"You alright?" he asked. "How did it go at the clinic?"
I loved this man. I loved him more than words could describe and I couldn't tell him. I just, couldn't.
"Good. Fine. You were right, nothing to worry about. Just a small mix-up with the insurance form." I jerked my thumb to the bathroom, keeping my lies to a minimum to avoid a tell-tale blush from spreading across my cheeks. "Everything smells fantastic. Call me when you're done?"
Edward nodded with a smile but for the first time that night, a frown puckered his forehead.
"So, how was your day?" I asked, taking a sip out of the chilled wine. The lasagne tasted like cardboard. It wasn't a critic to my future husband's cooking. Rather, my recent diagnosis sat in my stomach like a ball of lead.
"Good, they were having some sale at the market so the queues were ridiculous." He paused. "Are you sure you're alright? You haven't eaten much."
I gently placed the wine glass back on its coaster. The classical music was pitched at the speaker's lowest volume but might as well have been blaring.
"Ok, I lied before." I pushed my plate away from me, watching the thick sauce spreading into the green salad. I could lie again. Reassure Edward that I was worried about something else, like how we were too young to get married or how his sister, Rosalie, hated me or how my truck was spewing exhaust like it was its last, dying breath.
The words formed in my head. I've been diagnosed with HIV. I would never be able to take them back. How do I even phrase something like that? Something that life-changing to the both of us, to our marriage, to everything we had promised to each other? Do I just blurt it out, over a celebratory dinner?
A dinner celebrating the rest of our lives?
"Bella, love, you're scaring me. Please say something."
Edward reached out to grab my hand. The warmth seeping through his palm was reassuring. I didn't want to ruin his life. That's why I had to tell him the truth now, while he had the chance to get out. My mistake wouldn't ruin the both of us.
"I have HIV/AIDs."
Please review.
The chapters will be quite short. The plan is to write a hopeful, heart-warming story rather than a depressing, angsty one so hopefully I'll deliver. Feedback would be fantastic.