August 31, 2009
He let out a deep breath after the door of the hotel suite clanged. He wanted to bleach the day from his mind as soon as it ended. Every little thing, so carefully staged, went wrong.
The photo shoot had been a failure the minute they arrived at location, a secluded beach on the west coast of Spain. Costa de la Luz. The only light they had enjoyed though was the one coming from the two external flashes. After he finished installing his camera, the sky broke and the icy drops of water poured down on them. Models ran under the big umbrellas. They were there as a cover from the burning sun, but they ended up being their only refuge from the sky's fury.
Eventually the photo shoot had to be canceled. After some heated discussions with the studio reps, they decided that the crew would come back the next day, early in the morning, to finish the work.
He realized he was still standing, his back pressed to the door, his soaked clothes sacking from him like a pelt of old skin.
After some cleansing breaths, he took a few steps to the living room, throwing his wet jacket on the small coffee table, as he went. The room was toasty warm and he felt his muscles slacking.
He turned the TV on and scrolled until he found some entertainment news. This was his way of keeping tabs now, since he refused to ask Aro, or anybody else for that matter, direct questions about her. He settled on a channel that was playing footage from a car accident. It went on a loop. The red line with bold letters said it was breaking news.
"…critically injured in a car accident that happened in France." He heard the newscaster saying and the information registered. France. His mind flew immediately to her.
"This was a death race that started soon after the famous American singer left her hotel room." The footage went on and his breath caught in his throat.
He was trying to figure out where he left his phone when they showed the wrecked car. It was a pile of twisted silver metal, from which a thick, black smoke was whirling in the air.
How many American singers could there be in France? He felt sick, his mind a blur of images. His heart was a maddening staccato.
"… the car collided on Pont du L'Alma, a road tunnel in Paris. " The story went on, images of the battered car played on and on.
"Fuck!" He yelled, his hands in his hair. The front of the car had been smashed. Glass was everywhere and the driver's door must had been cut open. It looked as if someone had been playing with a can of soda, twisting it until its form was barely recognizable.
"She can't be...It can't be..." He was mumbling, moving back and forth, his eyes going over to the screen. He looked through the room as if he was expecting some answers from the lifeless pieces of furniture. That's when he saw the phone, picking from his jacket. He launched at it and dialed her number. The phone rang. Loud and long. No one answered.
"Please...please...pick up!" the words were like a mantra. After the second call, he gave up and tried the only person he thought could help him.
The familiar baritone voice greeted him on the first try.
"Aro, tell me she's fine! Tell me what I'm seeing right now has nothing to do with her. Tell me..."
"Son, calm down." the man from the other end of the line tried to reason with him.
"How am I suppose to calm down? Why aren't you telling me this is not true? It can't be!" he felt close to losing his sanity, his equilibrium slipping faster than the foot of an acrobat would, from a thin line.
"Oh, Edward! I wish..."
The man called Aro filled his lungs with air, as a sea creature would do, before immersing itself in the deepest, murkiest waters.
"I was going to call you, Edward...They brought her to Pitié-Salpêtrière hospital. We are all here."
Dread filled Edward, making his blood cold. "So..." He fumbled to find words. His mouth felt as if he had been fed spoons full of dust.
"What do you know?" He crooked. His chest hurt, his eyes stung. He was hearing his voice, but it felt as if those were someone's else's lips moving. He had wanted so hard for Aro to laugh at him, maybe call him paranoid. Anything. Not this.
"We couldn't see her when she was taken from the ambulance and the doctors haven't given us much. She's been in surgery for some hours now" Aro sighed.
"She has the best possible help anyone could get. Of this, I'm sure."
There was a moment of silence that made Edward think Aro was giving him an edited version of what he knew.
"You should be here. I need to speak to you as soon as possible. It's been too long, Edward."
Too long. He thought time will solve everything when he left her. He wanted her to think, he needed time to accept and forgive. But what if he was wrong?
There was no time now.
Aro's voice brought him back to the present.
"Please try not to watch or read the mumbo jumbo they are probably airing right now. Trust me: no one knows more than I just said to you."
"I'm coming there, Aro. Just send me a message with the name of the hospital. I'll call when I lend." And, with that, Edward hung up.
He was suffocating, unable to get oxygen in his body. It was as if the whole air was suck from the room in a fraction of a second. His mind invaded by so many memories.
Pieces of her, of them.
Her soft voice calling his name. Her sweet, warm breath on his lips. Her smile. God! Her smile!
He couldn't lose it all. Lose her. He wouldn't allow it. He fought desperately to remove the images of the fuming car from his mind. God damn it, all!
He started pushing numbers on his phone again, stumbling and starting over. He needed to breathe. He needed to get this number right and find the words to say what he wanted. Finally, a chipper voice greeted him from the end of the line.
"Buenas tardes! Llamó a las compañías aéreas Iberia. ¿En qué puedo ayudarle?"
On her own volition, his mouth spoke the only words his brain seemed to conjure.
"This isn't real. It can't be real..."
"Perdon. Qué fue eso?" The high-pitched voice called from the other end, waking him up from the coma state he had been dragged in.
"Necesito un billete para Francia en su primer vuelo."
The whole time his eyes never left the TV where a picture of a brown haired woman was being aired. She was smiling, her joy as sincere as that of a little child unwrapping Christmas presents. Bella.