Dr. Cooper asks her if she's ever done drugs or alcohol or smoked, and if she thinks about hurting herself. He asks about her parents' divorce and her move to Forks, and when Bella insists that it was her idea and she's happy to be out of the way, he frowns and writes something down. She could probably read it upside down but the sun is glaring on the clipboard.
He asks her how many hours she sleeps, and she says nine, except when she has nightmares.
"Tell me about the nightmares," he says.
"What do you want to know?"
"How long have you had them?"
Always. They're part of me. I don't know what would fill the empty spaces if they went away. "As long as I can remember," says Bella. "They're never going away."
"Why do you say that?" asks Dr. Cooper.
"I just know."
Dr. Cooper looks like he wants to say something, but instead he just scribbles again. When he notices Bella trying to read his notes, he turns his chair so she can't see them anymore.
"Everyone has nightmares," Bella says on Tuesday, defensive.
"Do you want to talk about the nightmares today?" Dr. Cooper asks, clicking his pen. Bella wonders what he's going to write this time.
"No. I mean you shouldn't care about the nightmares. All kids have them."
"Most kids grow out of them. How often do you have nightmares?"
Every night. All night. If I have any more nightmares I'll be having them when I'm awake. "Most nights."
Dr. Cooper writes something down. Probably just what she said. Bella doesn't know what psychologists write on those yellow pads of theirs. "What are your nightmares about?" he asks.
"Spiders. Drowning. Fairy tales. Dumb stuff like that."
"I'm hearing a lot of judgement there," says Dr. Cooper.
Bella shrugs, sullen. Dr. Cooper looks at his watch. "We're almost out of time today, Bella," he says. "For next time, I want you to do something for me, OK? I want you to write a fairy tale. You don't have to show it to me, and it doesn't have to be one of your dreams, but it can't be from a book. Write your own. Do you think you can do that?"
"Yeah," Bella says, because therapy is dumb, but writing things is school, and she's good at school.
Bella writes about a vampire and a werewolf, Edward and Jacob. Edward asks her to the school dance, and she says yes. She misses her next appointment with Dr. Cooper, because she's in the hospital.
Dr. Cooper never asks about the fairy tale, which is disappointing. It was a good story. Bella is a good writer.
"Have you had any more nightmares since last time we talked?" he asks instead.
"I dreamed I was green," Bella says, because it's the stupidest thing she can think of. Then, because she hates lying, she balances it with a truth. "I dreamed that Jake died."
"Tell me about Jake," says Dr. Cooper. "Is he the one who asked you to the dance?"
"No," she says, "that's Edward."
"Tell me about Jake and Edward."
The next week, Bella pirouettes into the office. She trips over the lintel, and lands on the couch, grinning.
"You're in a good mood this week," observes Dr. Cooper.
"I figured out the nightmares," Bella says cheerily.
"What did you figure out?"
"I don't have nightmares when I sleep with Jacob."
"Does Jacob make you feel safe?" Dr. Cooper asks, writing again.
"He makes the nightmares go away," Bella repeats, patiently. "I'm all better now. I don't need to come here anymore."
"I'm glad you're doing better," Dr. Cooper says, "but I'd like to keep meeting with you for a while, and make sure you're still doing well in a few weeks. Do you want to talk about your mother today?"
"I don't need to," Bella says. "Jake fixed me."
"Bella," Dr. Cooper says, but Bella is already out the door.