Carlisle
Long after we'd finished setting her leg, taping her ribs, and stitching up the lacerations that seemed oddly spaced out for an accidental fall, I continued to stand behind the glass that separated the ICU and watch her sleep. In a small town like Forks, there weren't many cases like this. I hadn't seen anything like it since we'd left Anchorage.
The young girl's hair was limp and dull, matted with blood, but I knew it would be a lush, rich mahogany when washed if she weren't so thin and sickly. Her skin was as pale as the bleached hospital sheets, and the dark circles under her eyes made her look especially fragile. Her appearance brought to mind old descriptions of consumption victims — minus the hectic flush, of course. Before medical experts discovered the cause of the disease, appropriately renamed it 'tuberculosis,' and developed treatments, those with consumption were often superstitiously believed to be vampires.
Her eyes, for the brief few moments she'd been awake in Emergency, had looked so dead and sad that it made my heart ache. They were the exact same shade of warm brown as Alice's. But while my daughter's eyes glittered with light and laughter, this girl's held no spark of life at all. How could someone so young have given up hope so completely? Perhaps, when she awoke and explained how she'd come to be injured, I would understand. And then . . . I'd wish I had left well enough alone.
"Fell down two flights of stairs and smashed into a glass door, according to the EMTs." Dr. Jared Snow's voice made me jump; I'd been so lost in thought that I hadn't heard him come up behind me. I didn't turn, instead watching his dark reflection in the glass. "You think she bled a lot on the table? They told me that corridor's worse than in The Shining. Miracle she's even alive," he finished, sounding awed.
"Who is she?" I asked. "She looks my kids' age, but I've never seen her around."
"We don't know," he replied, shrugging. "She was found unconscious in that hallway, no wallet, just a key card to the room in her pocket. The clerk didn't remember seeing her, which probably means she's underage and had a boyfriend sign for the room. I told the orderly to call the investigators, tell them about the key card. They can check which unit it's coded for and go from there."
"Isabella," I murmured.
"What?"
"You called her 'Isabella' in the ER," I reminded him, louder, finally turning around so we faced each other.
"Oh, that." Jared waved his hand impatiently. "Well, when she came in, there was a necklace — one of those cheap things you get off a rack in a Hallmark store, wire bent into the shape of a name. That's how we knew. It's gone now; the orderly took it with the rest of her things." He laughed humorlessly. "The jeans we had to cut off, that is, and the flannel shirt that was absolutely soaked in her blood . . . oh, and the hair tie. Don't forget the hair tie." Jared checked his watch. "Well, time to go home and give the wife her checkup," he said, clapping me on the back. It was a gesture that always irritated me — made me feel like a twenty-five-year-old intern in my first week of shadowing.
I stared after Jared as he strode purposefully away in the direction of his office, but he might have been one of those transcendent insomniacs in that Stephen King book for all I actually saw of him. My mind was back in IC with the pale waif who looked as though she'd missed all three of the sunny days we'd had this winter, and a good number of meals besides.
Glancing back through the window, I watched the girl's — Isabella's? — heartbeat on the monitor. She looked so tiny; the blanket barely registered the lump of her body underneath, and her face was so pale that if it weren't for her dark hair pooling on the pillow, a quick glance might have left me thinking that the bed was empty.
Like Jared, I was free to leave now if I chose; my actual shift wouldn't begin for a couple of hours. But it suddenly seemed very important that I retrieve the 'Isabella' necklace he'd spoken of. I didn't know why I wanted it, or what to do with it once I had it, but something made it imperative that I connect with this girl in any way possible.
In larger facilities, like those I had worked at in Anchorage and Chicago, patients' belongings were immediately transferred to a plastic bag and labeled before accompanying their owner to a room, where the bag was stored either in the drawer of the night table or a locker, if the room had one. Forks Community Hospital was smaller and less formal, usually having no need for such measures, particularly with small items. Considering her torn clothes had probably been thrown away, I was fairly certain Isabella's necklace would have made its way to the nurses' station for safekeeping, at least until she woke up.
I turned rather reluctantly from the window and headed over to where Annemarie Yorkie, the sole nurse on duty, sat munching on popcorn from a Pop Secret bag as she rapidly filled in notes on a patient's chart. It never ceases to amaze me just how much work nurses can squeeze into the space of a shift. They never have time to stare pointlessly at sleeping patients, that much is certain. Annemarie looked up and smiled pleasantly as I came over. I like her very much; not only is she a wonderful nurse, but she's happily married and has never asked me if I am, too.
I returned her smile and leaned forward casually over the raised portion of the desk. "Jared said the Jane Doe in Emergency had a necklace," I said. "I'd like to give it back to her when she wakes up. I figure it'll break the ice if I act like I'm just coming in to return her property."
"Of course, Dr. Cullen." She rolled her chair back a little ways and pulled open the wide drawer just under her writing surface, rummaging through the tangle of pens, ID badges, rubber bands, and the ends of rolls of gauze and tape. "Here, this must be it." Annemarie didn't relinquish the little plastic bag right away. Instead, she closed the drawer and leaned her elbows on the desk, fingering the necklace through the plastic. "Isabella," she murmured, tracing the thin, gold-colored wire. "Pretty name . . ." Suddenly, she gasped. "Oh, it couldn't be!"
"Ah, couldn't be what?"
Annemarie looked up at me in disbelief. "The old Deputy Chief of Police had a daughter named Isabella. My Eric was in her class." She stood up, practically turning over her chair in her haste, and scooted past me to the window I'd just been looking through. She stood with her back to me for a long moment, and when she turned around, her face had blanched almost as white as Isabella's.
"It's her," she said tearfully. "It's been a few years, but that must be her. Isabella Swan. She always wanted to be called 'Bella.'" She came back over to the station and sat down heavily. "I haven't seen Bella in years; they took her away to one of the larger cities, like Seattle or Olympia."
"Someone needs to tell the police, then," I replied, a little taken aback by this further proof of what a small town Forks really was. "Her identity, that is." I had, of course, heard many times about Charlie Swan. Last year, when the Chief of Police, Steve Gorski, had retired, everyone said Charlie would have been next in line had he not passed away back in '96. His name was always spoken with a certain amount of reverence, as though he had been a particular hero — or martyr — in his own time.
"I'll call myself, as soon as my shift's over," Annemarie promised. "My husband's on duty tonight. Actually . . ." She checked her watch. "I'm off at seven. I'll call him then." Her eyes sparkled with tears when she looked at me again. "Charlie Swan used to come over our house all the time, and our kids would play together. She was such a sweet little girl. It was horrible, what happened."
"Of course." Not that I knew how Swan had met his end, but anything that evoked such grief from his friends and resulted (however indirectly) in the current state of his young daughter certainly was horrible. "Does she . . . is there a relative we should be calling? Her . . . mother, perhaps?"
Annemarie's face went dark at the mention of Isabella's mother. "Renee left Forks when Bella was four," she said shortly. "She hasn't been back since."
"I see."
She sighed. "When Charlie died, Renee was living in Florida with her new husband," she told me, as though she felt I needed to understand the situation but was reluctant to air someone else's dirty laundry for all that. "She didn't want anything to do with her daughter. Bella was placed in foster care at the time, and that's why she had to leave town; there weren't any open homes here. Dan and I would have gotten the certification so we could take her, but his mother was still alive then, bedridden and living with us, so . . ." I nodded understandingly. "I'll tell Dan he needs to contact Social Services as well," she finished, gulping down the last of a cup of coffee as she scribbled notes on a scrap of paper. "I can't even imagine what brought her back to Forks — to the hospital." Her eyes narrowed. "If whomever she was staying with had anything to do with this . . ."
That, unfortunately, had been the first conclusion my mind had jumped to the moment I heard those magic words: foster care. It was unfair of me, of course; most of those parents are truly caring individuals that are doing the absolute best they can. But Esme and I had seen too many products of that minority that seemed to deliberately do their worst. And Isabella's injuries just didn't fit the bill for someone who'd stumbled on their way downstairs, even ramming into a glass door at the bottom as Jared Snow claimed. The dark red marks on her face were obviously bruises in their early stages . . . but the yellow-green ones on her arms and legs screamed of weeks, if not months, of physical abuse. Yes, Isabella could very well turn out to be one of those women who 'falls a lot' or 'studies gymnastics,' but then again, money might just grow on trees and Hell could be a frozen wasteland, at that.
I thought of something. "I can't imagine why she'd be in a motel, though, and that's where the ambulance was summoned," I said slowly. That really was a mystery — unless Jared's theory about a boyfriend having gotten them a room was correct. But Isabella hardly looked like the type to be running around wild with random boys, shacking up in cheap motels three and a half hours from the closest city she could possibly be living in. I wasn't sure what that type did look like . . . I just felt like I'd know if I saw one. Kids who ran away from their homes didn't try to hide in a fishbowl like Forks, either. Something was off about all this, and it was going to nag at me until Isabella decided to —
" — wake up?"
"Pardon?" I had been so deep in thought that I missed the first part of Annemarie's question.
"I said, when do you think she might wake up?" she repeated.
"Hard to say," I answered slowly. "We only gave her a mild sedative to help with the pain of having her leg set, but it shouldn't have knocked her right out like it did. Any sleeping she's doing at this point has got to be due to stress and fatigue. So, basically, just whenever she's ready."
Annemarie was staring down the hall at the ICU again, fiddling with the thin gold chain she always wore, a mother's pendant with only a lone peridot for her lone son. "I'd like to be here when she wakes up," she said thoughtfully. "She might remember me, or at least I'm sure she will once I remind her. It would make everything a little less scary."
My heart once again warmed toward this kind woman. True, her concern for Isabella was a little more personal than most cases, but this mothering behavior towards our young patients was not atypical. Annemarie was very smart, and I feel that she could easily have become a doctor herself . . . yet I tend to wonder if it isn't better this way. Doctors don't have quite the same opportunity for nurturing that nurses do. It's hard to pinpoint the reason (except in those cases where the doctor in question is obviously just an arrogant asshole), but somehow I can't picture Nurse Yorkie as Doctor Yorkie without also wiping that kind smile off her face and turning her gentle, melodious voice harsh and commanding.
I checked my watch. Almost six-thirty. Normally, my shift was days, eight-thirty to about six, but I'd been paged around three-thirty when Bella was on her way to the hospital. "Look, I'm going to run home so I can eat breakfast with my family, and then I'll be back at eight-thirty like normal," I told Annemarie. "If you decide to stay, I'll sign off on the overtime."
She gave me a grateful look. "That's sweet of you, Doctor. I think I will stay, at least until you get back. In the meantime, I can call my husband . . . You will tell her that I'm here? That I work here, that is? If she doesn't wake up until later?"
"Of course."
"Well, tell everyone at home I said hello." Annemarie was tilting the patient chart she'd been working on before, ready to resume writing.
"That I will, also." And before I could be distracted by anything else, I practically ran towards the parking lot, thankful that I'd slipped my keys into my pocket when I'd changed after treating Isabella. I was anxious to get home and make sure my family was safe. There was no reason for them not to be — I'd only been gone a few hours, and like I've said, even a case like this was rare in Forks. My sons and daughters were, at this hour, most likely safe and sound in their beds. But still, I wouldn't feel at ease until I could see that with my own eyes.
Isabella — no, Bella — Swan had proved for me that in a New York minute, everything can change.
I walked into the kitchen at home just as Esme was emptying a steaming pile of skillet potatoes into a huge serving dish. Since winter vacation still wasn't over, Alice was the only one at the table; the others would probably have to be dragged out of bed, but at least they were in their beds, safe and healthy. Just as I had promised myself on the way here, I had checked on each of them in turn before returning downstairs, where the food smells had been summoning me peremptorily since I stepped out of my car.
I gave my wife her kiss and returned my daughter's squeeze as I walked by her chair on the way to my own. "What was the emergency, hon?" Esme asked, setting a huge plate of eggs and bacon in front of me the moment I sat down.
My mouth was practically leaking saliva out the corners as I answered, "A young girl fell down a flight of steps. Broken leg." Too hungry to explain any further, I piled my fork with way too much food for one mouthful and shoved the whole thing in, closing my eyes in ecstasy. My wife's cooking is second only to her lovemaking, and that a very close second.
"Poor little thing," Esme murmured, but didn't probe any further. As a doctor's wife, she knew I had to be careful what information I shared about patients. What I'd said already could possibly get me in trouble, under the right circumstances. Of course, in a town like Forks, it isn't hard to guess who's been hospitalized; just ask your kids who was absent from school today, or wait to see which mail carrier or waitress or garbage collector has been mysteriously replaced by a substitute.
"How young?" Alice wanted to know. She sat cross-legged on her chair, still so much shorter than me sitting down that you almost wanted to give her a booster seat just to facilitate conversation. "Is her mom or dad there with her?"
I smiled and ruffled her hair as I finished chewing. "About your age, baby. No, her family is . . . unavailable. No more questions, okay?"
"Okay. But you'd better bring her some books, Daddy," Alice instructed me. She wiped her mouth with her napkin and pushed back her chair. "Especially if she's all alone. I'll put some in a bag for you."
"That's a good idea, sweetheart. But you might as well finish your food; I don't have to leave until a little after eight."
"Oh, this little piggy was shoveling it in long before you came home," Esme informed me, giving Alice a teasing nudge.
"I'm a growing girl!" Alice exclaimed indignantly.
"You're not growing very fast, it would seem," Esme retorted.
"That's why I need food!"
I rolled my eyes at the good-natured bickering between my wife and daughter as I worked on cleaning my plate. All was truly right with the world — or with my world, at least. My kids were safe, and they were all such good kids; none of my boys would hurt a woman the way Isabella Swan had been hurt. Esme and I shared a love so intense that sometimes I literally had trouble catching my breath around her. We loved our jobs and our kids and each other, and after all, what else was there?
Yet all the while, the thought kept nagging at me that everything wasn't all right. That one of my kids was hurt and scared and desperate, crying out for my help even as I scarfed down Esme's eggs and potatoes. Every bite I took made me feel as if I were Nero, fiddling away while my own personal Rome burned around me. I had just checked on all of them, for heaven's sake . . . but the feeling still wouldn't leave me alone.
I swallowed the last crumbs and wiped my mouth with a napkin; my chair scraped the floor as I pushed it back. Esme stopped talking to Alice long enough to ask, "Aren't you having any more, sweetie?"
I smiled and kissed her again as I stood up, knowing that I probably tasted like salt and bacon grease this time. "I'm going to take a quick shower before I leave," I explained, not wanting to alarm her with my fears, which were most likely unfounded, in any case.
"I'll get the books ready," Alice announced, scrambling down from her chair and skipping blithely out of the kitchen.
"And I'll pack your lunch," Esme murmured, moving closer so she could nuzzle my neck. "Plus something for a little mid-morning snack."
I wrapped my arms around my wife and squeezed her so tightly that she gasped, burying my face in her soft, silky hair. It only took a moment for her to recover and return my embrace, and I found that I just couldn't let go. I was afraid to let go. There's some old song that says you have to hang onto the ones you love tooth and nail, and that's all I could think about as I held Esme in a death grip and continued to fret over my sleeping children.
I'd check on them again before I showered. No harm in being careful.
Isabella, as if out of spite, awakened about ten minutes after Annemarie Yorkie left for home, and Nurse Javensen let me know right away (as I'd specifically requested). As soon as I had finished with my latest case, I made a point of peeking in on her. Isabella, who had been staring listlessly up at the IV bag hanging next to her bed, glanced over at me apprehensively as I entered the room.
"Miss Swan," I intoned gravely, my expression one of mock sternness.
Her eyes widened in shock, and a blush quickly crept over her face. "Yes, I'm afraid the game is up," I informed her, shaking my head sorrowfully. Isabella looked so miserable, though, that I quickly dropped the façade in favor of a conspiratorial grin. "It's all right, honey. One of the nurses recognized you. Nurse Yorkie? She said you were friends with her son, Eric."
Her eyes flickered, then went dead again. "I was," Isabella replied. Her voice, fitting with her appearance perfectly, was very soft and timid. "I haven't seen them in years."
"Well, she'll be in to see you, I'm sure, on tonight's shift. I'm Dr. Cullen."
"Hi," she answered meekly, playing with a strand of hair. "Um . . . do you know what's going to happen to me now?"
Her blunt question took me by surprise, and I hesitated, both because I was unsure of exactly what would happen and because I was fairly certain that whatever it was wouldn't be very pleasant. "That would depend, I imagine, on what's already happened," I said slowly. "Maybe if I know why you're here, I can offer a better guess. I . . . I hope this won't upset you, hon, but Nurse Yorkie told me about your situation, or at least what she knows about it."
Isabella ducked her head as if ashamed, and I quickly moved to her side so I could stroke her hair. "It's all right, hon," I said in what I hoped was a soothing voice, fingering her brittle tresses that hadn't yet been washed clean of her blood. "None of what happened back then was your fault. But what I'm still unsure of is why you were in a motel in Forks when you're supposed to be in a foster home in Seattle." Seattle was most likely, though Annemarie hadn't been sure. I figured I had nothing to lose by taking a shot in the dark there.
A long few moments passed wherein she never so much as looked up, only let me stroke her poor head gently and occasionally rub her back as well. Obviously, she wasn't going to volunteer anything. If I wanted to help her — and it was very important to me that I understand what had happened so I could have some idea of what might happen next — I'd have to give Isabella a little nudge.
"So, Isabella . . ."
"Just 'Bella,'" she whispered.
"Well, Bella, looks like you've taken quite a spill," I probed her gently. "You want to tell me about it?"
Bella didn't answer. She plucked nervously at her blanket instead. "I can't help you if you're not honest with me," I told her.
"Um, well, I just don't remember much," she hedged, looking at me imploringly.
I raised an eyebrow, gazing at Bella steadily without saying a word. She began to squirm under my scrutiny, and still I stared, letting the silence hang heavily between us. It's a tactic that seems to work pretty well whenever one of my kids is reluctant to share information, and I had a feeling Bella would prove to be no different in her reaction to it.
"I fell down the stairs at the motel," she finally said, with the there-are-you-satisfied? attitude that I'm used to from Rosalie — but with a very un-Rose-like catch in her voice that told me she was very close to crying.
"Thank you, Bella. Now, about that motel. You're not eighteen yet," I said, perching on the bed next to her — the side with her good leg, naturally. "So . . . you were with a boyfriend?" She stared down at her hands for a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "You left your home to be with him?" Another nod. "And . . . I'm guessing he's also the reason you're here right now." A much longer pause this time, but finally Bella nodded once more.
"Well, you'll need to explain what happened to a police officer," I said, trying not to betray how angry I was feeling. As it turned out, my instinctive suspicions about her foster parents were unfounded, but now my hands itched to wrap themselves around the throat of this 'boyfriend.' "Would you . . . I'll be here with you when that happens."
I had been about to ask Bella if she wanted me there while she was questioned, but I knew already what her response would be. Whether due to a fierce independent streak or because she was afraid to inconvenience me, Bella would refuse in favor of facing the ordeal alone. I could not leave her to relive her 'accident' without emotional support, just as I would never allow Rosalie or Alice to be interrogated without either Esme or me present.
True to form, Bella began to protest. "No, that's all right, Dr. Cullen." Her eyes told a different story. Would you? they asked me, hopeful and suspicious at the same time. Or are you just being polite?
"Actually, it's against the rules for a minor to be questioned alone," I fibbed, not at all sure what the rules were regarding that. But I wasn't above lying to protect my own kids, and somehow I felt the same parental instinct towards Bella. "Aside from which, as your doctor, I need to monitor your stress level. I'd rather you had more time to regain your strength, but the sooner we get the facts, the sooner your . . . male friend . . . is stopped before he can hurt someone else."
I hoped my subtle ploy would work. Bella, like most battered women, would probably be reluctant to say anything that might get her boyfriend in trouble. But to let her know that silence would only result in another woman being hurt . . . well, that often changed things. Not always . . . but it didn't hurt to try.
I stood up and tucked Bella's chart back into place. "Nurse Yorkie said before that she was going to call her husband," I told her. "I don't know if he'll be the one they send or not, but if any policeman shows up and I'm not here, buzz the nurse and ask her to fetch me. In the meantime, get as much sleep as you can, okay?"
"Okay," Bella said softly. "Thank you, Dr. Cullen."
I smiled as I turned off the overhead fluorescents. "Sleep well, Bella," I answered, stepping out into the hall.
I couldn't give Bella the standard response, "You're welcome," because I wasn't entirely certain what I'd done to deserve her thanks.
