The beginning of this story takes place in mid-October 2008.

Chapter Two - Week One

Monday, session one

"So," I said as I snuggled against the corner on the blue sofa, "are you going recommend I get prescribed medication?"

My first official session out of the twenty session agreement had begun minutes ago. The weekend flew by and before I knew it, it was time to see Dr. Cullen again.

"Do you think you need it?" he asked while keeping his eyes on my face, most likely studying my facial movements. He could never just answer a question, he had to throw it back at me.

I shrugged my shoulders. "What's the point of seeing a psychologist if I don't get to pop a couple pills that make me feel all warm and fuzzy?"

"Have you ever experimented with drugs before, Bella?" he asked emotionlessly.

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, all the time," I said, my voice was laced with sarcasm. "Heroin. Crack. Cocaine." I paused for a moment. "What's the difference between crack and cocaine? Are they the same thing? 'Cause people always say crack/cocaine, I rarely hear them say crack and cocaine."

"Shouldn't you know since you've tried it?"

Oh Geez. "Are all psychologists unable to detect sarcasm?"

"Do you know why you resort to sarcasm instead of answering a question seriously?" he asked in the same emotionless tone.

I stared blankly at him as I ran my tongue over the back of my teeth. "You're the wise one with all of the answers. Why don't you tell me?"

He pushed his glasses down to the tip of his nose and sat up straighter. Oh, here it comes. Psychobabble bullshit. Woohoo. Perk your ears, Bella.

"Sarcasm," he began, "could be a mechanism to shield insecurities and vulnerability, and used to deflect the topic."

I rolled my head back against the cushions on the couch.. "Yep. That must be it. I was vulnerable about my non-existent drug use so I used sarcasm. Bravo, Dr. Cullen. I hope you win best psychologist of the year."

"Sarcasm could also be used as humor with no harm intended," he continued, unaffected by my jab. "Other times, it is used as an insult to belittle the recipient in order to make oneself feel superior," he finished with a pointed glance.

Ah, so I fell into the last category. "Do I belittle you, Dr. Cullen?" I asked with a smidge of a smirk playing on my lips.

He grinned, looking as if he just proved his point.

The rest of the hour passed by with multiple sighs, eye rolls and sarcastic retorts from me. He continued to appear unwounded by my remarks and my obvious resentment that I had to have these sessions. His tone remained emotionless, and it was clear he put no personal thoughts or feelings into our session. Over all, he was completely professional.

When noon rolled around, I jumped off of the sofa and prepared to scoot on out of there. Though I kind of wanted to wait a minute or two to see if that patient I saw the last time would be waiting to come in. He made me smile all day, just knowing that Dr. Cullen was most likely wanting to blow his brains out for the hour spent with him.

"Just a moment, Bella," Dr. Cullen said as he stood up and walked behind his desk. "I have something for you."

I sighed and folded my arms across my chest as I watched him dig through a drawer and pull out a clear plastic container of orange breath mints. I arched an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to signify something? That I have a dirty mouth and it needs to be cleaned? Or I need to be refreshed or something?"

He glanced at me, one side of his lips tugged upward, though he tried his hardest to hide it.

He pulled out an empty prescription bottle, opened the cap and dumped the mints into the bottle before replacing the cap. "I recommend taking one after each main meal with a glass of water. If you exceed 3 pills a day, consult me immediately."

I bit my bottom lip to keep myself from smiling. So the doc did have a sense of humor after all.

I was disappointed to discover that there was a different patient waiting for him. This one wasn't fidgety or in a hurry or anything. He looked normal. I frowned. I didn't want Dr. Cullen to have a good session after me. My plan of making him regret that he tricked me into this stupid thing would be ruined.

I rushed back to the shelter so I could change into my work clothes, and then I headed to the nursing home for people with Alzheimer's, which was where I worked as a nurses aid from 1 pm - 9 pm.

**

I spent part of my shift helping one of the ladies carve pumpkins and place them outside on the porch. We stuck candles inside of them so they would glow. But I spent most of the time working, that was code for I did absolutely nothing unless I was needed.

One of the residents complimented me on my eyes. I smiled at him sweetly and he took that as encouragement to ask to take me out on a date. I could barely contain my laughter when I accepted. He was a sweet old man. He kept grinning and winking at me from across the room. Well, at least there was one person interested in sweeping me off of my feet. Though doing so would probably break his back.

On Tuesday, one of the female patients at the nursing home was playing a board game with a couple of other people when she got fed up and stuffed the game pieces down her pants. I had the lovely task of retrieving them. The man who hit on me the night before barely looked in my direction that day. I think he forgot about me.

On Wednesday, one of the older residents at the nursing home informed me that his wife was coming to see him today. She died seven years ago. My eyes welled up with tears as he told about the first time he laid his eyes on her and how he proposed two years later. He was excited to see her again, he told me. I didn't have the heart to remind him that she was gone.

**

Thursday, session two

"How come you don't have anything personal in here?" I asked.

Dr. Cullens eyes flashed up to mine, finally looking away from the pad of paper. "How do you mean?"

"There are no pictures of your family or anything. No Dr. Cullen touches. Nothing that reflects your personality." I glanced around the plain room that had nothing vibrant sticking out. "Or, then again, maybe it fits you perfectly."

"What does your room look like?" he asked in calm and professional voice, like always.

I couldn't exactly describe the homeless shelter. So I shrugged my shoulders. "Pink and glittery," I answered dryly.

He tapped the end of the pen on his pad of paper and stared at me.

"What's yours look like?" I asked. "Batman action figures cluttered around on the floor? Spiderman blankets?"

"Tell me about your favorite childhood memory," Dr. Cullen requested, changing the subject as he kept his eyes glued to my face.

"Favorite childhood memory? What does that have to do with determining whether or not something is messed up inside my brain?"

"Just humor me."

I sighed. "Favorite childhood memory," I repeated. "That's a tough one." I paused for a moment to think. "I don't know. I can't really think of anything specific."

He lifted his hand and waved it above his lap. "Just a moment that you particularly enjoyed when you were younger."

I tilted my head. Mental images flashed through my mind. I bit on my bottom lip until my eyes lit up and I smiled. "Oh!"

Dr. Cullen smiled at me. Not condescendingly or even professionally. He seemed genuinely pleased by my reaction.

"When I was around eight years old," I started, "I wanted to be a storm chaser." I shook my head and chuckled to myself. "I was just so fascinated by tornadoes, but I was also terrified of them at the same time. My dad, Charlie, he was in the military, and we were stationed in Nebraska. We got a lot of tornado warnings and watches over there. I would be excited when a watch would pop up on the TV screen, but once the sirens went off and the watch turned into a warning, I'd suddenly get scared. I remember one time, when there was a tornado watch and the sky was dark gray and ominous looking, I ran into my room, pulled out my tape recorder…" My eyes shifted to Dr. Cullen, who had risen an eyebrow. "I liked documenting my personal discoveries with what I saw outside. So that if a tornado really did come, I'd remember how it all started and be able to brag about it to my friends," I explained.

"So, anyway," I continued. "I ran outside and stared up at the sky. I was friends with most of the neighborhood kids my age, and they all knew that they could find me outside when there was a warning issued. So about four other kids stood beside me on the lawn and we watched the sky, and I spoke into the tape recorder about what I saw. It started raining, and then one of the kids pointed at something that looked like a funnel cloud. Suddenly I was petrified," I laughed. "I always wanted to see a tornado, but when it became real, I was a blubbering mess.

"A siren went off shortly after that, so the other kids ran home, and I went into the house with my arms flailing wildly and told my dad that there was a tornado, though I didn't actually see one. I was afraid the funnel cloud would be directly over my house and the tornado would come down on us," I said as I smiled and rolled my eyes.

"So Charlie and I opened all of the windows in case there would be a tornado, we didn't want the glass to shatter, and we gathered up a bunch of blankets, flashlights and some water and food, and we went into the basement. On our way down there, the power went off. I was so scared, but Charlie just pulled me close to him and we camped out in the basement. Like I told you before, he was never around much. But that night, we spent hours down there, just talking and shinning the flashlights in each other's eyes playfully. He told me stories about my mom." My eyes glazed over and I shrugged a shoulder. "It probably doesn't sound all that great, but it really meant a lot to me. I got to spend time with my dad and hear about my mom. I was so young when she died so I didn't really remember her. When Charlie told me stories about her, I could visualize it, and it was like his memories became my memories."

I heard the pen move across the pad of paper as Dr. Cullen wrote something down. I hoped he wasn't repeating what I said verbatim. That'd be a lot of writing.

"Tell me about your father," Dr. Cullen said without lifting up his pen.

"Charlie," I mused. "There's isn't much to say about him. He joined the military a couple months after I was born. He wasn't strict or anything though. The exact opposite, actually. He was very lenient, quiet and distant." I rubbed my fingers over the arm of the couch. "Maybe a little too distant," I admitted. "I never really felt like he was really with me, even when he was sitting in the room. He rarely acted the way he did when we spent the night in the basement. He never grounded me or anything. He let me get away with pretty much anything. I rebelled a few times, just to see if he'd do anything. He never did."

"Why do you think that was?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know. I wasn't a mind reader."

He pursed his lips. "Try to get inside your father's head. Why do you think he was so distant? Just guess."

I sighed and leaned my head back. I didn't know how to answer, and Dr. Cullen was starting to annoy me. I didn't see how this was relevant. More memories flashed in my mind.

"Maybe…" I trailed off and bit on my bottom lip. "Maybe he was depressed because my mom was gone. He had to raise me by himself. Sort of. My Aunt and Uncle helped out sometimes, especially when he was overseas." I shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know. But sometimes I felt like he worked so much to avoid me."

"Why would you think that?"

"I don't know," I replied.

"Yes, you do."

I rolled my eyes. "This is stupid."

"I guarantee you it's not," he said.

I rubbed my hands over my eyes. "He just…he seemed uncomfortable when we'd see a parent hug their child, or be affectionate in any way." I shook my head. "I really don't want to talk about this anymore. It's making me cranky. And no one likes a cranky Bella."

"Thank you, Bella," Dr. Cullen said with a smile.

My brows furrowed. "For what?"

"For opening up and being honest," he replied.

I sat up straighter and cleared my throat. "Well, don't expect that to happen too often."

He looked at me as if he had anticipated me to react that way. He nodded his head absentmindedly and looked at me with pity filled eyes. What the hell did he pity me for? I had to squash that shit. I didn't need his or anyone else's pity.

"So, what about you?" I asked. "What was your childhood like? Was it traumatizing? Is that why you became a psychologist?"

He pressed his lips together and jotted something down. I let myself slip by answering his question seriously, I wasn't going to do it again.

"Tell me something about your mother," he requested emotionlessly, pen positioned above the pad of paper.

I pursed my lips and shook my head.

"Bella." He sighed. "I want to help you, but I can't if you refuse to cooperate."

I sighed. "All I want is for you to tell Dr. Banner that there's something wrong with me. I know there is."

He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Bella, last week, you asked me what I thought your prognosis was. If you want a genuine assessment, I need you to try to work with me."

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. "She had dark hair and brown eyes. I've been told I look like her. I guess I do, but I've only seen her in pictures…"

**

When the session ended, Edward thanked me again and said he was proud of me. I rolled my eyes. I wasn't doing it for him. It was for my own selfish gain. I wanted to know what was going on in that head of mine. And although I hated it, he was the ticket to convincing Dr. Banner for another CT scan.

That night, after work, I went to my cot with a large leather brown journal in my hands. I sat down on the edge of the cot and opened the journal up. It was Renee's. It was the only thing I had that belonged to her. My only connection to her now. She started writing in it when she was pregnant with me. She wrote down her thoughts about being a mom, and what gender she thought I'd be, and different baby names she was interested in.

She was so excited when she felt me kick for the first time. She continued writing after I was born. She talked about my first smile, and how much she loved me and Charlie. She mentioned that I was a product of unconditional love and she absolutely cherished me.

As the years went on, she started mentioning how odd she was feeling. She knew it wasn't normal, and said she'd get checked out by a doctor. Her next entry was written in messy hand writing, obviously she was writing fast or probably couldn't see due to her tears, she wrote down her diagnosis, and her fear about whether or not she would die. She mentioned that she was scared to leave me and Charlie behind. She was worried that I'd grow up without a mother. After that entry, she began writing to me. She said that she wanted me to know how much I was loved. She began her entries with 'Dear Bella' from that point on. She wrote words of encouragement, writing things down that mother's usually talked to their daughters about as they grew up. I wish I knew what her voice sounded like.

I read one of her entries.

Dear Bella,

You're growing up so fast. Today you drew a pretty picture for daddy, and we played with your new plastic kitchen set. I found myself watching you with a wide smile on my face several times during the day. Your innocence and youth leaves me captivated and reminds me that life is worth living, no matter how difficult the struggles tend to be. If I could offer you any piece of advice, it would be to live each day as if it were your last. Accomplish your goals and live your dreams. You can do anything and be anyone. Don't accept 'no' and 'you can't do it' for an answer. You're my daughter, and you're capable of doing anything.

I still pray that I'll be around for your first date, your high school graduation, your wedding and the birth of your children. Though the doctors find me silly for hoping for so much time, I pay no attention to them and continue to pray for the impossible. Miracles are real, Bella. I pray to have mine granted. Though if I don't get it, it will be okay. I've accepted my fate. The only fear I have is not watching you grow into the beautiful woman that I know you will become. I hope, as you're reading this, that all of your dreams are coming true.

I love you,

Mom

Tears stung my eyes and I traced over a picture she had pasted into the journal. It was a picture of her and me standing in front the kitchen set she mentioned in her entry. I was almost four years old, and I was holding up a small plastic pink plate with a fake muffin on top, offering it to her. She was gazing down at me, it looked as though she were laughing. My fingers trailed over the outline of her face. My heart clenched and my throat tightened.

I wished I could follow her advice. But I felt as though I didn't want to do anything. I didn't have the motivation. Life had brought me nothing but bad luck time and time again. I had just given up. There wasn't anything to fight for. Nothing that made me want to keep going. I had no family, very few friends, and two doctors who thought I was crazy. I was hoping that being diagnosed with something would give me the desire to strive to live and enjoy life. It worked for Renee.

I heard footsteps nearby and immediately tensed up. I wiped the tears underneath my eyes and cleared my throat. My firm mask slipped back on in place and my shoulders squared off.

"Hello." The bipolar woman who shared a room with me greeted as she moved towards her cot. "How are you?"

"Lovely," I answered dryly. "You?"

"Just peachy," came the snappy reply.

"Awesome," I said dully.

I leaned back, clutched the journal to my chest and closed my eyes.