Today: I am re-realizing/remembering/reminding myself, it's OKAY to hurt, to feel lonely, to feel longing. It's normal; it's to be expected; it's not a crisis. It doesn't necessitate action, although it's true I imagine future actions in the moment of the hurting. But I do or do not take action based on more than just pain management, thank God, or at least I do now. (I don't think I did in the past. It was almost all pain management, which was why my life was such a mess.)
So, when I'm hurting now, I remind myself too of the other things to focus on in life other than answering the question of "Am I FEELING happy/content/satisfied/loved…", a question that is sometimes so much better left unasked, as American as it is to ask it. Some other questions to consider asking instead:
1. Am I doing "the right thing" (whatever I believe it to be in my situation)?
2. Am I investing in my future in a way that will help me be the loving person I hope to be?
3. Am I making myself stronger?
4. Am I making relationship connections that might, some day, feel better than they do right now? (When we don't have the strong, intimate connections we need, it's tempting to just pull away altogether…but those strong, intimate connections start somewhere, so nurture those possible beginnings of strong, intimate connections, if you can.)
5. Am I helping someone else?
6. Am I connected/connecting with my sense of wisdom/of the loving power in the universe?
Or, to challenge yourself if you are doing nothing in the moment (besides passive pain management) in response to your sense of urgent misery, and you wonder if maybe doing something would be better…
1. Am I doing nothing merely out of fear? Is that fear legitimate?
2. Is the action I would like to take but am not taking selfish? Or is it more selfish to do nothing? (Define for yourself the important difference between soul-maiming selfishness and respecting your basic need to survive…obviously there will be blurring and continually overlapping lines between them.)
If this doesn't help you, please don't get hung up on the judgment implicit in the term "selfish"! I use it, because I sometimes need to prod myself a little with shame, or, more accurately, with projected future regret (shall we add "PFR" to our list of new terms, including "Plaths" as measures of emotional intensity and "high-feelers" as a class of people chronically misunderstood and devalued by the rest of the world?) to take action I'm afraid of – which is pretty much anything involving other people (including you).
Justine (see below) describes this dilemma more poetically, and less judgmentally, by saying she tries to remember that the point of life is not (in her, and my, opinion) to hide out in a cave (tip of the hat, Plato) and arrange her life perfectly in her own mind before going out in the world, perfection ensured; but to show up in that scary world every day (okay, most days) as her imperfect self, having faith that doing so is what is needed, even when she doesn't feel needed (or appreciated, or wanted, or liked, or loved, or…) at all. Justine is very smart.
3. If I act on an impulse for action (to counteract my pain) that I am currently resisting by doing nothing, am I more likely to be happier or sadder with myself in the long run than I am right now? (This is the Ann Landers—or was it Dear Abby?-question to decide whether to end a marriage or not that can be applied to any decision with moral undertones, which is pretty much any decision at all.) Is there anyone else who deserves input, or representation, in this weighing of future contentment with my decision? (I have to ask this question a lot when I'm dealing with the difficulties of my marriage. FYI, marriage is damn hard work.)
And finally, don't forget to ask yourself if you are being gentle, and nonjudgmental, and forgiving, with yourself in your pain. Courtesy of the amazing Justine (not a stage magician, but a superb friend and wise woman growing wiser), I share with you an affirmation she has culled from much reading and reflection (and if you can identify a specific source, please share it with us, as her brain like mine doesn't always hold on to bibliographic information): "I am a precious object, deserving of tender care."
If you snort reading that, you're in good company…or at least, you're in company with me, judge the quality of said company for yourself! But Justine argues well, and passionately, (yes, it's beautiful to hear; I am very lucky), that how we treat ourselves is generally how we treat others (agreed), and so treating ourselves as "precious objects" merely ensures we treat the occupants of the rest of the world that way as well. This is an excellent sneaky argument for those of us with severe shame issues.
I will confess, however, that poor Justine had to repeat this beautiful sentiment, in a very loud voice, more than once before I could finally hear it over my tearful recitation of all the reasons I suck as a person (yesterday was a Very Bad Day). Luckily it is quite funny to have someone screaming affirmations at you, with loving exasperation, and no doubt the humor of that helped pull me out of my self-pity death spiral. So, THANK YOU, Justine! And may you too have a Justine to yell affirmations your way! But just in case you don't right now, (Justines are rather rare, and I cannot bear to part with mine), YOU ARE A PRECIOUS OBJECT! YOU ARE DESERVING OF TENDER CARE! DO YOU HEAR ME, OUT THERE? I MEAN YOU! PRECIOUS OBJECT! TENDER CARE! REPEAT AFTER ME! NOW WRITE IT DOWN!
Really, the writing down helps. Now I'm going to go what may seem to be off-message and confess that next to Justine's version of that beautiful affirmation which I have scrawled on an index card taped to my computer, is my poor rendering of a happy little earthworm. Or rather, an accepting little earthworm. That would be me, my animal avatar, and if I didn't think it would gross people out, I'd find a picture of one to use on here.
Why an earthworm, you ask? Or, as Justine phrased it, "An earthworm? What about an eagle?" (Justine is routinely dismayed by my lack of self-esteem, and my lack of concern over said lack of self-esteem. And I might enjoy, just a little bit, tweaking her with this. Can you tell we used to be roommates?) So, yes, Justine, not an eagle, but an eagle's lunch. Or rather, an eagle's lunch's lunch. Maybe even an eagle's lunch's lunch's lunch, depending on how picky the eagle.
Why an earthworm? Because that is how I feel I live my life right now. Crawling on my belly through the dark; no pride; no respect; no protection; no safety; no future but eating dirt and creating…compost, not through highly-skilled and well-remunerated labor, but through my excrement, and eventually, my cold, dead body. Did I mention that yesterday was a Very Bad Day?
Now, this may sound very negative to you, but to me (and if you're a high-feeler, maybe you can see this too?), it is a HUGE RELIEF to just call it as it is. I am a societal earthworm! I am part of a nameless, devalued mass that creates the rich soil the prize roses grow in! I am the patient (in action, even when not in feeling) creator of miniscule passages that add up to nothing alone, and gain significance only as part of a community of other patient workers, most of whom I will never even catch glimpse of through the dirt!
I am aware of the large, important creatures stomping around above me, willing to consume me if convenient to them, but mostly finding me beneath their notice, or their concern. I am familiar with their power to, in moments, scoop up all that I've worked my life to create and fling me into an uncertain future, one in which I'll start over, somewhere, crawling through whatever new dirt I may be lucky enough to land in. I could complain, but I am aware as well exactly what good that will do me. No one likes to listen to an earthworm's lament-even other earthworms (they're too busy eating s#!+ to listen to it for long).
I could get treatment for this condition; plenty of American psychiatrists are willing to prescribe all sorts of psychotropic drugs to try to get an earthworm to turn into an eagle. They don't work. (Recreational hallucinogenics might, I suppose, create the sought-after transformation, at least temporarily…but in my case at least I predict merely a confused and distressed earthworm as the result of such experimentation. Still no wings. Still no beak. Still no predator attitude.)
The important thing to realize, if you are an earthworm considering this route, is that after their drugs and pep talks fail to transform you, the treating professionals will not blame their drugs and words for failing to have effect. Nor will they question the wisdom and sense of trying to transmutate one distinct—and productive, though eagles may not see it so—form of life into another.
No, they'll blame you, the earthworm, for still being worm-like, and they will call it "earthworm personality disorder," and you will find yourself in exactly the same life as before, only laden down with shame and anger over who, and what, you are, and your inability to be anything but yourself. (Not to mention the medical bills, which earthworms tend to have a hard time managing to pay.)
It's tiring, and expensive, and anything but a guaranteed success, trying to change your nature. But it does make for interesting, if cautionary, life stories to share with your neighboring worms. I cannot say I recommend it, but no doubt you'll have to find out for yourself…here's hoping you have better luck, and wiser professional guidance, than I.
A final note about the human earthworm: we do have the ability to stand up and make ourselves heard; we can be as ferocious and predatory as the biggest Bengal tiger…well, as a Bengal tiger cub, anyway. How do we manage this feat?
We don't. It's instinct, and it happens when our sense of justice or our loving protection of other creatures is triggered by ignorance or violence or greed. We go from harmless worms to fang-bearing snakes so quickly we don't quite believe it ourselves, and we have been known to scare ourselves sick, not to mention get ourselves into situations that our worm nature cannot navigate when the immediate threat fades and the fangs go away. But know this: an earthworm is a formidable friend, and an awesome protector, in spite of themselves (and too often except for themselves).
And you know what? I'm okay with all of this earthworm reality, because I like being me (most of the time), and I don't ever like trying not to be me (it's way too much effort, and never works out quite right), and I believe God (or somebody) loves me and made me (in a general, if not specific, sense) and wants me to go on for as long as my little worm body can squiggle! So there, eagles.
I don't mean to denigrate eagles; they are impressive birds indeed with a visibly-important place in the ecosystem. They also are so removed from my plane of existence that they make for very safe and theoretical foils. In contrast, I can't imagine safely drawing the attention of all the songbirds in the neighborhood, lest they eat me. Although, if I have many more Very Bad Days in the immediate future, I may revise that plan by painting myself blaze orange and learning to worm hula. On the grass. In the middle of the robins' migratory path. I wonder if worm life insurers would consider that intentional or accidental death? I will have to consult a worm attorney—please let me know if you have one to hand.
In sum, one can be a worm, and still believe oneself to be a precious object, deserving of tender, even loving, care. And if you are a worm too, striving to love yourself despite all the denigrations and accusations and encouragement to evolve into something higher up the food chain that worms so often get then I—well, as a worm, I'm not sure exactly what I do! Clearly, I can't applaud you, (no hands); perhaps I salute you? (Richard Scarry would seem to believe this is possible, for Lowly Worm anyway).
I would worm-hug you, but I'm pretty sure that's how they have sex, so that doesn't seem an entirely appropriate show of support. Although since I tend to think of sex as a messier-than-usual hug, then maybe that wouldn't be so bad. (And Houston, I think we have identified one more root marital difficulty: I think of sex as messy hugs, and my husband thinks of hugs as wasted arm motion. What marital compatibility quiz did we not take that would have clarified this for us?)
Well, specifics of worm solidarity aside, from one dirt-dwelling stomach-crawler to another, I say: Well done! Be strong; carry on; we need you. I need you. It's lonely in the dirt by yourself, so let's connect tunnels and aerate the world together, chewing up other beings' negative emotional output and leaving behind us, love! And s#!+. Loving s#!+, if you will. (And if that isn't an apt description of my fanfic writing, I don't know what is.)
And now, without further worm analysis, here is chapter three of College Rescue, which still has a crappy (worm-like?) title but has at least been recently edited to correct the significant discrepancies in space-time continuum that result when a multi-chapter author lacks the nerve to read what she's already posted. (I have since found that nerve, thus the corrections. I also have made a sincere pledge never to use the verb "cocks" in conjunction with Edward, or Edward's head, or any part of Edward's body, ever, ever again. Should I break this pledge, unintentionally, I assure you, do please somebody take pity on me and message me a gentle reminder that Edward should never "cock" anything, or give Jasper (or anyone else) a tongue-lashing, however much Jasper may enjoy it. Thank you.)
Disclaimer: Thank you, Stephenie Meyer, for allowing us to use your Twilight characters and plot elements and even words sometimes—the gift is priceless, and worth far more than the four battered copies of the Twilight Saga I have filling up my desk drawer. Thank goodness you're not making me pay for this privilege, because I couldn't, and that would be sad indeed.
Thank you, dear readers, for being patient and nonjudgmental, with me and with yourselves.
Blessings to you!
xo liza
xxxxxx
I was lost on campus. Some part of me realized I was dreaming, and I could just open my eyes to know where I was again. But I didn't want to—wake up or be found. I was waiting for something to happen. I was waiting for someone…
Suddenly, I was inside a new building, one made up in my head; about half-science center and half-student union. I was searching for my class. I opened one door to an auditorium full of students, all staring malevolently at me, and shut it again, quickly. I opened another door, finding my mother, looking disappointed and accusing. I turned away and ran, hearing her voice but refusing, even in my dream, to listen to her words.
I wandered down a labyrinthine hallway, until I found a third door. This one led to a dark, cavernous room that, in its barren emptiness, was almost scarier than either of the two before it. I watched a curtain take shape at one end of it, and knew that my subconscious was making use of my Harry Potter reading to generate a place evocative of wanton abandonment by those we need and love. (I hated the brutal ending to Sirius Black's avuncular caring for Harry.)
I started to cry, in my dream and for real, which I knew because at some level, I registered that my pillow began to feel wet against my cheek.
Starting to sob, my body jolted from the shock of a hand descending on my shoulder. I tried to shift under it, to shake it off, but it stayed firm, firm as the voice now saying my name, "Isabella." I tried to scream, but no matter how hard I tried, no sound came out, the vocal equivalent of running in place from nightmare threats.
I tried to turn then, to see who the hand belonged to, but I was turning around in slow motion. I could sense my mind deciding what I would see in this dream, debating with itself. There was something I knew I really wanted to find behind me, but part of me wouldn't allow it. The endless turn went on.
Finally, something in my mind gave way and I finished the half-circle, coming face to face, or face to chest with… Edward, Alice's cousin. So relieved. Instant, total comfort. He smiled at me, like he did at Alice, with all the warmth and safety of his unquestioned love for her now being sent my way. I just breathed, staring at the noon-day sun, basking in its warmth and power.
But then I heard an alarm, a buzzing, and started to panic, the bizarre university building around me coming back into focus and moving around in ominous ways, consciousness threatening at every shift. I heard words that I almost believed, in my half-conscious state, came from Edward's lips: "It will be okay, Bella. I'm here. It will be okay."
And fast as love-starved lightning, I smashed my hand on the alarm next to my bed and snuggled back into the blankets, eyes tightly closed, desperately hanging on to the vision of Alice's cousin until I managed to slip back into the dream again. And as I felt myself fall back into the dream building in a dream world with a dream man who wanted me, I heard his voice again, and felt—really felt—his arms. I was safe. I was loved. I was home.
…
I woke up in an instant. And then, instantly panicked. Looking around, I noticed the light coming through my blinds was far too bright for 5:30 a.m., and that my alarm clock was on the floor beside me. I remembered the dream I had been having. Although the look and sound of it were slipping away, the warm, safe feel of it was close enough to my consciousness that I understood why I would have brutalized my alarm clock to hold on to it a little longer.
But then I caught sight of the calculus book open on my desk, my unfinished homework around it, and the panic returned.
Jumping out of bed, I caught one foot in the covers I had wrapped around me and fell to the ground. Banging elbows and my head, I was grateful my floor was carpeted so that it wasn't so bad a landing. My new position put me in close proximity to my alarm clock. I fearfully lifted it off the floor and reluctantly tilted the red digital face my direction…8:20 a.m.! I had class in thirty minutes!
I also had to work that afternoon, and again that night, so I had no choice but to take the time to shower and dress in a decent outfit. After managing the basics, hair wet and clipped up in a twist, undone calculus homework shoved in my backpack, I looked at my watch as I headed out of my building and saw there remained only 15 more minutes before class started.
So I ran all the way to calculus, proud of myself to get there only five minutes late. That didn't seem too bad, and it could have been so much worse! I was almost congratulating myself for being so grown-up and collegiate in handling my accidental lateness, showing up to class anyway instead of using it as a cowardly excuse for skipping and falling behind in the lectures, as I opened the door.
Unfortunately, the door was at the front of the class, just to the side of the whiteboard where the professor was lecturing, and I became the instant focus of almost every student in the class as I entered. More unfortunately, the professor noticed me too, and even interrupted himself to say to me, with asperity, "I hope you don't make a habit of coming in late like this. It's disrespectful to your classmates, and rude to me," before returning to his lecture.
I was absolutely crushed, of course, and briefly considered running out the door I had just come in. But as I had already carefully closed the door behind me and moved in to the room a couple steps, and the class's attention had by then returned to the professor's lecture, it seemed like I would attract more attention turning around and running away than if I just proceeded to the back of the room and sat down.
So I did that, finding a seat as private and hidden as possible from the professor up front, who now completely terrified me. I festered in shame so acute I thought I must die, and was surprised (and a little frustrated) to find that I didn't. Having been a model student, out of fear, my whole life up until this point, I was caught off guard at how much the world around me didn't react to my abasement. The world definitely didn't end, and didn't even seem to care very much. I tried to take comfort in this fact, and mostly failed, although the sheer interest of it did help with the initial moments of suffering.
I might even have ended the hour with a sense of accomplishment, having had the unspeakable happen and lived to reflect on it, but that Professor Varner ended class by going over yesterday's homework assignment, asking students to go up to the front and write out their solutions to the problems assigned. Of course, he selected me to do one of the last problems, one I hadn't even managed to attempt the night before. I didn't balk, but walked up to the front like an automaton, copying the problem carefully from my book. Then I stood there, staring at it, hoping for instant inspiration so that I could solve the problem in such a way that didn't give away I'd never looked at it before.
That didn't happen, and, predisposed to think the worst of me, the professor took the opportunity to remind me of how college carried with it higher expectations for initiative and responsible study habits than high school had, and that I let not only myself but my classmates down when I didn't keep up with the work assigned. I think I stopped hearing him at some point, nodding vaguely when I thought he wanted me to, and retreating back to my desk of shame to allow some other, more prepared student to complete the problem on the board. My brain buzzing, nothing made sense, but somehow I copied down the solution offered, my paper wet with tears.
On the way to my next class, all the warm feelings of the night before had vanished, and had been replaced by gut-wrenching shame and self-hatred. Of course it was just a silly fantasy, the idea that Alice's cousin might have noticed me at all, any more than he noticed the contents of Alice's cupboards, or the kitchen table. Of course I was just imagining things when I felt a connection with him when he touched me, out of politeness and an Alice-like affability only I was now certain. And of course Alice's handsome cousin—the medical student—will never, ever look at me twice, or probably even remember my name. What had I been thinking? And what had I sacrificed to engage in those thoughts, even for just one night?
I didn't answer myself in specifics, too afraid to do so and admit to myself how far gone I'd been already. Caught up short and facing reality now, however, I could only repeat to myself over and over again, I'm so stupid. I'm so stupid! I'm so stupid.
Of course I wanted to die, which was normal for me; but the intensity of the desire was at a new and frightening level by the time I was debating, after my second class, whether to honor my early lunch date with Alice in the campus cafeteria, or run off and try to find somewhere to hide for 45 minutes before I had to be at work.
Sheer ingrained politeness (despite my calculus professor's low opinion of my manners) had me keeping the date with Alice, and I was glad I did, because it offered the first emotional relief of my day. By the end of lunch, the tears had receded and I could breathe without feeling stabbing pains in my chest.
Work in the Admissions Office after lunch was, if not as positive as spending time with Alice, at least uneventful. After I was done there, I made it on time to my last class of the day, and then to my new job at the coffee shop with a couple minutes to spare.
When I got to the shop I found two people hard at work taking orders and making coffee behind the counter, while two more apron-wearing individuals stood to one side and talked over a paper schedule. As one of those two talking, the woman, nodded her head smiling and moved off, she looked up and caught me staring at her.
Smiling more, she waved me behind the counter, recognizing me from my time there on Saturday when she'd been running the shop while one of the other managers ran the interviews. I smiled in return, and taking a deep breath, set in trying to learn all I could about how to be a good employee there.
Luckily, my trainer and shift supervisor, the woman from Saturday, was as nice as she seemed. But my other co-worker for the night seemed to take an immediate dislike to me, from the moment we were introduced. The stress of a new job, and all the little (and big) mistakes that come with it, had me trying not to cry. Ignoring or brushing off the unfriendly, unkind looks and comments of this other woman working with me had me trying not to cry some more.
Then, half-way through my shift, when I had begun to feel beginning mastery over the operation of the shop's cash register and the serving of their food items and refrigerated drinks, (I hadn't been trusted with creation of the coffee drinks yet, thank goodness), and just as I was starting to calm down a little bit, Alice's cousin walked through the door.
I didn't see him at first. I just heard the door open and shut, because Lucy, my supervisor, had pulled me off of register duty and charged me with washing the trays for tomorrow's baked goods, so my back was to the door. I didn't pay attention either to the customer my aggressive and angry co-worker Jill was serving. But as I finished the last tray and set it to the side to dry I could sense someone staring at me, so I finally turned around—and looked straight into Edward's eyes.
He smiled at me. "I thought that was you," he said cheerfully, even companionably.
I froze, not understanding at all. My mind tried to make sense of what he just said, and how he said it, and concluded that there must be someone he knew standing behind me.
So I turned and looked. No one was back there. Just Jill (my angry co-worker) standing off to my side, glaring at me. What have I done now? I couldn't help but think.
I turned back towards Edward. He had obviously noticed Jill, because now he was glaring at her while she continued to look daggers at me. Tears started to form again, pooling unusually quickly due to all the use they'd had so far that day.
"Bella? Isabella, are you all right?" Edward's attention was obviously back on me, and he seemed concerned.
As for me, well, I heard the concern in his tone, and I recognized it was my name he was using, but I still didn't understand what he wanted, or what he meant, or why he was standing there. I raised my eyes to look at him again. But only for just a second, because he was staring at me with worried eyes, and I couldn't bear the unexpected intimacy of seeing his concern. It wasn't safe.
Why is he worried? What is he doing here? I thought to myself, as the savior from my desperately wonderful dreams the night before approached the counter, present in real life and confusing—and scaring—the heck out of me.
Edward said my name again as he came closer, "Isabella?"
There was a new note of urgency in it that dragged a response from my muddled brain. I nodded. I didn't know why I nodded; I couldn't remember what question I was even nodding a "yes" to.
But it seemed to mollify him, because he stopped moving into the counter and said back "Good," in a firm voice.
I was still crying, which was humiliating, and there was enough moisture by then that I was forced to sniffle and wipe the back of my hand across my eyes.
I'll have to wash my hands again, I was thinking to myself when I heard his voice, quiet and deep, say to me, "Come here, sweetheart."
I turned around to look behind me one more time for the other person he must be talking to, but there was still no one there, not even angry Jill off to the side anymore because she was back at the register to ring in a new customer's order. It was just me, for the moment, and Edward, who I could see out of the corner of my cast-down eyes was holding his hand out to me across the counter.
I knew this looked bad; I knew there were basic rules against socializing with friends (is Edward my friend?) in one's place of employment; I knew that my usual work ethic would have had me hard at work in that moment, rinsing the spotless trays.
But it was Edward's voice commanding me, and Edward's hand summoning me, and so I couldn't do anything other than approach them both—his voice and his hand—albeit slowly.
Edward laughed, a small, gentle laugh, and I looked up, confused, to see what was funny.
He was smiling kindly at me, concern still showing, and maybe sadness too. "I'm sorry, sweetheart; I don't mean to scare you. You just look so afraid of me, like you've done something really bad, and you think I'm going to punish you for it."
My eyes dropped at once, scared indeed of how accurately he read my mind, and ashamed to apparently be getting things all wrong, yet again. I felt my cheeks burn, and was consumed with the desire to run for the back door and fling myself out of this unbearable reality.
Some very small part of me, the part that wanted so desperately to succeed here, and not to limp back to Forks to work at the Thriftway and live with a disappointed father who doesn't really want me in his home; that part forced me to keep my feet planted where they were, although I could no longer process any auditory input at all.
So the world went silent and my mind went blank until I felt something brush against my hand, then hold on tight. That sensation shocked me back into awareness, allowing my hearing to return in the middle of something Edward was saying, "…come get you out of there? Can you hear me, honey?"
I nodded, a few times, little nods. I could hear him. I didn't know what that meant or why he cared, but I could at least answer his question.
"Yes you can hear me, or yes you need me to get you out of there?" he followed-up quickly, his voice serious. My brows furrowed as I puzzled that out. Get me out of here? Why would he do that?
My confused calculations were interrupted by Lucy, the shift supervisor, coming up out of the downstairs storage area with the paper good supplies and tomorrow's break schedule ready to post, and saying kindly (thank goodness), "Isabella, are you all right? Is this someone you know?"
I looked up at her, mortified to be caught breaking one of the first rules of good employee behavior, and nodded, again a little vague about what I was saying yes to.
I pulled on my hand, wanting to put distance between myself and Edward, in an attempt to salvage both my job and my dignity. Okay, just my job. I've never been big on dignity.
Edward didn't let me go right away, however. Instead, he looked towards Lucy and addressed her, in a charming voice, saying "Hello, I'm Edward Masen, Isabella's friend, and chauffeur tonight. I'll stay out of the way; I just wanted to make sure she was doing all right here."
Then he squeezed my hand and dropped his eyes to me, saying more quietly, "Are you?"
I nodded more quickly and convincingly this time, the adrenaline running through me helping me cut through the emotional haze Edward…Masen always seemed to create in me.
Edward smiled in response, saying "All right, then," as he carefully set my hand on the counter and released it, squeezing it a moment first, like a hug—a hand hug. I inwardly rolled my eyes at myself for thinking that—hand hug, indeed—as Edward moved off, but still heard him saying, "I'll see you in a couple of hours, Isabella. No running off without me," and as he said that, he turned and looked straight at me, almost searing me with his eyes before turning back again.
I stared after him for a couple of seconds, watching as he walked to a small table half-way between the counter and the windows and settled in with a laptop and an academic journal. Then I turned to wash my hands, and start in back to work.
Lucy, who had watched curiously the end of my interaction with Edward but had mercifully not said anything about it to me, kept me busy for the next hour learning how to make the coffee drinks that were the bread-and-butter of the shop. I only got two burns, one on each hand, as I practiced my espresso-making technique, so that was pretty impressive for me. I was kind of surprised at how many people order espresso drinks at 10:00 at night, but Lucy laughed and pointed out that we were next to a major university campus, and there would always be a steady supply of people who needed to stay up all night in order to get papers written and exams prepared for.
I nodded my understanding, and thought that maybe I should make myself start drinking coffee. After the morning's humiliation, I had sworn to myself that I would never go to sleep with homework undone again. And as tired as I was already this semester, it didn't look like the Cokes I usually drank for this purpose were going to cut it.
Weighing my options as I ran the espresso machine, I decided to try a café mocha for my last break; it had chocolate and whipped cream along with the espresso, so I thought maybe I could handle it. When the time for my break came, I made the drink myself, and entered it in the log where employees keep track of the beverages and food they purchase—we were each allowed one coffee drink per eight-hour shift for free, or I never would have allowed myself to buy it. There was no way my budget allowed for $4 cups of coffee.
My budget didn't allow for eating in the cafeteria either instead of bringing bag lunches, so I worried for a moment once again how I was going to explain that to Alice. She seemed to expect that we would regularly meet for lunch at the student union on the days when our schedules matched. I sighed as I thought about that dilemma; I really like eating lunch with Alice.
And with Jasper. He had joined us today, and if I had known he would be coming, I would have made an excuse to Alice so that she could enjoy being alone with him. But I didn't know, because Alice didn't tell me (on purpose, I suspect), and despite being kind of scared of Jasper (although it helps that he's so interested in Alice he barely notices me), I really had a good time. He's funny, and nice, and maybe I could be friends with him, if things work out between him and Alice. I really hope they do.
Still, I can't keep having lunch with them like that. I'll have to figure out an excuse.
And as that decision was made and my apron was off and hanging in its spot, I checked the clock and headed out to the seating area for my break, my book for English class under my arm. I don't know how I could have forgotten who was sitting out there already; I think I must have blocked it somehow in my brain.
But as I crossed from behind the counter, I accidentally looked straight at Edward, and saw him looking straight back at me, waving me over. I hesitated for just a moment; then, figuring there was no other option without being inexcusably rude, I marched his direction, bracing myself for the shame and embarrassment I sensed lurking for me in the upcoming interaction.
Edward was busy clearing off his table of his books and computer, placing them on the unoccupied table to the left of him. I approached and hesitated by the chair opposite his, while he stood and came around from the other side, pulling the chair out for me and indicating with his hand that I should sit.
As I sat I placed my coffee on the table, but no sooner had I set it down, then Edward scooped it up. I watched, shocked, as he removed the lid and sniffed it, then without a word walked off to the trash cans and threw my untouched coffee in. I stared after him in disbelief as he went up to the counter and ordered two more drinks; both herbal teas, I could see. He also bought two muffins and the last remaining fruit cup. Then, laden down, he made his way back to the table.
Setting the tray on the table in front of me, he said, "Eat up."
I just stared: first at the muffins, then at him. He stared back, smiling, no sign of guilt or discomfort over his disposal of my beverage. I wasn't mad, I was just incredulous. Finally I said something. "You threw away my coffee."
He smiled larger. "That I did."
"I need the coffee to stay awake," I explained.
Edward replied authoritatively, "No, you need to go to sleep as soon as you get home. You'll be sleep-deprived as it is after working this late, I'm afraid."
"But I have homework!" I protested, growing panicked.
His response was quick, and unflustered. "I'm sure you do."
"I won't be able to stay awake in order to finish it!" I added, trying to get him to see the obvious.
Matter-of-fact and completely assured, Edward said with an air of finality, "Your health comes first. We'll deal with the rest of it as it comes."
I was outraged. I mean, I don't sit around thinking about how unfair life is, that Alice should have such a loving and supportive and caring family, and I should be an accident that neither parent was particularly happy about. But when Edward said that, with such presumption, as if there was any guarantee at all that he would have anything to do with picking up the pieces if I didn't do well at school and get a good job and figure out how to "stand on my own two feet" (one of Charlie's favorite phrases), well, I got mad.
And I said so. Or at least I said, "What do you mean, 'we'll deal with it'? I'm not your responsibility! I'm not related to you!" in tones of such bitterness and frustration, the mad part was definitely implied.
But Edward wasn't fazed; he came right back with "Thank God for that."
And there was the humiliation I had sensed lying in wait for me. Of course he doesn't want to be related to me! Here he was, just trying to be nice, and all I could do was complain! I am such a bad person, I screamed inside. I am so bad, so bad, so bad. I started to cry.
Edward leaned in to me, wiping the tears with one hand. I kept crying, trying to keep the sobs silent.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart; that came out wrong," he said in a soothing voice. "Or rather, it came out right, but you misunderstood me, and I should have expected you to."
I was glad he was still being nice to me, but I just wanted to die, more than at any point in that day, and maybe in my life so far. I wanted to dig through the tile floor and curl up and die.
My face was burning and I was desperately searching for some way to salvage the situation when I felt him turn my chair towards where he was, now crouching on the floor at my side and looking up at me. I avoided his eyes, looking down at my legs, and his, but I still heard him as he continued in a tender tone, "I am unspeakably grateful that you are indeed not related to me, because I wouldn't want to be attracted to someone I was related to the way I am attracted to you."
My mouth dropped, and once more, I just sat there, staring at him (well, at his legs, anyway). This was becoming a frequent occurrence with Edward… Masen. It felt strange to think his last name, especially because it was different from Alice's. It made him seem somehow more exotic; more dangerous.
Whether it was from working around coffee fumes all night or because I was building up an immunity of sorts to complete overwhelm-ment, at least I did manage to keep thinking this time around. What I was thinking out as I sat stunned, besides my reaction to his name, was an analysis and odds-calculation of the possible things Edward could have meant by what he just said.
Possibility One was he was making fun of me. But that didn't strike me as likely given what I knew of his character so far, and the lengths he was going to in order to be around me.
Possibility Two, which I was giving the strongest odds at the moment, was that he was just being kind, maybe at Alice's goading, and trying to stoke my self-esteem by more or less lying to me. I was fairly certain this was the case.
However, I was also considering Possibility Three, which involved him being high on some unknown mind-altering drug, although he certainly didn't look or act like it in any other way. Possibility Three-B was that maybe he was having some sort of psychological break; I considered this, and thought maybe I would ask Alice about it later.
Possibility Four was that he was telling the truth, and was so ludicrously impossible that I wasted no time on it.
Edward interrupted my calculations by reaching across me and taking one of the teas and setting it down in front of his seat, then breaking the muffins in half and opening the cup of fruit. Next he turned my chair back under the table, pushing it in a little further too. Finally, he placed one of his large hands on the back of my head and pushed a fork towards me with his other hand while saying, "Eat. I'm willing to bet you skipped dinner tonight, so I want to see you eat at least half a muffin and all of the fruit before you go back to work. If that makes you late getting back from your break, so be it."
My eyes widened as I started in on new calculations of the odds that he would force me to stay in my seat and eat past the time I was due back at work—a mere seven minutes away. I quickly concluded the odds were quite high, so began eating the grapes and then the raisin bran muffin. When I started following his orders, Edward gently removed his hand from my head, pushed my chair in a little further still, and squeezed my shoulder before moving back to his own seat.
As I ate, and after he touched me with such tenderness, I started to feel better, and calmer; like maybe everything really was going to be all right. I decided not to worry in that moment how that would be possible; I just enjoyed and felt oh-so-grateful for the fact that Edward was still in my presence, relieved that despite my ungrateful and emotional behavior, he was not yet acting like he despised me, or found me to be a waste of his time and effort.
The muffin was good, and huge, so the half that I ate went a long way to filling the aching hollow that had indeed been my stomach before. I had meant to pack a peanut butter sandwich for dinner, but had been running so late this morning that I hadn't had time. I could have grabbed something on the way, maybe, but I was punishing myself a bit for sleeping in, and also being mindful as always of my limited funds.
After I finished the required amount, I looked back up and saw Edward still staring at me. And smiling, still. I smiled back, and blushed. "Thank you," I said, "for the food. It's really good. Do you want some?" and I pushed the plate with the remaining muffin halves his way.
"I'll have one now, and we'll save the rest for our drive home," he said, as he scooped up the other half of the raisin bran muffin and took a bite. "How's your tea?" he asked then, as he sipped at his own.
I hadn't touched the cup that had so upset me at first, but now I tried it. "It's delicious," I said with surprise and gratitude. I wasn't usually a tea-drinker, but I guess that might have been because I'd never had anything other than Lipton tea at Charlie's or the tea at my mom's favorite Chinese restaurant in Phoenix. This was something else entirely, and it made me feel so warm and lovely!
Smiling again at Edward, I said, "Thank you for the tea."
Then, blushing and dropping my head as I remembered the horrible things I had said, I added in a quieter voice, "I'm sorry I was so rude about the coffee."
I felt his hand cover my own as he said back to me, in a tone every bit as assertive as any he'd used tonight, "You are not to be sorry about anything, Isabella. Do you understand me?"
I nodded, out of habit, but I didn't understand him at all.
He squeezed my hand, as if reassuring me that that was okay. "I know it will take you a while to get used to having me looking out for you. I expect you to get upset sometimes with me; Alice does too, remember?"
I lifted my head at that, smiling at my memory of last night, which though it horrified me at the time, now seemed a little funny given how safe Edward seemed to be, and how much he and Alice seemed to love each other. (I knew how Alice felt about Edward after talking to her about him at lunch.)
And now he was going to look out for me too? It seemed too good to be true. It had to be too good to be true. At that thought, my head dropped again, but Edward just held my hand tighter and said, "It will be okay, sweetheart, I promise."
Edward using that term of endearment again, when it was something I had heard so rarely lately (terms of endearment were not Charlie's style, and my mom had been avoiding me ever since she sent me off to Forks because I had, in her words, "worn her out,"), almost caused another breakdown. But luckily or not, just as the tears were starting to gather, I heard Jill say, not nicely, from behind the counter, "Your break's up, Isabella; it's my turn."
I jumped up like the seat was on fire, and avoiding looking at Edward, said "Thanks-for-the-food-I-really-appreciate-it-see-yo u-later-thanks," and ran off, taking one last sip of the delicious tea before throwing it away, along with the empty fruit cup, on my way.
I worked as hard as I could the rest of the night, both trying to undo any bad impressions made on my supervisor by my interactions with Edward, and trying hard not to think at all about anything he said. Nothing good would come from thinking about those words, I was certain. I would just start wanting things I couldn't have, and would become so consumed with wanting, I wouldn't be able to function in the real world... where I was alone, and would likely always be alone.
Because I was working so hard, and because I was dreading facing Edward again—or rather, dreading the let-down after he brought me home and left me alone again—the time flew. Sooner than I could believe, Lucy was announcing closing time to the few people left in the seating area, Edward included. They all gathered their belongings and headed out the front door, which Lucy locked behind them, switching the sign from "Open" to "Closed."
Edward was the last to leave. Before he did, he approached me where I was standing by the counter with a mop, ready to clean the dining room floor when all the customers had gone. "Isabella," he said sternly, "you're not going to give me any trouble about driving you home tonight, are you?"
I looked up at him, caught sight of his intense eyes boring down at me with aggressive, if kind, intention, and meekly shook my head "No."
"Good," he said, nodding once, then moved away towards the front door where Lucy was waiting. "I'm parked in the back lot, sweetheart. Come out to my car when you're done," he instructed, over his shoulder, as he walked away.
At the door, he turned to Lucy and said, "Please make sure Isabella leaves out the back door tonight. She's stubborn about refusing help, and was planning to walk home alone."
I flushed beet red to have someone telling tales on me to my supervisor, and suggesting that I needed supervision of a less-than-professional nature.
But Lucy smiled at him; she approved of him, I could tell. "I will. We all go out the back door. I'll make sure she's safely in the car before I leave; I always do that for the people I work with," she reassured him, with no sign of resentment, thank goodness.
Edward smiled approval of her as well. "Thank you," he said with warmth, making me feel just slightly conspired against. I liked it. "Good night," Edward said to Lucy just before the door closed behind him.
I was blushing madly, and to cover it, and recover my equilibrium, I set to mopping with great fervor. By the time I was done, I was exhausted. The late hour and the long shift after a full day of classes and working already had caught up with me, and I was in no mood to argue with Edward about driving me home by the time I was clocking out.
Instead, I followed Jill out the back door.
There I paused as Lucy locked the door behind the three of us, overcome with gratitude for the shiny, silver Volvo parked under the security light in the back lot.
I was grateful, that is, until I saw the person inside the Volvo staring right at me. Then, I was terrified.
It's hard to explain, the terror I felt. It was just Edward, and despite the creepy lighting, I didn't really think he would pull an axe from behind him, or suddenly become a vampire and bite into my neck. And yet, I was unquestionably scared for my life. As I stood, transfixed, and watched him get out of his car and approach me, all I could think was: There is something here I don't understand; there is something here that will hurt me, not because of what it is, but because of what I will be when it's gone.*
With sudden clarity, I realized what was wrong, just as Edward Masen came within reach and I turned to flee and found the iron door dispassionately locked behind me. This is a dream, I told myself. And I know what dreams do in my life. They make me oversleep, and not finish my homework, and arrive late for class, and be held up as a bad example for everyone to see. Dreams trick me, and lie to me, and shame me. I can't trust my dreams. I can't trust Edward Masen.
xxxxxx
*Isabella's line is an inverse from a line in one of my favorite love poems, "Love" by Roy Croft, or "Ich liebe Dich" by Erich Fried, depending on the veracity of the Wikipedia account I read (I love Wikipedia): "I love you, Not only for what you are, But for what I am when I am with you…I love you for the part of me that you bring out…I love you because you Are helping me to make Of the lumber of my life Not a tavern, but a temple; Out of the works Of my every day Not a reproach But a song…"
