Spirit to Flesh - Outtakes A Twific by LittleWing
In the Flesh - The Spirit to Flesh Outtakes: A Twific by LittleWing, beta'd by my hero, Jessica1971
A/N: There was a time when I thought this would have been the first outtake posted, but alas, it's taken awhile to birth this baby. She's a big one. A tissue or two may be needed. Special thanks to Cullen312 for planting this idea in my head and for many others who requested this viewpoint. I truly hope you like it. Remember, this starts off when Bella gets back from her trip to Boston (Spirit to Flesh – Ch.10) and continues on from there. As always, thanks for reading! LW
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight or The Love Letter. I'm just playin' around and havin' a ball. No infringement intended. No money made. Viva Le Fan Fiction!
Chapter 3 – The Gift Inside
If Bella could have run all the way home, she would have. Two weeks away from home, away from Edward, was too much.
After the charms of Mr. Masen subsided, she was left with nothing to do in Boston but wish she were writing Edward. The novelty of being in the city where he now lived had gotten her through the first week there as she walked through the streets trying to imagine where he was and what he was doing, but by the second week she felt she would go mad. To slow down her anxiety, she wrote him poems. Letters would have been torturous with no means to deliver them to him and get the almost immediate response she'd come to expect. Bella theorized that a poem was more appropriate for a one way love letter, so she spent her second week in Boston writing poetry while sitting by Jamaica Pond, which was one of Edward's favorite places.
As she burst through her front door, Bella could not contain her smile at the thick stacks of letters waiting for her on the round front table.
"Can you not wait a moment, Bella?" Charles chuckled. "I never knew you loved home so much."
"I love letters, Father. I love letters!" she shouted as she ran up the stairs with her arms full.
Closing her bedroom door firmly behind her, she let her girlish giggles run free. The sheer volume of letters in her arms left no doubt in her mind that Edward had missed her as much as she had missed him.
Bella spread the letters out over her bed before lighting a fire and undressing slowly, trying to slow her heartbeat and prolong the joy of her anticipation. Finally, after slipping on her nightgown, she sank down on her bed and began sorting his letters. He'd numbered them for her so that she could walk through each day with him, just as he had spent them. As she reached the bottom of the pile, she noticed a tattered envelope that had been singed and charred around the edges. It marred her white sheets with black smudges.
Bella stared at the letters on her bed, noticing for the first time how they all seemed to circulate and center around this one unnumbered envelope. Her instincts ran from foreboding curiosity to avoidance. She instinctively didn't want to open it, but she could neither cast it aside nor reach for it, so instead she climbed off of her bed slowly and went to the window where she could see the sun beginning to set behind the line of trees in her backyard. She did not stir as Maggie knocked on her door and entered tentatively.
"Ma'am, another letter arrived for you today." Bella turned slightly in acknowledgement of Maggie's presence and motioned for her to leave the letter on her desk. Their desk. Bella could not explain the change in her mood from giddy euphoria to quiet and pensive. She glanced at her bed towards the letter that lay there like a warning or a curse. She had never thought that there would be anything worse than coming back from Boston to find not a single letter from him, signifying that their connection was lost. Staring back out the window, she could feel that her imagination had been woefully deficient.
Fire. She thought. The letter had been on fire.
In an attempt to lift her mood, Bella moved towards her desk to see the new letter that Maggie had bought. It seemed intact and unharmed in Maggie's hand, but for some reason that fact did not comfort her. As she glanced down at the letter in the center of her desk, Bella halted in surprise at the unfamiliar script.
To: Miss Isabella Swan
From: Thomas Stewart on behalf of Mr. Anthony Masen
On behalf of, Bella thought as she opened the envelope. Had he joined the war already?
The letter inside was folded in half and secured by a black ribbon and a small note tucked in between satin and parchment. Bella read the note first.
Dear Miss Swan:
It is with deep regret that I inform you that Mr. Anthony Masen, along with his beloved parents, has passed on due to the influenza plague that has ravaged our city. I forward this to you as my final duty to him, as it was left on his nightstand, presumably written before his illness, and clearly intended for you. I humbly apologize for having to deliver it with such tragic news.
Sincerely,
Thomas Stewart
Butler
Bella worked to move past her shock as she read the note again. Anthony Masen? How could someone with so much life in him be suddenly gone? she wondered and shook her head at the irony of the beautiful man who was so anxious to go off to war being bested in his own home by an unseen enemy. The sadness she felt at the news of his passing did not surprise her. Even though she had only known him for an hour, she sensed their strange connection clearly. We would have been good friends, she thought. Such a terrible waste.
Anthony's letter was brief and cordial, reiterating his pleasure in their meeting and his sincere hope that she would continue their correspondence. To her, his words seemed static and slightly awkward, which made her smile sadly as she remembered their encounter on the train. Feeling the shortness of time acutely, she decided to brush aside her dark mood and move back to the bed. I've been away from him too long. At first she resolved to avoid the charred letter, placing it back at the bottom of her pile, but the idea of her unnamed fear disturbed her. Just as she opened the first letter, she abruptly put it down and reached for the bottom of the pile again.
Bella handled the letter as carefully as she could as she read and interpreted Edward's despair. The story he told was incredible – unbelievable – she reached out to him as a 13 year old boy. His English teacher, her death, and the longing, always the longing. She could tell that he had been crying as he wrote, racked with guilt and regret. In contrast, Bella was a mix of sympathy and excitement. Here is my chance to meet him – to touch his hand! she thought wistfully. It was more than she'd ever thought to ask for. Even if he doesn't know me, what difference does it make? She would touch his hand and read to him from a book of her very own poetry. She was thrilled with the promises his letter held for them both. Although Bella felt sympathy for his regret, she was confident she could assure him that she would never hold his 13 year old indifference against him. He would not become the man he was now for many years. She would show him how this was a triumph over the tragedy of their distance.
It was with this gaiety of spirit that she began reading each letter he had written to her over the past 2 weeks. She laughed at the collection of post it's he'd sent her on day 2 and the hilarious story he'd told on day 4 describing in great detail his misguided childhood efforts to shave his hair into a recognizable style. To her it felt like Christmas. The envelope for day 5 was thin, and as she opened it she squealed in delight as she understood that he had not waited, as he'd threatened, to send her his picture. As Bella tore open the envelope, the picture flipped out of her hands and landed face up on the bed. Her smile turned slowly from excitement, to confusion, and then shock as she took in the beautiful face of the man she'd met only once before on a train to Boston.
Bella froze as her eyes took in the impossible green of his eyes, the length of his frame, and the crooked smile on his face. That face. Though his shoulders and chest were broader, more muscular, the male in the picture was unmistakably the man to the boy she'd met on the train. Bella closed her eyes and tried to remember his voice and how it soothed her. Now she knew why. "You are the same," she murmured. "My God. You are the same."
Bella was still in shock as she moved from her bed to her desk to tell Edward the extraordinary news. It was only as her eyes fell again on Mr. Stewart's note that a new understanding began to seep through the shock that occupied her thoughts. Anthony is dead. If you are the same... Her mind did not finish the thought. She would not finish the thought. "No!" she told herself as she reached for her stationary. "No. You have all the evidence that he lives on your bed. He will write again tomorrow." Bella scribbled a brief note to him and placed it in the desk. By morning, I should have a letter from him, she told herself. She played this scenario over and over in her mind with desperate certainty until she had left no room for doubt. She walked back to the bed and immersed herself in his letters, letting the familiar tone soothe the dread that was growing in her heart.
When she didn't receive a letter from him with the morning mail, she tried not to panic. He must be busy. He's preparing for the summer concert. He must have so much to do. Yes, that is all. It was rare that she didn't receive a morning letter from him. Rare, but not without precedent, she told herself. It had happened once or twice at the beginning of their correspondence, but not for a long time. Bella helped Maggie clean the house to keep occupied. When the evening mail came without a letter from Edward, she began holding her bottom lip between her teeth to keep it from shaking. She felt ill and sweaty, but refused to even acknowledge the shadow growing in her mind.
He will write me when he can. He will write. He will write. He will write. He will write…
The sweat, combined with her involuntary shaking, made for the perfect ruse to excuse herself from dinner and lay awake all night replaying her conversation with Anthony Masen over and over again in her mind.
By morning, her breathing was ragged and Charles threatened to call a doctor if she did not let him in the room to check on her. But Bella could not let him in to see that she had not washed, had not changed clothes since yesterday. "Please, father. Please, I just need rest," she pleaded. Charles gave her until noon. When the mail man did not come to deliver the morning mail, Bella stripped herself of her clothes. She could feel herself getting hotter, as if her skin was slowly catching on fire. Her movements became jerky and frantic as she paced.
"He will write. He will write," she muttered to herself aloud, but in between her silent mantra another voice would break through against her will whispering softly. They are the same. They are the same.
Bella ran to the bed and grabbed the picture of Edward before sliding to the floor. She rocked herself back and forth by the dying embers of her fire as she spoke to the picture. "You will write me," she hissed. "You must. Not both of you. Not both."
By 1pm, the doctor declared that she had a stomach virus and needed plenty of rest and water. She was not to be disturbed. On this, Bella and Dr. Owens agreed. As soon as he left, she locked her bedroom door and uncovered the letters she was hiding under her bed spread. She had written him another simple note, just before the doctor arrived.
Please Edward, I need to hear your words. Please write me, my love. I have received your letters and I am fearful, so fearful I can not name it.
As the sun set on the second day, Bella could no longer contain the whimpers that fell softly from her lips as she curled up and shivered on the floor. "They are the same. They are the same," she sobbed, finally letting her tears run wild and free through the night.
Though she screamed, her body released no sound as she stumbled between the four corners of her room. Her prison. Her tomb. She could not see through her tears as she struggled to comprehend the depths of what she had lost. She could only feel herself peeling away, losing her grip on everything she had been, everything she wanted. Nothing reflected her pain, nothing felt real. She beat her hands on the floor through dry heaves, but it did not approximate the crushing feeling in her chest. She fisted bunches of hair in her hands, but nothing could distract her from the burning of her flesh.
She needed a mirror, needed a way to feel her pain reflected back before it consumed her. Who could bare such a need? she wondered aimlessly.
Edward
The Letter
Bella crawled to the bed and found Edward's last letter to her, the one that just 2 days ago had seemed unnecessarily riddled with grief. Now she knew what he felt. As Bella read his words again, she saw her own tears mix with his on the page.
"Tell me what to do. Tell me how to be where you are," he'd written
His words woke her up from her nightmare as she memorized the details of how she needed to come to him. The book, the inscription, Winchester, Boston. His letter was the anchor she needed to keep herself from becoming utterly unreachable.
Bella sat holding his words… his last words to her as the ink of night slowly receded with the early morning light. Bella's tears finally dried, leaving her eyes swollen and raw. She felt neither conscious nor asleep. She was lost even and especially to herself. All she could cling to were the instructions in her hands from what she believed to be the last moments of his life. If this is what he died to tell me, it will not be in vain, she thought as she rose from the floor and made her way to the desk that they once shared.
She fought the urge to write him, even as she took her seat. She wasn't sure she was strong enough, lucid enough, to even express what she wanted to say. As she wrote, Bella felt herself teetering on the edge of calm and numb. Although she kept the despair in her heart for her memorial to him, she could feel the emotion spread over her with finality. Placing the letter hopelessly in the desk, she felt as if she had sent the last remnant of her heart with it. She would keep her promise. She had no choice, but she could not fathom the rest.
"Come back to me, Bells… come back to me."
Charles' voice was a muffle behind the heavy oak of her bedroom door, weak and pleading with fear. If there had been anything left of her heart, it would have broken to hear him so shaken and vulnerable. But she was not herself. All she could offer him was confirmation that she was alive. Bella pulled her nightgown on from the floor and opened the door to see her father standing in her doorway.
At the sight of her, Charlie reached in and pulled his daughter to him. He could see dozens of letters scattered across the bed, but could not understand what had bought his daughter to this place.
"Bella, can you tell me what has happened? Please, Bella, confide in me. Please."
"I am here, Father. I am here," was all she could manage to say in response.
Charles held his daughter in his arms for a long time with no words passing between them. When he felt her strength begin to falter, he finally lifted her up and carried her to bed. She did not protest as he laid her down. She was limp in his arms, a mere shadow of the young girl who had burst through their door three days ago.
"I'm here, child," he whispered. "I will always be here for you."
When she did not respond, Charles quietly exited the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. He took a seat on the chaise in the hall and fell asleep quickly as he waited for his daughter to return.
Bella woke some time later, not recalling how she got into her bed or how much time had passed since she was last awake. It doesn't matter, she decided as she turned over on her side towards the door to find the sad image of her father slumped over on the chaise just outside her door. He must think that I've gone mad, she thought without concern.
68 years. I will have to wait 68 years to see him again.
The thought terrified her into near paralysis. She saw her life stretched out before her like a dark abyss, with no breaks or flashes of light along the horizon. She knew that there had been a time of deep joy in her life, but she couldn't access it in her memory from even 3 short days ago. She wondered how she would ever reclaim enough of herself to survive the journey alone from here to 1986 – 68 years in the future. As it was, she felt tied to her bed by grief, with no desire to leave or be rescued.
Instead, she watched as Charles began to stir and then jolt upright as if he should not have fallen asleep in the first place. Their eyes met as he regained consciousness, his full of worry and hers vacant of any emotion at all.
Charles nodded in understanding at his daughter's expression; nothing had changed from the night before. His daughter was as lost to herself as he'd found her last night, as she'd been for the last 2 days. He wished that he could find the thing that inflicted this pain on his daughter and choke the life from it as it was choking the life out of her. But the enemy was silent in his house, though he sensed that it had been lurking amongst them for some time now. As he broke her gaze to focus on the letters that surrounded her on the bed, on the floor, on her desk, he knew he was right.
Whatever the cause, he knew her wounds were fresh. She would need time to recover from the shock and pain inflicted before she could begin to heal. He'd watched the same phenomenon on the battlefield when he was a naïve boy. Even though the type of wound was different, he recognized the frozen expression of horror on the face – on her face. Charles had never thought he would live to see that expression on a girl child. His own daughter. He took sad comfort in the fact that he knew what to do for her - how to nurse the dying back to life.
"Maggie," he called in a low but audible voice.
Maggie ascended the steps warily. The house had been filled with nothing but the sound of Bella's cries for 2 days, and she had no idea what to expect when she found Charles standing erect and determined outside Bella's door.
"Yes, sir."
"Ms. Bella will need a sponge bath for the next 2 days and some broth and bread in the morning. Clear a path through the letters, but do not touch them until after I have spoken with her. I will let you know when you can tidy up."
Although he knew Bella could hear him, she added no sound or objection to his instructions. It was what he expected.
"Don't worry, my child. I will take care of you now."
Bella stayed in her near catatonic state for four days. Sometimes, Charles would hear her movement about the room. Picking up the letters, he thought. That's a good sign. She did not speak to him or anyone as they cared for her, only offering brief moments of thanks through a futile turn of her lips in what he assumed to be a smile.
On the fifth day, she came downstairs with a fresh dress pulled over the same vacant expression.
"What will you do now, Bella?" Charles stared at his daughter directly. He still didn't know what happened, but he hoped that his own directness might encourage hers. Watching her, he knew that the careful, sheltered life he had built for them was about to shift and change forever. He didn't know what would take its place, but he knew their lives would never be the same again.
"I don't know." It was the first thing she'd said to him, to anyone, in days.
"Are you ready to tell me what happened? What has brought all this on?"
Bella hung her head and sighed. Even while locked within herself, she'd had a vague but constant awareness that at some point she would have to explain herself. She had decided before she came downstairs that she didn't have the energy to come up with a concoction. All she had was the truth, bare and raw. But she knew she wouldn't share it, at least not all of it. Charles wasn't ready for that, she thought. She knew she never would be. She decided to peel off the lightest parts of the tragedy, the parts she could stand to watch illuminated by the light of day. Even though Anthony was real in her world, she felt the least connection to him, and so she decided to start with him. Edward was the one who held her heart. Edward was what she could never share, never do without.
"Do you remember Mr…," her breath hitched even as she tried to say his name. There was so much pain, even in this. No, I must keep this brief, she thought. "Do you remember Anthony… Anthony Masen from the train to Boston?"
"The young gentleman in the dining car?" Charles asked, perplexed that this could possibly have anything to do with him. She just met him, he thought.
Bella did not answer his question, but her sigh let him know that his guess was correct.
What could have transpired between them that would have led to this devastation? Charles pondered as he strained to recall his brief meeting with Mr. Masen.
"I thought you just met the boy, Bella," he continued. "What does he have to do with…?"
"He is dead, Father. I received word the day we returned."
Charles was silent. Of all the scenarios that had run through his mind, this was the last thing he expected to hear. As he saw his daughter's face become even more drawn under the weight of their conversation, he could not comprehend how so short a meeting could have produced this state. No more than an hour at the most, he calculated. His next question seemed impossible, but it was the only one that made any sense.
"Were you… do… were you in love with him, Bella?"
Were you in love with him, Bella?
Bella turned the words over in her mind. Past tense. In love. The phrase used to seem so large in her young mind. Legendary and grand. Full of passion and promise.
Everything she had wanted, she had and lost. All that was left was the love she felt killing her as it burned, very present and real, from the inside.
She couldn't possibly verbalize the answer to his question. There were no words for what she felt, would always feel for this man. Edward…maybe Edward could play the sound, she thought, the meaning of all she could not say.
Bella lifted her head to face her father fully. She could not answer him, but she could show him, he could see the absence of the person she used to be – the want in her eyes as the tears streamed down her face.
With one full glance at his daughter, Charles sprang from his chair to embrace her and shield himself from the unbearable sight of his broken child.
"You must come back to me, Bella. I can take anything but this. Please, Bella, anything but this. I can not lose you. I can not lose you," he pleaded, panic gripping his mind as he second guessed every decision he had ever made for her.
His panic seeped through the numbness of her senses enough to make her want to do something to soothe him.
Bella was aware that this was the first time she had consciously wanted to do anything in days. What can I say to him? she wondered. All that he fears is true. She was gone. The daughter that he knew was gone and there was nothing, but pain and crippling, inescapable loneliness in her place.
"I can't. I can't remember who I used to be," she whispered.
"Then I'll remind you. I'll remember for you, Bella, until you come back to me."
-----
Charles did not ask her any more about Anthony Masen, or the letters in her room or what happened. He was focused on more important things – helping Bella come back to him – to herself.
As it became a little easier each day to coax her out of her room, Charles tried something he never had before – talking. A lot. At first it was just to fill the time as they sat together in the parlor or took a stroll in the garden, but then something occurred to him one day as he was telling Bella about his older brother Garrett, whom he had foolishly followed into war. As he described Garrett's merciless teasing, Bella looked up at him from her constant daze with a look of confusion on her face. Up to that point, he hadn't been sure if she was even listening to him.
"You've never really spoken of him," she said simply.
Charles nodded slowly as he realized how much he'd kept from her. He remembered the day when she was 4 and running around the backyard with wild hair and a pair of boy's pants that he'd bought for her to play in the dirt with. They had been preparing to plant the first of the rose bushes that would become her garden when Ms. Cobb, her nanny, came running behind her to admonish him.
"Mr. Swan, you are raising a young lady, not a horse! You must learn to train her properly." While he bristled at her tone, he felt he needed to defer to her knowledge as a properly brought up and highly respected woman. Perhaps, he thought, my stories of adventures on train cars and stealing wild horses in Mexico are not what she needs. It was the day he had closed off the parts of himself from his daughter that he felt were inappropriate. It was the day she started calling him father instead of papa. Her hair had rarely been out of place ever since.
Now suddenly seemed like a perfect time to share these stories with her, to finally let her know him as no one else had. He had always, would always, think of himself as her father. But perhaps now, he thought, I might be a friend, too.
And so he began to tell his daughter, for the first time, about himself and his life. Charles wasn't sure how or if it helped, but she seemed to be present at least when he talked about himself. The look of alertness in her eyes drove him on as he filled her head with stories of his childhood, his parents, the war, and his courtship with her mother. Some of it she had heard before, but most she never had. Sometimes he could even get her to crack a smile. Charles was sure it was the most he had ever talked in his entire life.
As they sat in the parlor late one night, he was even able to make her laugh at the story of his brief but memorable incarceration in Texas over a case of mistaken identity, a missing saddle, and a gun wielding monkey named Bilbo.
As their collective laughter died down, the room became silent then heavy as they watched each other.
"Thank you, Father. I know you have so many questions, but I thank you… for just being with me now. Reaching out to me as you have…."
Charles nodded his understanding and waited for her to continue, to come back to him.
"I… I've been… I read… some of the poems I wrote while I was in Boston. It… reminded me of how much beauty I saw in life before… listening to you these past few weeks… it makes me want to try to see more… experience this life that I have. To fill my life… with more, but I don't know how."
Charles sat up straight in his chair. This was the most she had said in weeks, and he could see her life coming back in the nervous twitch of her finger and the crease in her brow. She wasn't the same, but that was okay. She would be more now. Her innocence would be replaced with wisdom, experience, fearlessness, and adventure. He knew this path well. He was overwhelmed with the understanding that he was the right father for her now. Perhaps, he thought, I always have been. He could show her how to live the life she needed - the life she wanted.
"I can show you, Bells. I can teach you how to live on your own, by your own terms. I could never teach you to live how the world says a woman should. But if you want to learn to live as a man, to do what you will, I can teach you that."
"Will you?" Bella asked in awe. She had never thought of it, the way her father described it. Would never have used those words, but the sentiment was exactly right. She realized that this was her chance to make what she could of what was left of her life. The bridge she needed from now to then. Her life starting over again.
"Yes," Charles said simply.
"But I know nothing of money and…"
Charles cut her off with a wave of his hand as he settled back in his chair with a small smile on his face.
"I took care of that in Boston. When you gave old Newton the boot, I kind of figured you would need to have your own means. You have means, Bella, from your mother's and my estate. I will show you how to invest it and use it so that you can live without…"
"I'm going to be a writer," she blurted out, wanting her father to understand that she was able and unafraid of making an honest living.
As he watched the fire in his daughter's eyes return, his smile widened. "I think you already are a writer, Bella."
Bella cracked a small smile then, realizing her father noticed her far more than she ever gave him credit for.
"Yes, I suppose I am."
"Well, the first thing you've got to do is learn how to handle your liquor." Charles declared as he popped up from his chair and poured her a glass of brandy. "This may get you into trouble, but it will get you out of more. Doesn't make sense now, but trust me, it will."
As he held the glass out to her, she couldn't help but return his smile. She had never heard him use such a casual tone with her. She realized how deeply it suited him, suited her.
"So, I imagine you'll want to travel. You'll need to learn to ride a horse properly, none of that saddle side stuff, but we can do that while we're arranging your passage."
"What?" Bella choked out as she took her first sip of hard liquor.
"Travel," Charlie stated with a roguish grin made adorable by the salt and pepper of his thick beard. "You've got to get out, Bells. There's a whole wide world out there."
Bella nodded slowly as she let the alcohol and her new possibilities warm her from the inside out.
"Where to first?" he said as the excitement of a much younger man filled his lungs.
"India," she replied without hesitation. "I've always wanted to ride an elephant."
---
68 years, she had waited 68 years for the best day of her life to finally arrive. She hadn't slept most of the night, she couldn't temper her excitement. Life coursed through her like she hadn't felt it in years. Bella passed the night wide eyed and giddy, twirling the ends of her snow white braid between her fingers as she read his letter from so long ago, over and over again.
She wanted to follow his instructions exactly, wanted to make her gift to him perfect. As perfect as his gift to her had been. Everything else, all the mementos and keepsakes from her long life and travels, she had either left behind or given away, to friends and strangers alike.
She had nothing left in her life but this day. Her apartment in Boston was empty save the bed she slept in, her reading chair, and the dining room table where her most precious belongings were laid out carefully. His letters, her poems to him over the years filling two large boxes, and the outfit she planned to wear pressed, ready, and lain across the table. She knew she was being silly when she bought a new outfit for him. No one cares what a 87 year old woman wears, she had thought as she handed the saleswoman cash for it.
She had braced herself for years for the reality that he would not know her, would not know that he should know her, or that he would regret so deeply, decades from now, that he didn't know her today. But all the logic in the world couldn't stop her from buying the pale pink pantsuit. My last brand new outfit, she thought.
In the days and weeks leading up to this day, she had felt the girl she was resurrected within her; not that she had ever let her go, but in the past two weeks she was more present. More tangible. Primary in her thoughts and behaviors. As she looked in the mirror now, she saw the woman she had become that day in the woods, not the old woman she had become, reshaped and altered by age. But my eyes still shine brightly, she thought. I am still myself inside. The moles on her hands didn't frustrate her today. She rubbed more lotion on them to make sure they were soft and warm when she touched his hand.
Seth, her poet neighbor and occasional chauffeur, had agreed to pick her up at 8:15 sharp. The school was 45 minutes from where she lived in Boston with her perfect view of Jamaica Pond. As she heard the bass line booming from somewhere on the street, she smiled while fastening the last button on her pale pink shirt. She loved the city, loved the life that would go on and renew when she was gone. It made her hopeful that her deepest wish would come true, that she would be renewed as well and allowed to try again to find him. After this day, she would not hold on any longer, she would let the life within her finally slip through her fingers so that her soul could rush forward.
Seth knocked on her door at 8:10 am. She smiled knowing that he had sensed her urgency when she'd asked him for a ride a week ago and made an extra effort to be on-time today.
"Hello, young man," she smiled at him while opening the door. "You have made me very happy today."
"You bet," Seth replied while looking around in awe at the empty spaces where all her furniture and books used to be. "You're really moving, huh. Back to Willoughby?"
"Yes," Bella answered as she slowly put on her coat and purse.
"I'll miss you, Ms. Swan. It'll be so weird without you."
Bella chuckled as she straightened the collar on her raincoat. "Seth, you don't know me well enough to miss me. If you're doing it right, you'll be too busy to do more than think of me from time to time." She looked up then to take in Seth's surprised and slightly hurt expression. "Make sure you do it right, Seth. You're too young to miss me."
Seth stared back at her for a moment. She was such a small, unassuming woman. It always made him forget how she would always speak the truth, no matter how awkward or uncomfortable it was. She smiled at him fondly before clearing her throat.
"We need to go, dear. Do you mind bringing those boxes with you to the car? They're not heavy, just papers." Bella tucked the wooden carved box with Edward's letters under her arm as she spoke. They were too precious to be carried by anyone but her.
"Sure. No problem, Ms. Swan."
As Seth pulled onto the highway, he noticed Bella humming softly as she stared out the passenger window, stroking the wooden box in her lap. She had never talked much outside of helping him with his poetry and encouraging him to keep writing. She was right about him. He didn't know her very well at all, while she, between the poetry and the inebriated confessions, knew far too much about him and the daily struggles of his life. When she'd shown up at his door a week ago to offer him her entire art collection in exchange for a ride today, he was floored. He knew some of the paintings were very valuable. "Consider them inspiration for your writing, and if times get hard, consider them rent," she'd said matter of factly. When he agreed to take her, she nodded once then shuffled back down the hall without looking back.
"You seem so happy. What's so special about today?" he asked, deciding at the last minute to try and even the debt of knowledge between them.
"It's the most important day of my life," she said softly.
"What? How do you know that? Isn't this just a reading at some prep school?"
"Yes, indeed." He could hear the smile in her voice. She didn't offer any other explanation as she left him waiting in the car and walked slowly toward the front entrance of the school with a small book he hadn't noticed before tucked under her arm.
Forty-five minutes later, she emerged with tears in her eyes, gasping for breath. The calm woman who had left his car was replaced with a quivering, stumbling thing, looking older and frailer than he had ever seen her. Seth sprang from his seat to catch her as she seemed to fall against the car door.
"What happened to you?!" he shouted in a panic.
"Something…" she gasped. "Something wonderful. Please. Please take me to Willoughby. I need to go back."
He was stunned into a confused stupor as he held her tightly, wondering what on earth he should do. When her shaking subsided, he lowered her back into the passenger seat and reclined it so that she could rest as she murmured quietly to herself, tears tumbling silently past the wrinkles on her face.
By the time they reached her house, she resembled the woman he knew more. Wordlessly, he carried the boxes from his trunk onto her front step before walking around and opening the passenger door for her. As he knelt down to get a good look at her, he wondered if he should be leaving her alone in this big remote house all by herself.
As if reading his mind, Bella smiled through her tears.
"I hope you are as happy in your life as I am today," she whispered.
"Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital? I don't understand..."
Her full bodied laugh made him feel like the last hour had been a hallucination.
"I have never been better in all my life. Never, not a day before today." Her eyes were shining with the truth of her words, but he still didn't understand. He knew he never would.
When she rose from her seat on steady feet, he felt relief flood his body as he watched her take a deep breath before turning to him.
"Thank you," she said simply before patting him on the cheek and turning towards the steps.
He couldn't think of anything else to say except, "Can I come see you here next week to work on my short story?" Somehow, the events of the day made him feel like he needed to reestablish their ritual, make sure she would be here next week.
"Sure," she answered as she opened the door and turned to him. "If you like. If you have time."
When Seth pulled up to her house the following week, the day was sparkling and sunny and he couldn't help feeling optimistic as he felt the cool breeze race through his hair. Something told him she would be outside on a sunny day like this, so he made his way around to the back garden where he knew she liked to sit and write. He shrugged off his initial surprise to find her favorite bench empty before turning to make his way back to the front of the house.
The sight of the back door open wide caught his attention. He stared at it for a moment, wondering if he should be concerned about intruders. Not out here, he thought ruefully as he scanned the area for anything out of the ordinary.
A flash of white from the woods caught his eye and stopped his breathing. He was suddenly afraid, but didn't know why. His feet moved slowly towards the fluttering white fabric lying on the forest floor. As he moved closer, his eyes took in a pair of small feet peeking out from under a brown wool blanket, hands resting on cool dirt, surrounded by billowing nightgown sleeves, white hair splayed over the roots of an elm tree, and a small frozen smile on her pale white face.
The shock brought him to his knees before the sight of his mentor, lying peacefully dead on the ground. There was a small note that lay on top of the wooden box that was tucked under her arm beneath the blanket.
Slowly, he removed it and began to read.
To Whom It May Concern:
I would like to be cremated. Please call Mr. Jenkins at the number below. He will make all the necessary arrangements. Please include the boxes in the front hall and the wooden box here with me in my remains to be cremated. They are not to be opened or disturbed. When it is done, I would like to be scattered here among the trees where I was first lost and then found.
Thank you kindly,
Isabella Marie Swan
It was 30 minutes before he could move from her to make the necessary calls. He spent the time staring at her and wondering what the hell had happened and what he should do, until he remembered their odd conversation from just seven days ago. He remembered her urging him to not waste his time, to live "right" as she had said it - to get on with it. He rose to his feet with a sense of purpose and urgency that he had never felt before.
"I will, Ms. Swan. I will," he promised as he said his goodbyes and walked towards the house to call Mr. Jenkins.
~ The End ~
A/N: You okay? I am sorry that this one ended on a sad note, but just remember that she is rushing forward and we know WHO she is rushing to. It all ends well.
As this story concludes, all that remains is my intense gratitude to each of you who read, reviewed, pimped, and enjoyed my little tale. For those of you who said you liked this story better than The Love Letter movie - God Bless You! I am so humbled by even the notion. Deep genuflection and never ending praise to the champion and heroine of this story, Jessica1971. Without her, you guys would NOT be happy with this story - but more than that I am so glad for our friendship. Jessica - You're like the cool kid at school. I feel instantly cool by association. Thanks for sharing your allknowingness with me.
To all the readers, I can't express the joy you've bought me. I will treasure this experience always. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.
If you are looking for another fic to enjoy now that StF outtakes are done, check out YellowGlue's The Worst of Weather (which is complete) and then Rose Like Thunder (The Worst of Weather from EPOV – in-progress). I stumbled across this story because a lovely reviewer urged me to check out Twilight Enablers over on LiveJournal. To say I am IN LOVE with her writing is an embarrassing understatement. She specializes in what is commonly known as angst, but I think she takes it to a whole other level. The character development is INTENSE, the dialogue between E & B is SEERING and the writing is TRANSCENDENT (in my humble opinion). If you can handle angst and Darkward, it is SO worth it. She blows my mind with every word she writes.