I do not own Twilight. If I did, James would have been a girl.
Big thank you to my betas Catherine, Jenny, and especially, Kim. Your words of encouragement have given me so much.
And Andrea, my faithful pre-reader.
Statistics:
Thirty-five percent of pregnant teenagers have an abortion.
Those teenagers are between the ages of fifteen and nineteen.
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Chapter Seven
Maybe it's because I'm upset, or maybe it's my mind refusing to accept what already is, but at first glance, I assume I've started my period.
It's no big deal. I'll just get a tampon.
It's a relief that sends a tremble down my entire body, like, that was a close one. I don't realize how wound up I was until I relax. Every tendon and joint and bone and vein and nerve in my body goes kind of soft, my jaw aches, and I take a deep breath that tingles my lungs. It's as if I'm being blanketed with peace of mind; it's bliss—warm, soaring, and brisk.
Only, the brief break from tension triggers a panic I've never experienced before in my life, and I'm lined with fear.
I'm absolutely pregnant. My baby has a nose, eyes, and mouth. I'm seven—almost eight—weeks along. My due date is January twenty-eighth. I should not be bleeding. I should be mortified that I felt so calm at all.
After completely removing my shorts, I separate my underwear from worn denim and only put cutoff Levi's back on. With the blood-spotted undies in one hand and my cell phone in the other, I rush to the bathroom. I flip on the light and lock the door. My hands are shaking a bit, and even though my heart feels steady, it's bound with anxiety. Concern and apprehension and confusion circle my beat, constricting it a little more with every spin.
With my shorts around my ankles, I'm sitting on the toilet with my knees pressed together. I'm afraid to look. I'm afraid to wipe, fearful of what will show up on white Cottonelle. And suddenly, those few aches I had in my uterus sporadically throughout the day seem so much worse than they were when they were happening. I focus on the area now, trying to figure out if it still hurts or not—I don't think it does. I press on my lower stomach, searching for a difference from earlier this morning.
Really, though, it's all the same. There's nothing there.
What if I'm bleeding because I've been pushing on my stomach for two days? Am I somehow pushing my baby out? Am I killing it?
Do I want it to die?
A lot of my problems would be solved: lies wouldn't be so large, lives wouldn't be so ruined, and I wouldn't feel so responsible.
Miscarriages happen. Even if this is happening because I've been pressing my fingers into my belly, I didn't know. I'm young. Nobody told me. I haven't read the fucking brochures yet.
And still, there's a tiny part of me—the point one percent—that doesn't want this to happen. It's not as dominant as the parts that shout for my body to destroy its rice-sized intruder, but it will mourn, and it insists on being heard. It screams louder than the rest: You don't want this to end! You care. You love.
I can't, I think to myself, wrapping toilet paper around my hand. I can't care.
Mistakes happen, and miscarriages are natural. This isn't my fault.
I press my wrapped hand to my center and wait, somewhat praying that it comes back clean, but mostly urging it to be soaked in blood.
When I look, I'm only more confused. The toilet paper is neither clean nor soaked, but spotted and a tad smeared. The blood isn't dark, but light red. I wipe again, and I come up with the same result.
Then the pain in my uterus stabs me, feeling much more violent than it did before. And I wish I could say I pick up my phone because I'm entirely worried about the baby, but I can't. I'm worried about myself, too. I'm bleeding when I'm not supposed to be, and I'm scared. I'm terrified because I'm clueless.
Edward picks up after the first ring. "What, Sail?" he asks, obviously annoyed.
I drop the toilet paper into the toilet bowl, stand up, pull on my shorts, and wash my hands, all without saying a word.
"Are you there?" he asks, impatiently.
I hold my phone between my ear and my shoulder. I'm hot. I'm sweating. I'm about to cry. "I'm bleeding," I finally say.
He sighs. "Paper cut?" he asks sarcastically. "Did you trip and fall again?"
I open the bathroom door. "No," I respond bitterly. "Out of my piranha pussy, you jerk."
I'm too upset to tiptoe back to my room. Not that Charlie would hear me. Not that he's even coherent. Not that he would ever stop worrying about himself long enough to realize there's something wrong here. That there always has been. That I'm the kid, not the parent.
It's funny how these things come to light when you need someone to blame for your fuck ups.
"Is it bad?" Edward asks. His tone is thick with concern. "Does it hurt?"
Back inside my bedroom, I leave the overhead light off and turn the bulbs around my bed posts on. My room ignites with a soft-yellow glow that gives me no other choice but to calm, taking the edge off my nervousness. But I'm too far gone and too scared, and I start to cry despite how hard I'm trying not to.
"It hurts. I've felt small cramps all day, but I didn't think it was that bad," I say, climbing onto my bed. I sit with my back against the headboard, and in an effort to self-soothe, I bring my knees to my chest and hug myself.
Edward's voice rises a little. "Since this morning? When you were throwing up?" he asks.
I nod and answer. "Yeah."
Angrily, he replies, "And you didn't say anything?"
"I didn't know," I respond defensively. "This is new to me, too, you know."
Ten minutes later, Smirks is in my bedroom, tossing a sweater and a pair of shoes on my bed. "Get dressed," he stresses.
His van is running in the driveway behind my truck with the driver's door open, like he jumped out as soon as he pulled up. The Volkswagen's oversized headlights shadow the pickup on the chipped white garage door. Rebuilt but not quite dependable, the rattling engine is normally accompanied with better times: cruising and sunshine and ocean blue. But this time, it's associated with a dread that only Edward and I will share together.
As I'm locking the front door, keeping Charlie in more than keeping anyone out, I can't help but deem that my fixer and I are living some type of defining moment. There's something wrong with me—something is happening—and what if this is the only opportunity we get to end this? This might be my body's way of confirming that I physically cannot have a baby. I'm too small; I'm too young; I'm not smart enough.
When the deadbolt turns, I pivot and almost walk right into Edward, who's waiting at my side. This sweet boy is a good foot taller than I am, so I have to look up to meet his grey eyes. The bill of his hat casts a shadow over his face, causing the angles of his jaw and nose to seem a little sharper in the moonlight shining down on the front porch.
"Ready?" he asks.
I nod, but I feel like I should say something before he takes me to the hospital. We haven't had time to talk about the pregnancy, so I don't know how he feels, but there's no doubt in my mind that not having this baby would only benefit us both. And if we go to the ER and they save it only for us to abort it in a few weeks, wouldn't it be better now? It only becomes more human as times goes by—every day. There has to be some good in that. Dr. Viola said sooner was better than later. This is sooner. This is right now.
Besides, if I let him take me to the hospital, someone might recognize us...
Edward reaches forward and cleans away the sadness from my under my eyes before they drip down my cheek. He wipes his thumb dry on his jeans.
"What's the matter?" he asks.
I look away, ashamed I'm even having these thoughts. "It's just, if we're not going to keep the baby anyway..."
My partner in crime takes a step back, cutting me off. I feel like shit. Like dirt. I'm pathetic.
But Edward surprises me by lifting his cap from his head and placing it on mine, almost covering my eyes with his black too-big-for-me Obey hat. With messy hat-hair, Smirks smiles. He tilts my chin up so I can see his face and says, "I'm not worried about that shit right now, Sail."
I cry a little more. "But..."
His hand remains under my chin. "What if you're bleeding to death? I'm not going to let you bleed until you die."
I crack a smile.
I'm perfectly able to get into the van by myself; I've been climbing in and out of this thing for the last two years, but Edward insists on helping me up. First, he opens the door; it creaks and whines and rust dusts from the hinges. Next, Smirks holds my elbow and gives me a shove from the back as I'm crawling onto my seat.
"You just wanted to touch my ass," I accuse teasingly.
He smirks.
Then, he fastens my seat belt. Which isn't so bad, because he has to lean over me, and he smells like boy, and he feels buff, but I snap out of it.
"I'm not dying." But I am an asshole, because our baby might be.
He ignores me, and once I'm securely in my place, he closes the door and walks around the front of the bus, past the lights that cast his shadow on the garage, to the driver's side door, which is still open. With ease, Edward slides into his seat and turns the stereo up. Wyclef is singing through the speakers that he'll be gone 'til November while Edward buckles in. Then he's backing the van out of my driveway. The sounds of tires running over sand and old Volkswagen parts shifting are so familiar they feel perfect. I sink into my oversized seat and relax some, even though that point one percent is starting a riot with my will.
The temperature change is noticeable the further Edward drives the van away from La Push into Forks, where the hospital is. The air becomes thick and humid, and the heat increases the further away we get from the sea. I fan my face with my hand, but it doesn't offer much relief. I turn the handle on the door until the window is all the way down, but the wind coming in feels like a blow dryer. I lift Edward's hat from my head and place it on my lap so I can take my sweater off. I'm still in the tank top I wore to work today. It smells like chocolate and taffy, and it's sticking to my skin like Velcro. I peel damp cotton away from my chest in a desperate attempt to cool off, but I'm still hotter than a spanked baby's ass.
Too soon.
Gathering and twisting my dark blonde hair into a bun at the base of my head, I put Edward's hat back on, letting the twirl of strands unravel inside the cap. A few stray waves escape the sides, and some of my bangs peek out from beneath the bill, but having all of it off of my neck is amazing.
The drive from the beach to the next town over is only about twenty minutes. La Push and Forks are neighboring towns, but the lifestyles are completely different: We're beach bums, and they're loggers. Forks is full of sleepy old people and men with beards, like Remington's dad, and La Push is full of surfers and heads, like my dad. They live in the woods, and we live by the ocean. They have a Walmart, and we don't. They have a slightly larger population, but so what? We're way cooler.
Literally.
I don't give a shit if this town is surrounded by gigantic trees; it's hotter than the hinges of Hell.
Edward must notice my obvious discomfort. He mumbles, "Heat wave."
For a moment, I think he's singing the Martha and the Vandellas song our parents used play when we were kids, but then I remember I'm sitting in a puddle of my own sweat and simply agree. "No kidding."
I kick my feet up and stick them out the window, crossing my elongated legs at the ankles. The untied laces of my favorite green Chucks flap in the wind, flicking my calf with the plastic pieces at the ends every so often.
It's as comfortable as I'm going to get.
Somewhere in the middle of my search for cool air, Smirks rolled down his window, too. The cab of the van is filled with warm air, and the radio is impossible to hear over the whoosh coming through the openings. We're only a couple of miles away from Forks General, and without the distraction of the suffocating heat, I'm getting nervous again.
I feel his eyes on me.
Under the small refuge his hat offers, I meet his stare.
Edward's eyes seem dark, bottomless, and thoughtful, and I know he must have millions of questions and worries coming together in his mind like an assembly line. This boy and I don't have any big plans for life after high school. Neither one of us plan on going away for college; nor do we share dreams of moving out of Washington at all. We'd like to surf the waters in Hawaii and ride our skateboards down the sidewalks in Venice Beach, and we'd like to go to Cancun for spring break, but we don't aspire higher than that.
Vacationing is one thing, but moving away from La Push is another, and I couldn't do it. It's our home, and our parents' home before us, and their parents' home before them. Carlisle, Esme, and Charlie want to retire sometime in the next twenty years, and it'll be up to Edward and me to run their businesses. I want Charlie's to be mine one day. I'd like to expand it—sell more, make more. Maybe I'll take a few business classes at the community college. I'd like to renovate and update our house, and I want it to come with one of those vacuums that are in the walls so I can suck up sand without sweeping or using that stupid Dirt Devil my dad got me.
They might not be typical, but those are my goals. As small as they are, having a baby makes achieving them difficult. Edward must know that. It's probably what he's thinking about.
And I haven't really considered marriage and kids at all, and I've honestly never put much thought into my relationship with Edward either. He's just one of the people I've assumed will always be a part of my life, not realizing he'll probably want a family of his own in the future. He's had lots of girlfriends, and he claims he loves Dani, but one day he'll really fall in love with someone. He'll get married and he'll have kids, and it will be separate from me.
The idea of that kind of destroys me.
Now, there's this baby. And I'm noticing the way he smells and looks and feels, and I don't know how I've never factored him into my future as more than best friends.
It's because teenagers are stupid.
We're all so fucking lame.
We're too busy scoring booze, complaining about the sand, and fucking on the front seats of Chevys to pay attention to anything else, like life.
"You're staring at me," I finally say.
The father to my child is so cool. His van with its new white leather interior is cool; his oversized vintage wood-rimmed steering wheel is cool; the way he holds it with both hands at the bottom, palms up is cool. And the way he says, "I'm not," out of the corner of his mouth with the best smile ever is cool, too.
Forks General is the only hospital from here to Port Angeles. When we arrive, the parking lot is full. It would be naive to assume that out of all of these cars, we won't know at least one of the owners. Of course we don't have to tell anyone but the staff I'm pregnant, but if we do run into a familiar face, I'm sure they'll wonder why I'm here with Edward instead of my father.
Edward eventually finds a spot on the far side of the lot. He drives his van into the vacant space, puts the stick shift into neutral, and presses on the emergency brake. Before he turns the engine off, his bus backfires. Three times.
It sounds like his Volkswagen is coughing up a lung or doing a drive-by.
I lower my legs from the window and laugh. "Your van is so gangster, Edward."
He kills the motor.
It backfires one more time.
I unbuckle my seatbelt. "All the other cars are so afraid," I joke.
He's rolling up his window when he looks over at me with an amused smile. "Very funny, Sail."
"What?" I ask, playing innocent. "It's protecting its turf."
Smirks gets out.
I shout as he closes his door, "You live by the gun, you die by the gun!"
I can see him laughing as he walks around the back of the van. I slip out of my seat, and he's already at my side.
"Or in this case," I say. "You live by the backfire, you die by the backfire."
He puts his arm over my shoulders. "You're a fucking comedian."
.
.
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The Emergency Room is as hectic as I expected it to be. Every chair in the small waiting room is filled: a mother with her sick baby, a man with an obvious broken nose, an elderly man sitting in a wheelchair against the far wall with his cane on his lap. And then there are unique situations only a beach town and logging community can offer: unbelievably long splinters and log-crushed limbs; a sunburn that's so bad it's purple, and a young tourist puking into a grocery bag. My guess is that he either drank too much, or he ate the fish sticks at Diner by the Sea.
Locals know not to touch the fish sticks.
We've all made the mistake once in our lives.
A flat screen hangs from the corner of the room, playing the ten o'clock news to a room that's too unwell or too troubled to listen. I do my best to concentrate on what the anchor is reporting, trying to divert myself away from the overwhelming scent of sickness and the disgusting sound of that dumb-shit tourist throwing his guts up.
His even dumber girlfriend rubs his backs and says, "Get it all out; you'll feel better."
I should punch her, and I should tell her boyfriend to stop being such a pussy.
"You okay?" Edward whispers into my ear from behind.
I lean back into his chest a little more, in a slight attempt to hide. My fixer tightens his arms around my chest and sets his chin on the top of my head. I hold on to his wrists, and we waddle-walk in this position as the line to sign in moves up.
When we finally make it to the window, the woman who handles my intake papers is annoyed and I'm ready to run, but Edward reins us both in. He slides my insurance card over, explains to the fed up window lady that I'm Bella Swan—with one L—and that I don't feel well, and then he smirks.
Her panties drop.
So does my jaw.
But it gets the job done. After a quick lie about my dad being out of town and my mom being dead, which is not a lie, the no-longer-annoyed window girl says, "You don't need a parent, sweetie. Just add your father's information."
She gushes at my baby daddy.
"Oh, okay," I respond too cheerfully. "What's your dad's name?" I ask.
She looks at me like she's unclear, but slowly answers, "John, but…"
I write it down where my pop's name goes. "And his last name?" I request, smiling.
Her previously dropped panties bunch right back up when she realizes what I've done, and Edward pulls me away by my elbow.
Thankfully, there's an open seat away from the binge-drinking, fish-stick-eating tourist, but there's only one. Edward takes it and pulls me on his lap. This earns us a few unnerving looks from the other patients around us, but I don't recognize any of them, so whatever.
These intake papers are not much different than the ones I filled out at Planned Parenthood. Only this time I have Edward staring over my shoulder as I mark my family history and my current condition. When I put a blue-ink check mark in the pregnant box, Smirks sits back and starts watching the news.
Once all of the paperwork is complete and returned, we wait.
And we wait.
And we wait.
I watch as the people who were here before us are called back, including the old guy and the tourist; and I watch as new patients arrive, including a man with a head injury and a husband and wife with their baby. People are coughing and crying and becoming frustrated because we have to wait for so long. Edward gets up after an hour or two and buys us a Coke and a bag of chocolate chip cookies to share out of a vending machine. Twenty minutes later, I have to pee. My fixer offers to come with me, but I don't want to lose our seat, so I go alone.
I'm still spotting.
On my way back to Edward, I run into the lady and her husband with their baby. She doesn't seem to notice I've even bumped into her. Her newborn child is bundled up in her arms; she's carefully rocking it back and forth. It's crying. It's screaming its head off—wailing. The husband has his hands locked behind his neck, and he paces. The woman's cheeks are red and her eyes are consumed with burden. As I pass, she glances hopelessly at her husband, who looks hopelessly back at her.
I'm back in Edward's arms, rolled up on his lap, with my cheek against his chest. I don't want to offend the couple with the sick baby, but the baby won't stop crying. It's a continuous howl that breaks only when all of the air leaves its tiny lungs. Then it sucks in a breath and it starts all over again. As subtly as I can, I hold my hands over my ears; Edward places his hands over mine. It's like I can still feel it, though. That baby's discomfort is in the air, making the entire waiting room edgy. A few people get up and walk outside. Another child starts to cry. I can tell a couple of patients are sympathetic, but most act like me, like that baby is a huge problem.
And that could be my life.
I might be that lady holding that crying baby in less than a year.
Finally, my name is called.
My vitals are taken, and my body is weighed. I'm asked a few questions about my health and about the baby. I don't know much, though.
"When did the bleeding start?" the intake nurse asks. He's taking my blood pressure.
"This morning," I answer.
Edward stands beside my chair, noticeably uneasy. His hands are in his pockets, and his lips are in a tight line.
I can still hear the baby crying.
We're lead to a bed where only a curtain attached to the ceiling offers us any privacy. The tension I felt in the waiting room has most definitely accompanied me back here; it's making things with Edward awkward. Not that I expect him to lie on the bed with me, but I feel like he's being purposefully distant. With his phone in his hands, he's sitting in the chair at the end of the bed. Edward's knees are spread and he's sunken into his seat, carelessly. I don't know who he's texting at one in the morning, but I hope it's not Dani.
The intake nurse closed the curtain around us after we were settled in, so it's only me, this boy, and our problem. I can hear the other patients, but the silence between us is booming.
"Who are you texting?" I ask.
"Felix," he responds, not even looking up.
"What are you saying?"
Edward drops his phone in his lap. He doesn't sit up or give me his attention, though. He just leans his head back and closes his eyes. His phone goes off again, signaling an incoming message. He ignores it.
"Are you going to check it?" I ask.
Edward doesn't acknowledge the text, but his eyes open, and dark grey irises explain without words how afraid my lifelong pal really is. In an offbeat way, his unease is consoling. He cares, and I care, and this is scary.
"I'm sorry I called your pussy a piranha," he whispers, probably so no one can hear.
I smile, kind of hiding my face in the small pillow the hospital provides. "I'm sorry I called your hang down lowdown."
Edward sits up, covering his face as he laughs. "What?"
"And I'll go ahead and apologize for James, too. She called you Edward Scissormouth."
He smirks. "Funny."
The doctor, an older man with black-rimmed glasses and hair the color of pumpkins, pulls the curtain back. I'm immediately reminded of that cartoon with the kid who's a mad scientist: Dexter's Laboratory. I giggle at my own stupid thoughts, wondering if this man has a secret place filled with wild inventions. If he does, I hope he has one that can turn back time. I'd love to go back to the night of my birthday.
The juvenile chime of my giggle causes Dr. Dexter's Laboratory to look up. He quickly glances back to my chart before doing a double take and looking at me again.
Yeah, I'm seventeen and those papers in his hand say I'm pregnant.
Dr. Laboratory, whose real name is Dr. Hurt, quickly alters his facial expression from shaken to professional. I doubt I'm the first or youngest knocked-up teen he's seen in here, but I can't imagine it ever gets less disappointing. Depending on how things go, I better get used to the off looks.
I sit up. "Dr. Hurt?" I point at his name tag.
He sets my chart down, gives Smirks a once-over, and nods with a small, impersonal smile. "Yeah, sometimes it's true."
"Like now?" I ask.
"Depends," he says. "Can you tell me what's going on?"
He smells like all doctors do: rubbing alcohol, ink, and long waits. It's all I can concentrate on as I tell him about Planned Parenthood and the fall and the cramps and the bleeding—why do doctors always smell like blue pen ink?
"And I just went to the restroom before I came back here and I'm still spotting," I finish.
The doctor nods, and Edward stands up, joining me at my side. Dr. Hurt's game face slips and his let down—probably in shitty teens overall—shows. I gotta give it to him, though. Baby daddy and I probably look pretty absurd. We're sticky from sweat, a little bit sunburnt, worn out, and far too young. But Edward wears a scowl that screams disobedience, like he knows everything, as if he isn't just another punk kid who fucked-up. And then there's me: blonde, skinny, typical, in this boy's hat … clueless.
I should be embarrassed, but I'm not. I want Dr. Dexter's Laboratory to fix me or not fix me. Either way, I'm sick and tired of waiting for answers.
Like Dr. Receptionist Lady, Dr. Hurt presses around on my stomach. It erases the grimace from Smirks' face, too. The same questions are asked, and mostly the same answers are given.
"It doesn't hurt, Dr. Hurt." I'm a fucking comedian.
After another series of questions about the fall we took on the skateboard, Edward and I are informed that an ultrasound has been ordered.
"We'll have more definitive answers after that, but I think you're fine," Dr. Dex mumbles, scribbling like doctors seem to do. "You're young and your body is going through a huge change. Some bleeding is usual."
Finally, Edward speaks up. "How much bleeding?"
Dr. Laboratory's eyes magnify under his huge glasses. He blinks. "Some spotting here and there. Her cervix is expanding, and are you guys still having sex?"
Edward and I both give Dr. Hurt bitch face.
I mean, we had sex … twice. But are we still having sex? Like, will we do it again? A third time? I don't know. Why is he asking?
Perv.
Dr. Hurt sighs. "Have you had sex in the last twenty-four hours?"
Edward nods.
"That can cause bleeding, too. Cramping in the first trimester is also normal, but to be safe, I ordered the ultrasound, okay?"
"Okay," I whisper.
It's an hour before Edward and I are led into another room. I don't bother with the ultrasound tech's name. I just climb on the bed and lift the hem of my tank top like I'm asked to, exposing my stomach. The roundness I thought I saw earlier, and then un-saw when it was convenient, is for sure there now. It's not much, hardly anything at all, but Edward sees it, too.
He takes my hand.
The lady applies a layer of cold, clear gel over my lower abdomen before she asks me if I'm ready.
"I am," I say lowly.
And then she's pressing this wand to my stomach, and she's looking at the screen. I can't tell what is what, but I know somewhere, in static-looking black and white, is our baby.
It's unreal. And it's sad. And I start to cry.
Edward presses his lips to my knuckles just like he did when I told him I was pregnant. Back and forth, his kisses move along my fisted hand, warm and soft and needed.
The ultrasound machine makes a clicking noise, like she's taking pictures. On the keyboard beneath the screen is a ball that rolls under her palm as she moves it around. She's quick and wordless, and I can't tell by looking at her face if the images she's staring at are good or bad.
But her eyes meet mine, and she sighs. "Do you want me to show you?" she asks.
Edward's lips pause on my knuckles.
The unsteadiness in my heart and the spinning in my stomach tell me I should say no. Why should I see something I might kill? But I'm curious, and it's mine, and the point one percent that wants to keep whatever it is inside of me forces the small, "Yes," to pass my lips.
She moves the screen over so Edward and I can see better. I still don't know what to look for; it all looks like static to me, but she points.
In the center of the screen is a small ball of black, and in the center of the ball of black is an even smaller mass of white.
"That's your baby," the ultrasound tech says.
Edward sits up. Our hands stay connected. "That's it?" he asks. "That … smudge?"
The ultrasound tech kind of laughs. "Yep. It's small now, but give it some time."
I can't stop looking.
I can't help but feel connected.
She probably thinks she's being kind, but I'm hesitant to take the images she prints out for us.
"You can have them," she insists. "Babies are blessings."
Her attitude is much different from the doctor's, and because she's so nice, and because I deserve every part of the pain I feel, I take them. Once my stomach is cleaned off, we're led back to the bed and curtain we started out at. Dr. Hurt comes back and explains to Edward and me that everything is fine. I apparently need to take it easy for a while—stay off my feet.
"These are trying times," Dr. Hurt says, handing over a handful of pamphlets to Edward. "You have many options. There are support groups and programs for teenagers in your situation."
My situation: fucked.
.
.
.
I stare at the ultrasound pictures the entire ride home. It's near impossible to believe this tiny thing is inside of me, growing. It's not much, and I can't make out the nose, mouth, and ears, but I can see the shape of its head and the form of its body. It's an actual thing. It exists.
Edward doesn't bother asking me if I want to go home or not. He's in as much shock as I am. My fixer pulls the bus into its spot in the driveway and shuts the engine off. I follow him into his house through the garage. The home is dark and sleeping, and the air still smells like whatever it is Esme made for dinner—fried something.
The Cullen household is nicer than Charlie's and mine. It's well organized and has nice things. The couches are new and the TV is big. Esme had an air conditioner installed a few years back, so it's never muggy or overly hot. I can't see much through the dark, but I know there are pictures of Edward all over the place, and of me and James. Esme collects Coca-Cola memorabilia, which isn't exactly beach couture, but it's cool. The kitchen is coated in Coke stuff, and it's slowly starting to spread to the rest of the house.
Their hardwood floors are still sandy, though. There's no getting away from that.
Just like me and Charlie, Edward's room is separated from his parents' by the restroom. We're quiet as we pass by; I can hear Carlisle snoring. Smirks pushes open his bedroom door and waits for me to pass before he follows me in and closes it again. He doesn't bother with the light or the TV. I grab a tee shirt from his dresser and change, not really caring if he looks or not.
His clean clothes make me feel better right away. Although the sadness I feel is deep-rooted and thick. I place the ultrasound images on the nightstand and slip under Edward's covers. He joins me a few moments later. We don't touch, but we're near. I love his bed. His sheets are better than mine, even if only because they're his and they smell like beach boy.
It takes me a while, but I slowly start to drift. It's not heavy, and I'm partly awake. My thoughts are littered with little white masses and choices to make. My heartbeat is slowing and my breathing is even. I have my palm over my stomach and dreams within reach. I'm almost there. I'm near peace when Edward says, "Bella, we can't have this baby."
My only answer is a sleepy, "I know."
