Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns all.

Rated M for several reasons.

Chapter 8 Lemming

BPOV

Somehow. I don't know how. I made it into the kitchen to read Freya's note. Then I called Maisie's Mom to make sure she would drive her home. Then I took a shower, the universal panacea. Except it wasn't. Nothing was any better afterward. Possibly I was cleaner. But really, in the grand scheme of things, what fucking difference does that make?

Oh yeah. I'm all kinds of fiery now, 'safely' ensconced in my bedroom. Every window, shade, and curtain, firmly closed.

My daughter, returned unharmed, watching a movie in her own room.

I'm going to the hospital in the morning. Of course I am. What else can I do?

…..

Freya takes advantage of my fretful lack of sleep by scamming me for twenty bucks over breakfast.

I rang Bren to let her know I probably wouldn't be in for work, I didn't tell her why but she didn't need me to draw her a picture under the circumstances. She repeated her offer of help and this time I was at least able to thank her for it properly. Not that I'll be taking her up on it. I don't know if I've always been secretive or if the events of my youth just made me that way, anyway, it is what is, I'm so used to not talking about this that I wouldn't even know where to start. Let alone how to edit out the parts that definitely can't be shared. No, it's safer, for everybody, this way.

With no timescale to work to I tidy the kitchen, then the living room and the den. I'm about to do some completely unnecessary yard work when I realise that I'm procrastinating like a pro and before my resolve can weaken I grab my purse and charge out of the house, skidding on the number still resting on the porch and careening into an empty driveway.

Crap! My car's still in the city.

Freya's is in the garage, she rarely uses it since the agreement was she'd pay the running costs and she's always got other things to spend her allowance on.

Cursing I barrel my way back into the house, snatch her keys off the hook, and start again.

I love her car. Mine is practical, I can't afford to have problems with my commute so I gave up the 'antiques' I used to prefer a few years ago. Freya's tiny little import has character and always reminds me of a jello mould. It's so cute you just want to hug it. Dan and I had the idea that she'd be completely responsible for it but it never turned out that way. It needs quite a lot of TLC to keep it running and though she has the know-how it's her parents who lavish it with the care and attention it deserves.

It's a short drive to the hospital and I park up and survey it with trepidation. I'm not a fan of them, thanks to my klutzy and accident filled childhood. Over the years they've come to represent some bad things. Beserka Bella being one of them. So it's kind of ironic that I'm sat here looking at one today knowing full well that he probably is inside, this time.

Fuck.

I don't know if I can do this.

I don't know how I'll function again if I don't.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Alright.

Here I go.

The little car rocks as I slam the door with more force than necessary.

"Sorry." I tell it, patting the hood.

The first thing that hits me in the foyer is that 'special' hospital smell, wrinkling my nose and evoking some seriously painful memories.

Oh well, I guess that's what today is all about, facing the painful memories.

There's no one manning the reception desk.

Of course, that would be too easy.

Should I wait, or stalk the corridors?

Or possibly leave and come back later . . . .

One of the sets of double doors that leads onto the foyer sweeps open and a phalanx of Doctors, coated in white and conferring seriously, strides through, crossing the space without noticing anything, and disappears through the opposite doors.

I venture through the doors after them and decide on the first corridor on the right . . . .

Empty.

Reaching the end I turn right again, this corridor is long and straight, the ceiling hung with signs advertising departments whose real purpose I can only guess at. I can see a crossroads ahead and a T-junction at the end. And I can hear footsteps approaching from all directions even though I'm currently alone. Jeez, I've wandered into a game of Pac-Man . . . . and my heart is racing.

And then I see him, rounding the corner at the end of the corridor, surrounded by an attentive group of Doctors and Nurses. Moving at a human pace that they're nevertheless clearly struggling to keep up with as they hang on his every word. I've never really seen him this way before . . . .

It's a mere three strides before his head snaps up and he seems to be staring straight at me. I guess he can smell me, even over the 'eau de hospital'.

My own steps dwindle to a halt and I bite my lip, overwhelmed by feelings of inadequacy, new and old.

It takes far too long and far too little time for him to reach me. And when he stops in front of me his team of acolytes literally crash into him. I guess the great Doctor Cullen doesn't stop very often, and some of them will be sporting bruises they can't recall getting later on.

There's an infinitesimal pause, filled with, something, and then he smiles.

One of the female Doctors actually sighs.

They have that effect on people, the Cullens.

Hell, whether I like it or not, they apparently still have that effect on me too. I smile back at him. If Bren knew the full story she'd probably have me in a headlock right now, and aware of the reasons why, I hastily school my features into 'polite neutral', something of a speciality of mine . . . .

"Bella." There's that voice again. "I am so glad you were able to drop by this morning. I have rounds to finish, if you wouldn't mind waiting in my office?"

I nod, what else can I do now that I'm here?

"Good, thank you." He takes my elbow and turns to address his colleagues. "If you'll excuse me for a moment I'll just show Ms Swan to my office and be right back so we can continue?"

Murmurs of consent, as if they'd argue with him. Nods. Curious looks, barely hidden. Naked unfounded jealousy.

These are all the things I notice before he turns me deftly and guides me away down one of the branching corridors. I'll never find my way out of here . . . .

In moments he's ushering me inside a large but welcoming office.

"You'll wait?" He asks, gold eyes boring into mine.

Again I nod.

"Thank you." He seems to mean it. "I'll be back as soon as I can. I really appreciate your coming here. Under the circumstances. Really. Please help yourself to coffee, or whatever, I can have someone bring cookies, or if you'd . . . ."

He stops what was rapidly turning into a surprising bout of verbal diarrhea and shakes his head slightly with a rueful smile.

And then he's gone, the door closing quietly behind him.

After a count of three I let out the breath I've only just realised I'm holding and let myself look round.

One side of the office is lined with bookshelves, stuffed with medical journals and other frightening looking materials, the other with a credenza, fish tank and pot of coffee. The back wall is floor to ceiling windows with gauze drapes that barely obscure the utilitarian courtyard beyond. In front of the windows is a magnificent desk and luxurious looking leather chair. Two mildly less impressive ones sit before it, awaiting one of those painful hospital conversations that none of us want to have, but hinting at comfort anyway. Wow, Esme clearly hasn't lost her touch . . . .

Some of the patina of numbness that's been smothering me is clearly wearing off, because that last thought really hurts . . . .

The flood gates, wall, barrier, whatever it is that stops me properly remembering them, him, then, they're not working so well right now. Which is probably to be expected, but still . . . .

Needing something to do I grab a porcelain mug and fill it with coffee.

There are photos on the desk, the back of the frames taunting me. But one is angled so the troubled occupants can get a sense of the 'humanity' of their Doctor.

And I recognise that fucking photo.

Baseball.

Doctor and Mrs Cullen. Adopted kids. And one mousy looking human.

Fuck!

I barely make it to one of the chairs before my knees give out.

I didn't even know that photo existed.

There's no sense, from the backdrop, of how far away from civilisation we actually were when that game was played.

No clue as to how false all but one of those happy smiles turned out to be when the going got tough. No inkling of what was about to emerge from the trees.

Why is it here . . . . on such public display?

Carefully, in case it sparks some chain reaction of biblical plagues, I set my coffee down on the desk and stand. Moving cautiously round to look at the other photos.

Carlisle and Esme. Arms wrapped around each other, laughing self-consciously. If you didn't know what I know you'd think that was taken last week, it's a head shot and the actual fashions of the time aren't that obvious.

Kids. Two by two. The odd one out crouched in front looking out of place but determined to put a brave face on it. Again, carefully selected so that the uninitiated can't put a date and time on it.

I close my eyes and will myself not to react, I've had nothing, all these years, except my fallible human memory, and it really hasn't done him, them, justice.

Determined to suck it up I open them again.

A wedding. The most beautiful, disdainful, woman in the world and a bear of a man whose happiness practically jumps out and pinches your cheeks, wobbling them frantically and painfully in his excitement.

A couple. Little and large. Holding each other tightly and barely giving any attention to the camera or its operator. So exquisitely absorbed in each other.

Him. Beautiful. Sad. Alone. Leaning, arms folded, against a silver Volvo and arching an eyebrow, with elaborate patience, at the camera holder.

Now my knees do give out again and I drop into Carlisle's desk chair.

I loved him, so much.

And I was nothing to him but a distraction . . . .

"Nothing is what it seems . . . ."

I hadn't even heard him come in. But I used to be accustomed to such abrupt appearances and apparently that's enough to condition me not to react to his . . . .

"Happy families?" I ask in a flat tone that belies my jealousy and feelings of exclusion.

"Nothing is what it seems . . . ."

"If this is about you spouting homilies at me we can dispense with that." I assure him. "I'm not eighteen anymore and I have neither the time nor the patience."

Whoa. Get me . . . .

"I'm sorry . . . ."

"For what Carlisle?" Seriously, I'd really like to know.

He sighs, dropping into a chair opposite the desk, pinching the bridge of his nose in a way that suddenly drains all of the fire out of me.

"I don't know how to explain. Where to start."

I'm going to regret this, I really am.

"Start at the beginning . . . ."

So he does. . . .

…..

It was interesting to see my memories through another person's eyes.

Really, it was.

I don't know how else to describe it.

Or how to absorb what he told me.

In fact. I can't recall if I even spoke. I know I didn't ask any of my questions. Some of them were rendered moot anyway.

Do I feel any different?

Is my life, shower style, any better?

I have no answer to that.

Just a lot to think about.

I didn't, I realise, even tell him about Freya and my concerns, though he seemed to know an awful lot about me regardless. Does he know about her? Do they know about her? He's assured me that he hasn't said anything about finding me to them, but, under the circumstances, that's not going to last long, is it?

And then what happens?

Now, more than ever, I have absolutely no idea because this hasn't turned out in any of the ways I've imagined over the years . . . .