Thank you so much for all of your reviews, and to mallmouse for the recommendation on A Different Forest.
How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him!
A Room with a View
nine
Seth Clearwater scratches his chin as he hunches over his homework, the desk too small for his lanky frame. His black hair has the faintest shine, as if he has not bothered to wash it for several days. Garbed in jeans and a flannel, the clothes appear rumpled, as if retrieved from the floor. The shirt tail of the flannel is unevenly tucked into the jeans, bulging in spots and spilling over at the back. The faintest shadow dusks his upper lip and he occasionally rubs his forefinger there, as if the sensation is novel and distracting.
Bella watches him covertly as Lissa reads aloud from Black Beauty, noticing a dozen different elements of his appearance and mannerisms that she'd never picked up on before. In studying the Quileute teenager, it is that much more apparent to her that Edward is a creature apart; for all of the casual nature of the jeans and hoodies Edward has typically worn to their sessions, he is almost unnaturally neat, no dirt evident under his nails, his jaw naked of stubble, his clothing free of holes or stains.
A knot forms in Bella's stomach as she realizes she is trying to justify the strange draw she feels towards her client, that she is looking for excuses for the feelings she has only begun to acknowledge after their most recent meeting. What does it matter if every other boy his age fails to make her feel as Edward does? A flush steals up her throat as she thinks of the forget-me-nots; she had been unable to throw them away, the wilting blooms tucked into a drinking glass filled with water on the nightstand in her bedroom.
"And there was poor Rory with his flesh torn open and bleeding, and the blood streaming down." Lissa's voice grows faint with the words and Bella is abruptly drawn back to the reality of the class room, the dull light of the late morning, and the dark haired little girl before her.
"Would you rather skip this part?" Bella gently asks, sensing Lissa's discomfort with the violent imagery.
"Yeah, maybe," she slowly nods her head, black hair swinging. Her small fingers turn through the pages, jumping ahead further into the book. Her voice duly continues as she finds a new spot, slowly working through the text. Bella is soon again distracted by her thoughts, by covert glances in Seth Clearwater's direction, and by the helpless, frustrated feeling that she has utterly lost her way.
A shaft of sunlight blooms through the window, warmly yellow and unexpectedly bright. Bella's head turns, drawn like a flower towards this rare sight, trying to recall the last time she saw blue sky as more than a briefly revealed patch through relentless clouds. She thinks of Phoenix, the dry air and sprawling freeways, the barren ridge of mountains rising to skies so azure, they're almost blinding. She imagines herself back there, finding work in another clinic, putting all of this behind her…
"…but I have only taken out six days license," Lissa's voice is a drone, "and therefore I could not take a fare on a Sunday; it would not be legal." Bella starts at this final word, her head darting up with a sudden idea. Her eyes slowly widen as she recalls one source of information she has not seen—information directly tied to her role as Edward's social worker. Hope darts through her veins, wondering if this will give her the ability to push past this ridiculous fascination, to reclaim the distance she needs if she is to have any chance of helping him.
The minutes cannot pass quickly enough, struggling to refrain from impatiently drumming her fingers against the arm of her chair as Lissa reads and Seth completes his calculus homework. When their time is up, she can barely nod at Seth's invitation to attend the first bonfire of the spring before she is swinging out the door and down the steps of the trailer, almost forgetting to lock the door behind her.
The sun has only brightened since that first ray broke through, the last stray clouds like wisps of cotton upon the horizon, breaking apart in the warm light. Bella squints through the windshield as she turns down the highway, foot firmly pressed to the gas pedal, pushing the ancient engine harder than she ever has before.
Her mind races with the possibilities, barely aware of the passing whisk of evergreens towering on either side of the road, uncaring of the unusual sunshine as she wheels towards Port Angeles. The hour it takes to reach the seaside town feels eternal, her bottom lip gnawed raw with the expectant anxiety she feels.
Unerringly, she turns away from the marina and tourist attractions where most of the town's traffic is headed. She is grateful the streets are logically arranged in a grid as she is not certain she would otherwise have been able to find the address she has seen stamped onto hundreds of case files and scribbled into dozens of juvenile delinquency records: Clallam County Courthouse.
A dart of momentary surprise crosses Bella's face when she reaches the officious, classic building, unaware such a small town could boast such an intimidating structure. A mass of red brick, its lofty bell tower and prominent clock face are vaguely Victorian in appearance, newly blooming trees obscuring its corners. As she turns into the parking lot, all of these observations are subsumed by worry as she sees there are almost no cars present. She grimaces as she throws the old truck into park, hopping down from the cab.
But she is in luck. Though most of the offices and courts are closed for the weekend, the records department has shortened business hours on Saturdays. This is clearly contradictory to the desires of the records clerk standing at the reception window, her expression baleful as she glances up at Bella's hesitant approach.
"Can I help you?" she snaps. She does not appear much older than Bella, her curly hair teased into a halo around her head, blue eyes framed in black liner.
"Hello," Bella begins, her voice soft, eyes cast to the floor as her courage and certainty falters for the first time. "I'm here from the Clallam Community Health Center—"
The woman doesn't allow her to finish, "Do you have identification?"
Bella doesn't respond, simply doing as she is bid and digging into her pocket for her wallet. She pulls out her license and the employee badge she'd been issued when she began interning; she had yet to have reason to use it as her role had been almost entirely dedicated to auditing files.
"And what can I help you with?" the woman asks with the slightest sniff, apparently satisfied.
"A file was supposed to be delivered," Bella begins again.
"We can't be responsible for the postal service failing to deliver things," the records clerk interrupts, her tone derisive as she folds her hands on the counter before her. Her nails are long and manicured, the color bright pink.
"I—of course," Bella allows. "I was hoping to pick it up in person." As the woman's brows lower, she quickly adds, "This is a client that was court ordered to be seen for counseling at the health center. He's been…difficult to treat without the full record."
"What's the name?" Bella exhales with relief and quietly provides the information, blushing as she confirms Edward's date of birth—she hadn't realized until that moment that she remembered it unaided.
"Let me just check in back," the clerk replies, sashaying away from the counter to the stacks of shelves and file cabinets behind her. She disappears around a corner and Bella is momentarily filled with the certainty that she will return with nothing, that, somehow, the file will have gone missing entirely. Her hands grow clammy as the minutes pass, heart pounding as the clerk continues to fail to appear. Finally, the woman's plump figure turns the corner and Bella hisses out a breath at the sight of the file in her manicured hand.
"Here you go, Miss Swan."
Bella barely restrains herself from snatching the thick manila envelope from the woman's fingers, murmuring, "Thank you," as she turns on her heel and rushes out the door. Her sneakered feet pound through the courthouse corridors, the high ceilings and empty space creating an eerie echo. When she reaches the tall double doors of the courthouse entrance her pulse is racing.
Bella only notices the continued sunshine because she is forced to squint upon exiting the building, lifting a hand to shade her eyes. She swiftly trots down the wide steps and nearly runs to her truck, marooned in the empty concrete lot. It is only when she is in the cab, the door closed, her breath loud in her ears, that she allows herself to stare down at the envelope, eyes wide.
Slowly, heart pounding, she slides a finger along the sealed flap, tearing it open. She reaches inside, retrieving the file, her heart a relentless thump in her ears. For the briefest second, a surge of hesitation causes her fingers to tremble…but this is not his diary, or some illegally obtained record she is not at liberty to see. She reminds herself she is not violating his privacy in seeking out the information she was supposed to have all along. And perhaps this—this record of truancy or vandalizing…or even underage drinking—will drive home that he is a teenager, an immature kid, a confused adolescent…not some object of fascination and longing.
Bella flips open the beige file folder and sees the demographic information Edward easily provided at his first appointment: name, address, date of birth, and his previous address in Cantwell, Alaska. Turning to the next few pages, she sees the truancy filing that Margery had mentioned as the reason for his first court ordered sessions. A written note explains the board's unusual recommendation that Edward be seen for counseling since, despite missing more than two months of school, he was not in need of the usual tutoring or other academic interventions; as Margery had said, he had been excelling in all of his classes.
Bella's breathing accelerates as she turns to the next paper-clipped record, her hands trembling as she sets aside the truancy file. She skims the page but her mind is initially unable to absorb the meaning of the words; her eyes dart up, starting over, trying to make sense of what she is reading. As she reads the file a third time, her chest grows still, unaware she has stopped breathing.
Animal cruelty in the first degree.
She thinks of a record skipping, the needle rising and falling over the same ridge again and again.
Animal cruelty in the first degree.
Her eyes rise to the top of the page, confirming that it is Edward's name on the record. A sudden gasp explodes from her mouth as her lungs force her to inhale for the first time in more than twenty seconds, the file nearly dropping from her hands. Her fingers stubbornly tighten, lifting the pages to her gaze again, forcing herself to scan the words.
Animal cruelty in the first degree.
Brown eyes sink shut as her lips tighten. Could he…? But there must be some explanation… Almost desperately, she opens her eyes and begins hungrily reading every word of the filing, trying to comprehend the truth before her.
Unfortunately, because the case had not gone to a formal court arraignment but had instead been heard by the Diversion Unit, there was no opportunity for Edward to plead innocent or guilty. Bella knows from the many files she has examined as an intern at the health center that the Clallam County Diversion Unit provides an expedited process for handling the cases of first time felons; though it's cheaper than going through a lengthy, formal court process, it assumes the guilt of the offender and recommends a penalty rather than providing a clear back and forth of evidence, testimony, or witness accounts. Bella flips through the file and finds the Diversion Agreement, the contract an offender must sign promising to follow through on whatever penalty is advised. She sucks in a breath at seeing the mental health counseling she has been attempting to provide as the Unit's recommendation, and Edward's elegant signature.
Bella doesn't know whether she's relieved or disappointed to find the officer's incident report behind the agreement, her heart pounding as she continues to read. Though the account is dry and factual, she can nearly see the woods of the Olympic National Forest, the curve of the rarely used trail, and the strangely quiet boy standing over the still warm body of the deer.
She lifts a shaking hand to her mouth, knowing there is no gaping hole in the report through which she can find relief. There had been no one else present and no reason to think the carcass might have been there for some time. Her hand shifts to her eyes, covering them as if she can somehow make the truth disappear along with the words before her gaze. She doesn't realize the file has slipped from her hands to the gritty floor of the cab until she lifts her head more than thirty minutes later.
Bella does not see the bright blue day beyond the windshield of the truck, brown eyes unfocused as her pale face turns blindly towards the sun. She is numb, in shock, her hands cold and unfeeling as she fumbles for the latch of the door and slides down from the cab. Though it is warm out, she shoves her hands in the pockets of her jacket, chin dropping to her chest as her feet turn in no particular direction. She wanders, a sleepwalker, the immediate world a dream, completely lost in thought.
The passage of time is meaningless in the face of such knowledge. At one point, finally warm with the ceaseless movement of her feet upon the pavement, she takes off her jacket, draping the garment over her arm. She pauses occasionally: at the ferry terminal, watching cars unload from the blazing white ship; beneath the drooping branches of a Douglas fir in Francis Street Park; at a café when she momentarily remembers that she hasn't eaten since that morning…but she can't focus long enough to decide if she is hungry, continuing on her directionless path.
She wants to scream. She wants to cry. She wants to tear out her hair and curse until her face is blue. But who can she scream at, or cry to, or curse? This is her fault, her broken brain's fault, for finally feeling something…anything, for the entirely wrong person. She silently rails at herself when threads of doubt attempt to break through, whispering at the back of her mind… Perhaps he had been hunting and was only guilty of doing so without a license? Perhaps a bear or cougar was at fault and Edward's approach had frightened the predator away? After all, no knife was found, the incident report stating a weapons possession charge would not be filed in the absence of evidence…
But she knows she is being ridiculous…worse than ridiculous—absolutely reckless. She has read through dozens of charges, audited too many files to count, and never experienced this insane doubtfulness, this desire to pardon the terrible things she's encountered. She should not be making excuses for him; she should be trying to figure out how to help him. Her lips tremble as she realizes she is clinging to this useless rationalizing for the worst, selfish reasons…that she is failing him and what's more, herself.
Bella has no idea of the time when she finally becomes aware of her surroundings. The sun has begun to sink below the horizon, clouds stretching across the sky as if following its descent. The customary gloom of the peninsula has again taken hold, her shadow disappearing as the brightness of the day fades.
She glances around, attempting to get her bearings. Though she has no desire to go home, she knows there are no answers for her here. Peering towards the street corner, she struggles to make out the sign. A shout draws her attention before her eyes can focus on the number.
There is a commotion at the bar across the street. The tavern is small, a typical back street dive where tourists are unlikely to go. Men throng outside, some smoking, others watching tensely as two figures jostle, shoving at each other. She cannot make out their features, back lit by the glowing neon logos of domestic beers, garish and bright against the darkened plate glass windows.
"Fuck you, you son of a bitch!" Bella's eyes grow wide and she involuntarily steps back despite the fact that she is across the narrow street.
"Don't touch me, you little shit!" There is more jostling, the two figures continuing to spar. Some of the other men move forward to intervene, attempting to hold back one of the would-be fighters, a tall barrel of a man in a flannel shirt.
"What are you going to do about it?" His opponent has black hair, his frame squat and muscled in a tee shirt that strains at his shoulders. He feints at the man in flannel, who flinches. The man with black hair laughs triumphantly in response, turning to the growing crowd filtering out of the bar with raised arms. "That's what I thought!" He turns again and is now facing the street; Bella is shocked to see his gaze alight on her, his grin slowly growing wide. She looks away, hoping he'll forget she's there…but when her gaze lifts back to the bar, she sees he is approaching, crossing the street, lips parting as if to speak to her.
But the man in flannel is behind him, rushing up, features twisted as he appears to lightly tap his adversary on the back.
The black haired man's smile fades, a confused frown taking its place. He stumbles mid-stride, nearly to the curb. Bella watches, frozen, as blood spills from his parted lips, richly red. He is sinking to his knees, crimson spilling down his throat to the white fabric of his shirt, reaching one hand towards her.
The crowd rushes forward, shouting, crying out, a dark mass seizing the man in flannel. Several people sink to their knees around the injured body lying prone on the concrete of the empty street, barking into cell phones, a cacophony of noise, of movement. The commotion is such that no one notices the slender, dark-haired girl swaying on trembling legs, a pale hand lifting to her brow; the jacket she is carrying drops to the ground and it appears as if she will soon quickly follow. The figure that appears from the shadows, sweeping her up in strong arms, is glimpsed by one man attempting to perform CPR…but he is so distraught, blood staining his hands, that he will forget to inform the officer who later arrives on the scene.
It ultimately wouldn't have mattered, for the figure with his precious cargo is long gone, a swift blur passing through the empty streets.
The inspiration for the fight scene: youtu (dot) be / WkrldSP4EU8?t=42s
Clallam County Courthouse: flickr (dot) com / photos / ronsipherd / 4905030084/