Chapter Nine
The bottom half of Emmett's pants are wet to his knees, and even though he's probably cold to the bone he still jumps right into the huge puddle outside of our apartment building. He giggles as the water splashes up around him, spraying the front door and splattering his jeans with dirty rainwater.
"Emmett!" I yell, shaking the raindrops off of my coat. I hold out a hand, ushering him inside and out of the cold. "I said enough. Let's go."
He trudges past me, ignoring my hand, his socks squelching inside of his boots. When he tries to run past me and up the stairs, I have to hold the back of his jacket to keep him still while I check the mailbox.
It's been like this all week. The rain has been incessant since Monday afternoon, which has meant that the Emmett has been cooped up inside with me instead of being outside. Every morning as we walk to the bus he eyes off the park across the road, no doubt wishing it was dry enough to play on the equipment. Even the preschool has kept the kids inside and out of the weather, so the poor little guy is going insane.
His boots squeak against linoleum floor as I wrestle with the metal door on my mailbox, wriggling the key and trying to pull it open.
"Can I hold the letters, Momma?"
I sigh, flipping through the envelopes. Bank statements; quite possibly the most depressing read ever, junk mail, a utility bill, credit card bills, bills, more bills, and a letter from the landlord.
Turning the letter over, I rip it open and pull out the paper inside.
Em tugs on my free hand. "Can I?"
"Hang on, Emmett."
My eyes scan the formal-looking letter, and as it sinks in it feels like all of the air is crushed out of my lungs. They're putting my rent up.
"Momma!"
The heating doesn't work and the hot water is patchy at best.
"Mommaaaaa."
The elevators haven't worked as long as I've lived here, and the electrics are shot.
"Please? Momma? Please?"
They want me to pay more? You have got to be kidding me.
"I wanna seeeeee," Emmett whines, and the tone of his voice coupled with my already frayed nerves sends me over the edge.
"No!" I snap, scrunching the letter in my hand. "Can you chill out for one second, please?"
His bottom lip drops and he scowls at me. "You're mean," he says. "I hate you."
I know he doesn't mean it, but even so it feels like my stomach falls all the way to my knees, and I can feel the corers of my mouth twitch as tears begin to well in my eyes. "Yeah, well—," I stuff the letters into my handbag, blinking back the need to cry, "—sometimes I hate me too."
"Miss. Bella?"
My jaw clenches so hard I'm sure the muscles at the side of my face are twitching. I turn around to find Neda, with her ever-present red bathrobe clenched tightly around her, standing in her doorway. "Is everything good?"
I nod, managing a tight-lipped smile. "We're fine thanks, Mrs. Eizadi."
Her dark eyes assess the scowling boy at my side, her brows pinching together when he refuses to take my hand. I can feel her judgment burning a hole into the back of my head, and can't even bring myself to turn and face it.
"Upstairs, please," I whisper to Emmett, pressing a hand between his shoulders to urge him to move. He wriggles out of my touch but starts up the stairs anyway. "Goodnight, Mrs. Eizadi. Say hello to Joseph for us both," I call over my shoulder.
I don't hear her door close until we're up the first flight of stairs and out of sight.
The couple in apartment 1E are arguing again. Their yelling is so loud I can hear it all the way down the hallway. Just as Emmett and I begin up the second flight of stairs something smashes against the door and the screaming intensifies.
The constant rain has left the building smelling like mould and wet carpet. The hallway is cold, and I can smell something burned and vaguely spicy emanating from somewhere upstairs. We trudge silently down the hallway to our door, Emmett dragging his feet sullenly, me clutching my keys so tightly I can't be entirely sure that I haven't drawn blood. All I want to do is crawl into bed with the tiny portable heater on, throw the covers over my head, and cry.
Standing in the hallway, right outside my door, I barely suppress the urge to glance toward Edward's apartment. I haven't heard a word from him since Sunday night, when he left me standing in the apartment with just the memory of his smell and an uncontrollable flutter in my stomach. But then this is something I've come to expect from him. He'll appear one day, offering me a ride to work, to fix my car, to look after Emmett, and just as quickly he'll disappear again, sometimes for days at a time.
Everything feels like it's on edge, my nerves and body wound tight like I'm waiting for something. For him.
The apartment is a little warmer inside, and there's only the slight smell of rising damp from the walls. As crappy as it is, is simply smells like home.
"Can you go take your wet clothes off please, baby?"
Emmett ignores me, instead squelching across the already ruined carpet to the lounge room, where he falls to his knees and begins playing with his dinosaur figurines. I pick the saucepan up from its place on the kitchen floor, tipping out the water that's dripped from the ceiling, before sitting it back down. The water falls with a loud plink-plink into the metal pan, the sound echoing around the room.
"Emmett," I say louder. "I asked you to do something."
"Soon," he answers, not bothering to look at me.
I sigh, shrugging out of my jacket. I don't have the patience for his stubbornness. I'm hungry, tired, my feet hurt, things at the diner are getting worse, and now I have to find another hundred dollars a month to stay in the worst apartment building in this whole godforsaken city. What I don't need is a cranky boy.
It takes a whole lot of tears and yelling, and a large amount of bribery, but after an hour I finally get Emmett washed, fed, dressed in something warm, and into bed. His lashes flutter as sleep begins to pull him under. His little hands are tucked under his cheek and his breath begins to even out as I rub a hand slowly up and down his back. As much as he's been a handful tonight, I can't help but embrace the little tug he gives my heart when I look at him.
"Momma?" he slurs, half asleep.
"Mm-hm?"
"I don't really hate you."
I lean in to kiss the freckles that dust the tip of his nose and forehead. "I know, baby."
I pull the sheets up around his shoulders and switch his nightlight on. As I leave, I turn the tiny portable heater on outside of his bedroom, hoping it's enough to keep him warm through the night.
I take the crumpled letter out of my bag and smooth it onto the tabletop. Pulling a notepad from a kitchen drawer, I divide the page into columns. With a stack of bills and letters in front of me I begin writing numbers, scratching out and penciling things in as neatly as possible. New bills go to the left—they can wait a while longer—urgent payment notices and final demands to the right. The longer I spend writing in the numbers, the worse it gets. Within minutes the words are starting to blur.
As the first tear hits the paper I know it's going to take hold. I can feel it crawling its way up my chest and into my throat. Fear. It's strong and it's painful, and, like a beast let loose, it comes screaming forward, engulfing me from the inside out.
My tears are hot and fast; streaming down my cheeks silently, collecting on the tabletop, staining the pale wood.
Being strong is hard. It takes every ounce of strength I have every day not to crumble, not to give in, not to let go.
But I'm tired.
I'm so tired I can feel it all the way to the center of my bones, right down deep inside to the place where all this strength comes from.
I fold my arms in front of me, placing my head down on top of them just to that I can suck in a breath before a fresh round of tears begins.
The bank is so far up my ass I can't eat anything without giving them half. I can't make a decent paycheck without sinking half of it into loan repayments and credit card bills. Whatever little I have left I use to clothe and feed my son, keep a roof over our head, and pay the debt that grows every day. Sometimes, like tonight, it's like the pressure is so great I'm suffocating beneath it all. The weight of responsibility chokes the air out of my lungs and feels like cement in my veins. Everything I have balances so precariously on the line that just the smallest mistake could mean I lose it all.
I wish I could erase everything and begin again. Start again as someone new and do it right.
By the time the last sob has shuddered through my chest, my eyes are so puffy I can barely see, and my nose is stuffy and running. I toss the balled up tissues into the trash and peel my clothes off, dropping them at the foot of the bed before crawling in and tucking the covers up under my chin.
My body continues to shudder, both from the cold and from the crying.
The last thing I feel before I fall asleep is the touch of tiny cold feet against the back of my legs as Emmett buries his head into the pillow beside mine.
"Momma."
Two small hands are pressed to the side of my face.
"Momma," he whispers, louder this time, and I can feel his breath on my cheek.
"Emmett," I groan.
"Momma, wake up," he whispers again, and this time I open my eyes to find Emmett sitting up in my bed, looking down at me.
I groan, lifting my arms over my head. My eyes are swollen and gritty, and it feels like just moments ago that I fell asleep. I can't remember the last time I cried like that, and the memory of it makes me uncomfortable — almost embarrassed.
"It's wake up time."
"Already?"
"I beened awake for hours!"
I smile, reaching up to tug at his pajama shirt. "Hours? Really? Did you make Momma breakfast?"
Emmett shakes his head, laughing. "No. You make me breakfast. You're the mommy."
Sighing, I reach over to grab my phone from the nightstand. "You're right, Em. I am the mommy."
I sit up so quickly Emmett almost tumbles right off the bed.
I've slept right through my alarm.
Emmett takes the stairs as quickly as possible, too stubborn to let me help him down even though we're in a hurry. Ignoring his protests, I tuck my hands under his arms and lift him down the final three stairs. I take his hand, squeezing tightly. "We have to run, okay?"
He nods. "'kay."
I turn, ready to bolt, and there he is; backpack slung over one shoulder, sunglasses still in place, his whole body radiating exhaustion.
"Edward!" chirps Emmett.
Edward looks up from his phone, and I try not to notice the way his expression brightens when he sees Emmett and I.
"Hey, kid," he says. His expression softens as he looks up at me. "Hey, Bella."
I have to clench my jaw to stop from grinning like an idiot "Hey."
As much as I'd like to stand and stare at him all morning, if I don't hustle we're going to miss the next bus, and I'm going to be even later than I already am. Which is a shame, because tired or not he's still the most ridiculously attractive guy I've ever seen, and spending a little time with him this morning would have been nice.
He steps aside as we hurry past. "Running late?"
"As always!" I call, waving and tugging Emmett along behind me.
"You finishing for the day?" asks Pete. He's standing at the fry plate, scraping the remnants of something off the grill.
I untie my apron and ball it up. "Yeah. Done for another week."
"You takin' that stuff I left for you in the fridge?"
Lifting the box of leftovers I smile. "Of course. What would Friday night be without Lila's meatloaf and apple pie?"
He chuckles, his protruding belly brushing against the stove front.
"Hey, Pete?"
"Hm?"
"I was wondering; since Lauren will be cutting down shifts with the baby coming and all, do you think maybe I could pick up a Monday open, or a dinner shift one night a week?"
Pete switches the gas off at the knob, and turns to me. "You quitting at the club?"
I shake my head. "Just need a little extra cash."
He sighs and I can see the 'no' before it leaves his mouth. "You know I would if I could. But I had to let one of our night staff go last week, and I—,"
"It's fine." I manage a smile, waving him off. "Don't worry about it."
He comes in close, smelling like fried food and sweat, and places a comforting hand on my shoulder. "If anything at all comes up, you'll be the first person I call, okay?"
His assurance offers a little relief, but I decide not to push it, especially since he barely batted an eyelid at my late arrival in the morning. Even one extra shift a week would be enough to ease the strain on my already overworked bank account. Until then, I guess I'm going to have to dance a little harder for a little longer.
With the afternoon finally free of rain, Emmett is in a better mood when I pick him up from preschool. There's paint between his fingers and under his nails, and he carries his work of art delicately all the way home, refusing to fold or roll it up.
"Should we put it on the refrigerator when we get home?"
"Hannah gives hers to her Daddy."
"Yeah?"
He nods. "Can we send mine?"
"Where would you like to send it?"
The little frown appears as he thinks, and I wait anxiously for his answer. I've been truthful with Emmett about his father since he was old enough to ask about him. Well, as truthful as you can be with a four year-old. He knows his daddy did some bad things, and that meant he had to go to time out for a long time. I can't be sure if he truly understands, but for the moment I'm just grateful that he hasn't asked me anything more about it.
In the end, he just shrugs. "Can we put it in my room?"
I tug his little beanie down over his ears to keep them warm. "Of course."
The bus stops a block from our apartment, and the door hisses open. Emmett climbs down the stairs slowly, ensuring at all times that his poster is kept out of harm's way. I follow, keeping a hand out to steady him. He releases my grip as we enter the apartment parking lot so that he can hold his poster with two hands, and I shift the box of leftovers to the other arm to ease the strain.
It's the clink of metal against metal that captures my attention, and I actually do a double-take, my head swinging from side to side so quickly I almost lose my balance. In the corner of the lot, where it's been sitting for the past four months, is my truck. It's in the same spot it was when I left, still covered in dust and grime, but the hood is up, the rusted out spot in the center on show. I grind to a stop, calling for Emmett to stop also. My heart sinks at the thought of replacing a stolen battery, or headlights, or whatever it is that people steal from cars these days. Although, I do begin to wonder how much I can sell whatever's left for.
"Emmett," I say quietly. He looks over and I gesture him to my side with a flick of my head. My soft, yet totally ugly, shoes are quiet across the asphalt, and I slow my pace just a little as another clink echoes from under the hood. Emmett and I round the driver's side of the cab and lo-and-behold, there's Edward, a socket wrench in hand and a little crease between his brows.
"Uh… hey?"
His head snaps up, and a guilty look flashes across his face. "Hey." He ducks his head under the hood and stands straight, the wrench dangling from his fingers. "I was hoping to finish before you got back."
"Finish what?"
He gestures with blackened fingertips to the various grease-covered parts sitting on the side of the engine bay.
"How did you get the hood open?"
He shrugs, looking down at the truck. "Tricks of the trade."
A grey t-shirt strains across his shoulders as he leans over the engine again, a dirty cloth hanging from his back pocket.
"Are you fixin' it, Edward?" asks Emmett, trying to peer over the side of the engine bay.
Edward tightens the cap on the radiator, and my mouth runs dry at the sight of his bare arms, lean and colorful, finally exposed to me from bicep to wrist. "Trying. Did you do that today?" he asks, gesturing to the picture in Emmett's hands.
Em nods proudly, holding it out. "That's me, and that's Momma, and that's my Grandpa but he died, and then that's a dinosaur."
Edward gives a half smile, nodding politely.
"Hey, you want to sit in the truck, Em?"
His eyes widen. "Can I sit at the front?"
"As long as you don't touch anything."
He squeals, clapping his hands, and I lift him into the cab behind the steering wheel. There's not much damage he can do without the keys and half the engine removed but just in case I hand him my phone so that he can play games anyway.
The door groans as I close it, and I think I see a chunk of paint flake off.
Edward and I are both quiet for a moment, him working, me watching. "You know you really don't have to do this, Edward."
He looks up from the engine. "Didn't we already talk about this?"
I rest my hip against the side panel. "Lasagna. Right."
The socket wrench clicks and twists, Edward's knuckles white as he grips the metal. "You get the letter about the rent?"
"Yeah," I sigh. "What a bunch of a-holes."
He nods. The bruise that only a few days before was just beginning to blossom beneath his eye has now turned a pale shade of yellow, almost invisible unless you're really looking, which I am. The scruff on his jaw is a little longer, too—softer—and my fingers twitch with the want to reach out and touch it.
"How's it looking?" I ask, leaning over the engine a little.
Edward nods. "Looks good. Should be running just fine now."
My eyebrows shoot up. "It's done?"
I step back as Edward releases the hood and closes it with a click. He wipes his hands on the oily rag and tosses it into the box at his feet.
"Now you don't have to be late to work. Again."
I grimace. "So you've noticed i'm always late, huh?"
He smirks, splaying both hands atop the hood of the car and leaning toward me slightly. "It hasn't escaped my notice, no." I like this side of Edward: playful, sweet, thoughtful. He taps his knuckles against the hood twice. "You want to turn it over?"
I fish my car keys out from the bottom of my bag, and slide into the driver's seat, sitting Emmett on my lap. Since it's been sitting idle for so long I'd expected the battery to be flat, but of course Edward's already thought of that, and when I turn the keys in the ignition the engine whines and wheezes, but starts up with a bang. Emmett squeals and claps and I can't help but join in. The both of us laugh as the engine chugs and splutters, the whole chassis rocking beneath us. After I shut the engine off, I slide out of the front seat and almost knock Edward over as I throw my arms around his neck.
"Oh my God, Edward! This is so awesome, thank you so much!"
He chuckles, his scruffy cheek brushing against my ear.
"I can't believe you got it working. I thought it was dead for sure. It's—" I feel his hand touch my lower back gently, and the pressure of his warm hand against my thin dress is enough to snap me back into reality. I unwind my arms from his shoulders, and step back. "It's awesome," I repeat, quieter this time. "Thank you."
The wind picks up, and I tug my jacket around me tightly. The evening is cool, but on the inside I'm suddenly blazing hot.
Edward shuffles awkwardly, his long fingers tugging on his earlobe. "You—uh—you want me to look after Emmett tonight?"
When I look at him he's looking right past me, right through the front window of the truck at the boy sitting in the front seat. When his eyes come back to mine he blushes as our eyes meet, making me smile.
"Sure. I mean, if you think you're up for it. He's been kind of a terror this week."
Edward nods slowly. "I'll take that into account."
I smirk. "It's your funeral."
"Momma! I gotsta pee."
Edward chuckles and I roll my eyes.
"Okay, baby."
Emmett dances from foot to foot as I watch Edward tidy up the broken parts of my truck.
"Want to come up for dinner later? It's not as exciting as lasagna, but there's apple pie." I lift the box, shaking the insides.
A gentle smile reaches the corners of Edward mouth. "You make it hard to say no." He shrugs a sweater on over his t-shirt, and picks up the toolbox. "Six?"
I glance down at my shabby pink and white-striped dress and stockings. "Six thirty."
After rushing Em upstairs to the bathroom, we then head back down to Neda's apartment. I can hear the radio playing somewhere, and the sound of something Middle Eastern and exotic gets louder as Amun, her husband, opens the door. His features are dark, like his wife's, and a thick moustache that's peppered with graying hair covers his top lip, hiding most of the top half of his mouth. His eyes light up when he spots us.
"Mr. Emmett!" he says, clapping his hands together. "And Miss. Bella." He says something in Farsi, smiling broadly at us before he bends down to take Emmett's face in his hands. "You grow up fast. Come, come inside."
He ushers us inside, the hospital-mandated walking stick close at his side. He and Neda proceed to fuss over Emmett, and as always, remind me that they have a son who's single, and a Doctor, who drives a Mercedes and runs six miles every morning. Even if I was interested, which I'm not, I can't imagine dating someone who earns as much as he does but still allows his parents to live in this place.
"I just wanted to let you know that I won't need you to look after Em tonight."
"Oh?" Neda says, sounding hopeful.
She and Amun have always pretended not to know what I do for money. I'm pretty sure she left that part out when she told her son about me. Nevertheless, I know they know, and I know they don't approve. But, the good people they are, they still look after Emmett, keeping watch over him when I can't be there.
"Edward is going to come over and watch dinosaurs," interrupts Emmett. "And he said he likes Batman, and I like Batman!"
"Is Edward your friend, azizam*?" asks Neda, feeding him a little piece of something sticky and pink.
Emmett stuffs the whole sweet into his mouth, but after one chew decides he doesn't like it. His nose wrinkles. "He's Momma's friend."
Neda's eyebrows almost fall off the top of her head.
"He's a neighbor," I amend, holding out a hand for Emmett to spit out the rose-flavored jelly into. "Edward from 3C."
"Emmett, eshghe man*," says Neda, lifting him from the stool. "Go find Amun. He show you something fun." She pats him on the bottom and he scampers off.
She wiggles a wrinkled, bony finger at me. "I no like," she says as soon as Emmett is out of hearing range. "He has many tattoo, and he has face like trouble."
Tell me about it.
"He's actually very nice, Neda. You shouldn't judge."
Her lips purse and she makes a clucking noise at the back of her throat. "I no like. He make trouble for you and little one. You leave him here with us."
"You know I'm grateful for your help, Neda. But I want to be able to leave him at home where he's comfortable." Neda huffs, shaking her head. "Besides," I say, "Emmett could use a friend."
She snaps the lid on a container of sweets and various sugar-soaked desserts, still looking unconvinced.
I smile at her, popping a piece of the soft Turkish delight into my mouth. The sugar on the outside dissolves and the flavor of rose petals and warm summery nights blossoms across my tongue. "You'll see. Everything will be fine."
Eshghe man – my love
Azizam – my darling/sweetheart
Big Easter thank you's to Kitty, Astro and my two amazing Raches. Thank you to everyone reading and for anyone recc'ing. Just thank you xx
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