Chapter 11
I Get All My Bad Habits from You
I am staring at the envelope from the Washington Institute for Women when Jasper bursts through the door. He looks terrified. "How'd you get in?" I ask softly.
"Jacob gave me the key," Jasper explains walking over to me.
"How'd he get a key?" I ask, putting the envelope back on the table, beside Edward's note-that I still haven't read.
"That I don't know," he responds, kneeling in front of me. "What happened?" he inquires, cutting right to the point. He never was one for small talk. I shake my head. Nothing happened. Well, nothing happened yet. But I've learned that I can't make promises. "Bella, Jacob told me some guy called you and you got upset. Edward didn't-"
I interrupt. "No." I pause and he just looks to me, brown eyes begging for an explanation. He also is one that likes to know everything. "Conway called." I stand up and begin to clean. Nervous habit. It keeps me busy. Keeps my mind from thinking about other things. I need to be kept from thinking about other things.
Jasper stood still for a moment. "You didn't know?" he says in a bewildered tone.
I completely forget about polishing my table and my attention turns to Jasper. I momentarily forget all the things plaguing my thoughts and I simply see red. Pure unadulterated anger. "You knew?" I shout, my eyes growing wide. "You fucking knew and you didn't tell me!" I barrage him with my fists, but I'm sure he hardly feels it. "How dare you not tell me? This is my life Jasper Whitlock!"
My anger soon subsided and was again replaced by the heavy sadness. I dropped my fists and the tears fell from my eyes like heavy rain drops. Jasper wraps his strong arms around me and I collapse into him, his fingers brushing though my hair as he kisses my temple.
XXXXX
It had been three years since my father had been murdered and I was staying with my grandmother from my mother's side. I was terrified to meet her. My mother's side of the family never seemed to have any people skills. But Granny was just about the nicest person I had ever met. The same could not be said for her husband who had died from cirrhosis of the liver three years earlier, obviously where my mother and Uncle had gotten their demeanor from.
I wasn't exactly the most well behaved kid; I was pretty much like Drew Barrymore when she was ten. But I felt it was justified. There was so much anger and fear packed into such a little body. I had experienced far too much for someone that age. After my grandfather had died she removed all the alcohol from the house, or so she had thought. My grandfather had hidden bottles of alcohol all around the house and I managed to be the only one to find them after three years, tucked away and the spare room closet that was mine. And I decided it was time to see what all the hype was about. When on tour with my father everyone drank and it seemed like everyone had fun. I needed some fun.
It was the first and far from the last time I had been drunk. Not something I should be proud of, I know. But the feeling was wonderful. All those negative feelings just faded away and I was left with nothing. And from that point on, I knew that alcohol was going to be a big part of my life.
That night was the first night that I didn't have nightmares. That next morning was a nightmare. Spending all day on the bathroom floor, but I was still too distracted by being sick to feel anything. It was utterly amazing.
On my third day of my drinking binge I picked up the phone as soon as my hangover subsided enough for me to begin normal human activities and called Jasper. "Hey, I've been missing you," he said.
"Life's rough out here without a best friend as amazing as you." I smile over the phone. Jasper was my first real crush, just talking to him over the phone made my cheeks turn red. "But it's not as bad as I thought it would be."
"Yeah?" he inquired with a grunt that I'm sure was induced by a bad move during a Nintendo game he was addicted to.
"Yeah." I proceeded to tell him of my adventures with alcohol.
"Bella!" he shouted and I can hear the clang of the video game controller as it hits the floor. "You can't be getting drunk yet! You're way too young."
I rolled my eyes. "Why do you always have to be such a baby about everything? Young kids do it all the time. I let you know because I thought you'd be my friend about it. I've finally found something that makes me feel normal. Thanks for the support, bud. I'll just go back to being miserable if that's what you'd prefer."
"Bella, it's not like that. I want you to be happy. You're my best friend but you of all people should know how bad that shit is."
I rolled my eyes again. "It's not like all the adults make it seem. It's fun. It's refreshing. It makes you feel so free and happy. Everyone just tries to scare you. Like when your mother said if you bite your nails and hand will grow in your stomach. They just say shit like that to keep you from doing it." There was a pause in the conversation. "Come on, Jazz, would I lie to you?"
"Shit!" He shouted loudly and I heared his mother scolding him in the background.
"I'll let you get back to your video game," I sighed.
"I'm sure I'll be grounded from it for a week now." He sighed, his mothers shouts grew louder before he hung up the phone.
My escape in alcohol went on a week before my grandmother figured out what was going on. She emptied the rest of the vodka in the bottle down the sink and told me I was grounded for the rest of my stay. But it wasn't like it mattered. I didn't do anything but sit around the house anyway and I would just tear up the house to find another hidden treasure.
Grandma scoured the house before I could and got rid of everything before I could find it. I had nothing but her soap operas to occupy my time. And after days of letting that rot my brain I searched the house for something, anything else to do. Tucked away in the corner of the basement, covered in boxes and old newspapers and other various things was something that could easily entertain me for the remainder of the summer. A piano, much like the one that my father once gave me lessons on. I quickly cleaned it off and began to pluck at the keys with a fierce anger, songs that I didn't think I could remember but apparently will never leave the confines of my brain.
After hours at the piano I heared applause from the doorway behind me. "That was amazing." She awed, her hand over her heart, tears gleaming in her eyes. "You put your heart into it just like your father did." I pulled the cover over the keys and ignored her. She didn't speak as I made my way to the staircase behind her. A tear slipped from her eye. "I want to show you something." She led me to another spare room. It was filled with canvases and paints, sketches and paintings, all sorts of works of art. I didn't realize my grandmother was so artistic. I sat down at the easel set up in the center of the room and immediately began painting. It just felt like it was what I should be doing. I guess she had been guilty about ruining my summer and forcing me to watch soap operas and finally gave me something to entertain myself with. She stood behind me and watched me work; I could hear her sobbing softly.
She finally stopped sobbing and rested her hands on my shoulders. "You have such talent."
I shrugged and continued to run the brush over the canvas. "I've never really done this before. But I guess I'm just a natural."
"Just like your mother." Every muscle in my body tensed. "All of this was hers. She had such an amazing skill. Everything she ever did was beautiful. Same with you." I dropped the brush to the floor, red paint staining the carpet like a blood stain; fitting for this room that housed a monster for years. "You play just like your father and you paint just like your mother." She turned me around to face her and reached her hands out and grabs my face with her cold, wrinkly hands. "You look so much like her, my sweet little Renee." She smiled, another tear falling from her eyes.
I pulled away quickly, the anger rising in me. "Sweet little Renee?" I seethed. "She was far from sweet. In case you've forgotten, your sweet little Renee murdered my father!" She drew back at my shouts, I could tell my words cut at her and at that moment I wanted them to. I wanted everyone to hurt like I had been hurt. "She tried to kill me!" I stood, throwing the palette past her head, the colors of the paint exploding beautifully. "I am nothing like her and I never will be!"
My grandmother's face changed suddenly. The tears were gone, the woeful nostalgic look has disappeared and all that is there is an extremely disappointed expression. "No my dear," she shook her head sorrowfully turning out into the hallway. "You are just like her. You're also too stuborn to see it." She closed the door behind her before I can retaliate.
XXXXX
I finally calm down and pull myself away from Jasper's protective body. "How'd you find out?"
"Edward told me. Mr. Conway called to tell you two weeks ago. He wants you to be at the hearing," he states simply as if it is no big deal.
"I can't. I can't be there." I shake my head, feeling myself begin to lose control again. "She sent me a letter. She wants me to be there. I can't do it. I just can't do it."
"You know you can't hide forever." He sighs heavily, again passing judgment on me. But he has no right. He has no idea what my life has been like. "One day, you are going to have to face it. You're going to have to face your mother."
I inhale sharply, pulling my hands over my ears. "My mother is dead," I say softly, my breaths coming in short panicked pants. "My mother is dead," I repeat for reassurance.
Jasper rolls his eyes and pulls my hands down. "Bella, stop that. You didn't kill your mother."
"I wish I had!" I shout, admitting my true feelings aloud for the first time. "I never had a loving mother like you did. I had a monster that hailed from a whole family of monsters. Ever since that night they took her to the hospital, I prayed that they would let her die! And when she didn't, I wished I would have known enough to do better. I wish she would have died. I wish I would have killed her! I wish that she was gone forever. Prison just wasn't good enough for me. You can't keep evil locked behind bars; you have to get rid of it," I say softly, tears streaming down my face. "They can't let her out of prison. She has to stay there so she can't hurt anyone else. She isn't capable of change. Those evil genes aren't capable of goodness." Those evil genes I know I couldn't have escaped. Those evil genes that now reside inside every cell of my body. Those evil genes that manifest themselves in my self-destruction. Those evil genes that some day will do some real harm to someone other than myself.
