Warning: This chapter contains some visual recall of rape.

The Other Side of Me

Chapter 11:

I continued to meet with Dr. Hale twice a week. After the first few appointments, I'd convinced Edward that I would be okay going by myself. I hadn't had a breakdown since my first visit, not even at home. He had me promise that I'd call him if I needed him and that I'd wait there with Dr. Hale until he arrived. Nothing would keep him from answering his phone from the second he watched my cab drive off until the second I walked through the door on my return.

I didn't tell Dr. Hale this, but even though I understood I had to work on myself first, I was determined to get better for Edward. I needed to offer him something more than distress, needed to even things out in our relationship, and I would do anything it took.

I'd purchased a new journal the day after my first visit with Dr. Hale. I'd gone out on my own to get it, and when I returned home, I flexed its stiff cover, smelled the cool freshness of blank pages, and, after writing "HOPE" in big, capital letters, I wrote about my trip to the store. Writing about an accomplishment on the very first page brought a smile to my lips, and as soon as I felt it, I recorded that, too.

There hadn't been roses in Dr. Hale's crystal vase since the yellow and peach ones. On my fifth visit, there were a dozen fuchsia gerbera daisies, and it was with those bright, disk-shaped flowers that she let me know the time would come when I would have to talk about the details of the rape. She said that the more I talked about it, the easier it would be for me to deal with my fear and to discuss it if I ever went to trial. She encouraged me to talk about it as soon as possible for my own benefit, but didn't pressure me. I didn't say a word to that and she let it go… for now.

As far as I was concerned, the gerberas could take that to their grave.

School had begun. The most difficult challenge for me wasn't being out in public, wasn't being enclosed in a classroom with a mix of male and female students, or even assigned to a writing workshop group of five members, three of which were guys that I had to interact with. No. The most difficult challenge for me was that NYU's creative writing classes were located in a townhouse on West 10th Street, not far from where James had lived. In fact, Edward, James and I had walked past this townhouse together on a number of occasions. And now, every Tuesday and Thursday morning, I was reminded of James.

Even without reason to believe that James was anywhere near New York, I continued to expect to find him coming around the corner as my taxi drove up and dropped me off.

I handed the driver his money and paused for a few deep breaths, grounding myself, before exiting the cab, avoiding the face of any passerby as I held on to the wrought-iron railing, taking the steps toward the grand entrance two at a time.

Seated at an elongated chocolate brown table, inside a bright modern classroom on the third and top floor of the historic, red-bricked building, I volunteered, or perhaps insisted, that the five of us meet at my apartment for group work instead of the West Village restaurants my other group members were suggesting. I'd feel much better with the group of us not only being anywhere where Edward was, but also anywhere that wasn't the West Village.

Our first evening meeting would take place when our short stories were due, two weeks away. During those two weeks, I did my best to be friendly with my group, including the three guys, Tyler, Ben, and Eric.

Tyler stood up, pushing his chair out noisily enough to gather bothered looks from other students around the table, and announced to our group that he was heading a few doors down to grab a cup of coffee, and wondered if anyone wanted to join him. Eric, Ben, and Angela were all nose-deep in their stories.

"How about you, Bella? You've been yawning all morning," he said with a laugh.

Despite the perspiration gathering at my every pore with the thought of walking down West 10th Street with a guy I hardly knew, I nodded my head. "Yeah, I could use some coffee." I conjured a smile and followed Tyler around the table, down the stairs and to the street. He may have been talking and I may have been answering with uh-huhs, but all that I was aware of were the other people heading our way. Instead of avoiding them, I searched every face that passed. Not one was James, and I entered the coffee shop with a real smile on my lips.

"What are you having?" Tyler asked as we joined the short line.

"Latte, with one…" I began my usual order, but changed my mind. "White chocolate mocha," I said, "iced. No! Blended."

Tyler tried to pay for mine, but I insisted on buying my own. When he suggested we take a table and drink our coffees there, I hesitated.

"Come on," he said. "I could use a break. How about you? Sometimes my best ideas come to me when my mind is far from my work."

I glanced around the coffee shop. There were enough customers scattered around the room to where I didn't feel threatened by Tyler.

"Why not?" I said, and took a seat at the table by a window and closest to the door.

As I sat across from Tyler, and while he continued talking—this male version of Jessica, I thought—moving his hands in open, animated gestures, I released my journal from my bag and began logging the moment. Another accomplishment.

Tyler's appearance was opposite James. For one, he was black, his skin, hair and eyes, all darker than James. His clothing and his mannerisms, as well, were nothing like James, and therefore, while I remained untrusting and uncomfortable with his presence, he was not a trigger for panic.

Logically, his appearance shouldn't have mattered. If there was one thing James had taught me, it was that anybody could be capable of madness, no matter how much a person appeared otherwise.

But no one had ever claimed that triggers came equipped with logic or common sense.

My palms were sweaty and I shifted in my seat many times, unable to get comfortable, though panic did not reach me.

I wrote it all in my journal as Tyler continued speaking.

My journaling hadn't, by any means, deterred Tyler from his story, nor did I get any sort of sideways glance, or any question about what I was writing. Tyler, as any writer would, likely engaged in frequent writing surges himself.

"Turns out," Tyler was saying, "it wasn't malignant."

"What?"

"My cousin's tumor. It wasn't malignant. It was benign."

"Oh, that's good!" I said, closing my journal, figuring I'd better start listening.

After that day, Tyler continued to be friendly with me. He joked with me, and even brought me a coffee one morning. It was blended vanilla bean; he thought I'd like it. I let myself welcome his friendship, though edged with a trepidation I could never fully ignore.

On Mondays and Wednesdays, I had core classes on the regular NYU campus, and I'd accepted a job at a campus coffee stand. Sharing the burden of bills with Edward was part of my promise to myself of narrowing the gap in our relationship. It was time I contributed more in both presence of self and expenses. Restricting my transportation to taxis alone was proving to be a huge expense. My savings account was evaporating faster than a puddle on the cement under the New York sun.

At the Coffee Stand, I was able to work before classes, between classes, or after classes. During slower times, I could get some studying or writing done. Getting paid to study wasn't a bad arrangement, as far as I was concerned. Even better, I felt safe behind the counter, in my own little shack, and I didn't have to serve the coffee, no chance of spilling on anyone. I only had to pour the coffee, clasp the lid, place the cup on the counter, and push it toward the customer. I had only myself to burn. Edward had already warned me to stop scorching my skin as he kissed the backs of my hands. At least I'm not burning strangers, I'd said.

I fingered over another burn on my knuckle as Edward and I sat at the bar, early at The Lounge again, thirty minutes before Edward would start playing. People began trickling in couple by couple, group by group. The lights were dimming to a mere glow.

"I have to go to the bathroom," I said.

"I'll walk you," Edward said, starting to get up.

"No, I can go alone, Edward."

"Are you sure?"

Sam, the bartender and co-owner, gave his two cents. "It's thirty feet from here. Do you have to follow her everywhere? You're gonna scare the girl away. It's the twenty-first century, my man."

"Not true," I said. "He could never scare me away." I kissed Edward's cheek as I slid off the barstool.

I passed by the main entrance on my way to the restrooms. A line had formed outside, more and more people entering and heading straight for tables or the bar. On my way out of the bathroom, I caught sight of a man with dirty blond hair that fell to his shoulders. It gathered itself into a low ponytail, and I froze.

It's not James, I told myself, but my speeding heart and my racing mind both disagreed with reason. I stomped a foot on the floor to feel it, but it was wood, so that didn't do me any good. I lifted a hand to the wall, textured. I moved my fingers over it, trying to focus on just the wall, but nothing seemed to subdue my panic because I couldn't look anywhere but at the blond ponytail. My eyes wouldn't move. And then he turned around.

On one blink he was an older man, somewhere in his forties, a receding hairline, but that blink was over and now he was James.

"James," I said, and my back hit the wall.

"Who?" He stepped toward me. "Do I know you?"

I closed my eyes as he approached. Closer. Too close. "No," I said, willing him to leave.

"Did you call me James?"

"I-I thought you were someone else." I slowly let my eyes open. He couldn't be James. But when I opened them he was still James, and his face was still too close.

"Don't touch me."

"Whoa. Nobody's touching you. What's your problem?"

I attempted Dr. Hale's technique again, but there was no where to look but at the man in front of me.

"Just leave me alone."

He backed up and held up his hands. "No problem." He kept moving backwards. "Psycho chicks," he said under his breath.

Edward was heading toward the piano and I weaved through tables, uncaring of whomever I happened to bump into, and when I made it to him, I snatched his arm, turning him around.

"Bella?" His fingers came to my forehead. "You're sweating. Are you hot?"

"I have to go. Now! I saw James."

"The real James?" He brought his eyes to mine. "Are you sure?"

"No, Edward, I'm not sure! But I have to go. I can't stay here tonight." I closed my eyes and I felt James spreading my legs. I felt my panties tight, cutting in to my ankles. Nausea filled my stomach. "Oh, god!" I heard James telling me he would make me feel good, and I covered my ears as if the voice wasn't inside of me and I could block it out.

Edward took my hands gentle and slow, lacing his fingers through mine. "Bella," he whispered, his lips at my forehead. "You're okay. You're okay. Open your eyes, sweetheart."

I opened them and there were Edward's eyes. Green and glowing in the gold light.

"Can you see me?" he asked, his fingers tracing up my arm. "It's Edward."

"Yes," I said.

"You're here. At The Lounge."

"I know where I am."

"Good," he said, and his hand rubbed my back. "But you want to go?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. I have to go. I'll just get in a cab. I'll go straight home and wait for you. I'll be fine. I just have to get out of here."

"I'm going with you."

"You can't." I brought my hand to his chest. "You have to work."

"I can do… whatever I want." He led me to the bar. "Sam?"

Sam was busy pouring liquor into three lined up shot glasses. The bar was getting crowded. I inched even closer to Edward as someone bumped my elbow.

"Sam!"

"What's up?" he said, as if there was nothing at all wrong with the world. His nonchalance angered me.

"I can't stay tonight. You're going to have to take charge of the music."

"It's your night, man." He slid the shots over to his customers and took their money. "Do you see this crowd?"

"An emergency's come up. There's no way I can stay. Cover for me? Just this once. I'll do an extra night next week. I'll do two extra nights this month, no charge."

"All right, man. Go on. Get outta here. But don't say I never did anything for you."

"Thanks," Edward said.

"See ya, Bella." Sam saluted me, ignoring Edward. He may have agreed to cover for Edward but he wasn't happy about it.

I tried to smile but it may have looked more like a grimace, and I lifted my hand in an attempt at a wave.

There were no faces as Edward and I made our way out of The Lounge and to a cab, only shoes. Back at our apartment, I refused to go to bed, so Edward and I sat together on the sofa. He was propped up against the corner between the arm and the back of the sofa, and I was leaning against him, both of his arms around my waist, and he was talking to me about his past again. Not asking me any questions about the night.

I brought it up. "I tried Dr. Hale's technique tonight, but it didn't work."

"Keep trying, Bella. It's worked before. It'll work again. That guy just caught you off guard."

"It's just, I felt the floor, but the floor was wood, just like at my old apartment, and that man, he looked so much like James from the back, and when he turned around, no matter how I tried to focus, all I saw was James."

"After your run-in with that guy, when you found me, were you… were you reliving it?"

"Parts of it." I shook my head fast, unable to tell him which parts.

He closed his eyes. "Bella." They opened again. "Try not to think about it. We're here now." He kissed my cheek, then turned my face to kiss my lips. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I said. "Yes, I am, now. I'm fine now."

"Here." He pulled my head to his chest. "We don't have to go to bed, just try to sleep." He drifted his hand over my hair, his fingers around my ear and down my neck, and then up and down my arm. I allowed my eyes to close.

That night, sleeping in Edward's arms on the sofa, a gasp didn't come from me, awaking us both.

It came from Edward.

"Bella!" he said, and I jerked awake. He was looking up at me and breathing deeply.

"What?" My question was calm as I peered down at him, raking my fingers through his hair, and his breathing slowed.

"N-nothing." He frowned. "It was a-a dream." His voice was soft and he spoke slowly, confused. "Bella." He wrapped his arms around me and buried his face in my neck, moving my hair out of his way. "I was late. I'm so sorry I was late."

There was no need to ask what he was talking about. I pushed against his chest and he let me go, both of us sitting up.

"Edward, you weren't late. You were on time. I expected you at noon."

He nodded, but his eyes were blank. "Just let me hold you." He brought me to his lap, pulling my legs over his, and he rubbed along my thighs. "I'm so glad you're here."

I brought my hand to his neck, tracing his jaw with my thumb. He closed his eyes and I kissed him. He kissed me back. I felt his tongue and heard a low moan in his throat. He wanted more and I'd give him more. I kissed along his face to his jaw and down his neck, then back to his eager lips. I'd give him the one thing that he deserved, the one thing that he would never take from me: myself.

He'd been extremely cautious over the past few weeks with how far things went sexually between us. He could tell now when I had memories of James, just as I could feel them coming on. He could recognize the tension easily in my face or my body language, and he would instantly stop and move away from me. I knew I had to break his cautiousness down. I knew I had to work him up to a point where he couldn't think clearly. So I continued kissing him the best way I could—his throat, over his ears, listening to his breathing and his quiet moans to learn what he liked the most, and then I continued that. I straddled his lap, lifted his shirt and felt his stomach, felt his intake of breath and his lips hardening against mine. I slid my hands up to his chest and he moaned into my mouth, "Bella."

He pressed his hand to the back of my head, pulling me firmer against his lips.

But the more worked up I got him, and the more I felt him giving in and kissing me with a fervor that rivaled my own, I realized what I was doing. I was seducing him. I was building his desire to an uncontainable lust, perhaps playing on the same frenzied desires of the male sex that had swallowed James up and turned him into someone I didn't recognize.

I'd screamed at James and he'd seemed not to hear or care. He had one purpose in mind, and that was sex with me, regardless of my protests. He was no longer human. He was an animal. His voice echoed through my mind. I'll make you feel good. This is what I do.

Every last drop of my desire disappeared as if flushed down a toilet; it was gone.

I climbed off Edward's lap as though we hadn't just been making out like crazy for thirty minutes, as though I'd just been sitting there casually and remembered I had a task to do. I left Edward with his head leaning back against the sofa and breathing hard, his eyes shut tight.

I was far from him, all the way at the other end of the sofa, when he turned his head toward me, his eyes barely open.

"I'm sorry, Edward. I couldn't do it."

"It's okay," he said, and it was all a breath.

But no, it wasn't okay. I'd worked him up like that on purpose and then slammed on the brakes.

He moved over to me and brought his fingers up and down my arm. "There's no rush." His breathing was still heavy. "I can wait until you're ready."

"I'm sorry I did that. I was trying to make you lose your mind, forget about everything, but then I panicked. I was afraid to see you uncontrolled."

He kissed my forehead. "Bella, no matter how turned on I get, or how much I want you—which, believe me, is a lot—I will never be that out of my mind. I'm not like James. Stopping isn't impossible. It's never impossible. If you were ever to tell me to stop, I'd stop. It doesn't matter if we're in the middle of it. You won't have to say it twice. I will stop. I promise you that. And you never have to apologize for it."

I pecked his lips. His eyes closed.

"But there is one thing I have to do. If you're okay right now, I have to go and-" he smiled at me "-take a shower."

I couldn't muster up a smile. "I'm okay. Go shower." I pushed against his arm.

When I heard the bathroom door close, I sprawled out along the sofa, my cheek to the cushion. I was exhausted with trying to live this new life, exhausted with trying not to think. But I wouldn't cry. I would not give in to the tears that James had built up strong inside my gut. I swallowed a sob and back down my throat it went, to my stomach, tightening, adding to the river inside me. It felt the size of the Hudson.

~::::::~

On my eighth appointment, just a few hours before my workshop group was expected at my apartment, I sat in Dr. Hale's office frustrated with myself.

"Why can't I just get over it? How long does it take?"

She and I were both sitting in the chairs opposite her desk; we had moved them to face each other. She no longer sat behind her desk on any of my visits. Today, as she arranged her chair to face mine, she had asked me to call her Rosalie.

"Look, Bella. I agree with what Edward said to you. You put too much pressure on yourself. Only three months have passed. You can't rush your healing. You have to move at your own pace. You may never 'get over it' in the way you expect. What you can do is learn to separate the assault with your life now. Help it fade into the background, further from the present."

I looked at her face for a minute, her soft features, the rounded edges of her nose and jaw. She seemed to really believe and understand everything she'd said since I first met her. And she was so young, maybe late twenties, early thirties at most. It seemed like more than knowledge to me. It seemed like experience.

"Rosalie, have you-were you…" I couldn't finish. It wasn't my place. She wasn't my patient.

She offered me an answer anyway. "It's the reason I chose this profession."

I searched her eyes, searched for a sign of a tear, any wetness at all. I didn't see anything. I didn't hear a shake in her voice. Nothing about her demeanor had changed at all.

"Did you get over it?"

"I'm not going to answer that. My answer, either way, won't do you any good."

"How do you figure?"

"Well, if I say yes, it could give you false expectations and if I say no, it could cause you regression. You can't compare anyone else's progress to your own. Everyone's experience is unique and we all deal with trauma differently. Some people are more resilient than others."

I wondered how you could measure resiliency. I wondered how resilient I was compared to Rosalie.

"Have you decided to tell anyone else yet?" she asked. "Family or friends, aside from Jessica?"

"I don't want to." I shook my head. "Alice and my dad? They'd be so hurt."

Rosalie nodded. "Have you spoken to either of them recently?"

"I email them. I try to avoid phone calls. That's been easier with Alice, though, because she's busy with a boyfriend and an internship."

"You know you can't continue to avoid them."

I nodded.

"I have homework for you. Before our next meeting, I want you to call both your father and Alice. No excuses. If you can't get in touch with one or the other, you try again. It would do you good to tell them about your trauma, but I'm not saying you have to do that. Just hearing their voices, their care, could help as well. It could help you to open up, even if at a later date. Does that sound like something you can do?"

"I can do that," I said, nodding, more to convince myself than Rosalie.

"Great." Her hand touched my knee. "And about Edward. How is he handling all of this?"

"Like a saint. I don't know how he does it. I've really freaked out on him a few times—a lot of times, really—and he continues to hold me together. He's my glue."

"Are you sure?"

"That he's my glue? Yes."

"No, that he's okay. Is he talking to anyone?" Her hand left my knee.

"Do you think he should be? Do you think he's not okay?" I sat forward, going over the past few months in search of any sign that Edward was anything less than solid. There weren't many hints, but a few did come to mind. I remembered him saying that nothing scared him more than the thought of me being hurt again. Was that a sign? And that nightmare a few nights ago. Was that a sign, too?

"Have you heard of secondary traumatic stress?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"From what I've read on your police report, I'd be surprised, though pleasantly surprised, if Edward wasn't experiencing that."

"Why?"

She leaned back in her chair and cleared her throat. "There are many factors. One of the weakest is that you want to keep what happened only between the two of you, so he has no outlet. From his point of view, he definitely can't talk to you about many of the feelings he must be experiencing. The strongest factor, Bella, is not only does he know what happened to you, which is often enough to cause secondary traumatic stress, but he saw what happened to you, his love. And James was also his friend, wasn't he? He trusted James just as you did."

Whenever I pictured what Edward might have seen at my apartment that day, I always viewed it as disgusting. Never did I think of how it must have hurt him to see it. But sitting across from Rosalie, a memory crossed my mind: Edward looking down at me as I lay across the floor, his fingers on my face, tears dripping from his eyes, his voice cracking and pleading with me to tell him that he wasn't too late. He may have been crying for me, but that wasn't all. He had been crying for himself, too.

"Oh, god." I covered my mouth. "I've been so self, self-centered."

"You haven't been self-centered. You're inexperienced in matters of trauma and for good reason. Most people are. I'm only bringing this up because if Edward needs some help, if he has stress over this, it can't go ignored. He more than likely has healing to do just as you do."

I left Rosalie's office thumbing Edward a text to let him know that I was on my way, and that I was thinking of him and I love him. Edward was all that was on my mind the entire trip home.