Choices

A/N: Thank you to everyone who is still reading. This chapter may seem short, but it has a lot in it.

Thanks to Momma Laura, my beta, and my pre-readers, DanySpike and The_Buxom_Bitch, for keeping me on track and well-punctuated.

Stephenie still owns it, not me.

Cold Outside – Edward Hartline 'Lagniappe'

Chapter 29

BPOV

Bert bumped against Bella's chair, startling her from her reverie. She blinked, wondering how long she had been staring, unseeing, at the phone in her hand. She pressed a button and the 'Low Battery' warning lit up. She looked around the living room and rubbed at the unfamiliar stiffness in her neck, rolling her shoulders to loosen them. Shaking the fogginess from her head, she connected the phone to the charger on her desk and headed to the bathroom. Her bag was full, and she realized she must have been sitting almost senseless for several hours.

She tried to remember when she had showered last. Tuesday? Wednesday? What was today? It didn't matter. She wasn't going anywhere, and no one would be coming to see her. Still, a shower might help clear her head so she could think, and she had a lot to think about.

Her phone was nearly charged when she returned to the living room later, a fresh glass of wine in her hand. She checked the date to see that it was Thursday, December 19. She shook her head. There were great chunks of the past three days that she was missing, but a few moments stood out with excruciating clarity.

Tuesday, for example. Leah called to tell her that she and Sam were having a baby. As joyful as that news should have been, it only made Bella think of her own lost possibilities. Leah asked her why she was pushing Jake away, when he only had her best interests at heart. Bella countered that Jake's interests were obviously not hers, especially now, since he had Emily to distract him from even the most important things. She then accused Leah of setting Jake up with Emily, so that he could experience a relationship with a 'whole' woman. Finally, she charged Leah with flaunting her fertility and womanhood, throwing her own inadequacies in her face. Leah was crying when Bella hung up on her.

Wednesday had been even worse. The Dean of the English Department called, asking her to come in for a meeting. He stated that reports of her drunken behavior at the Christmas party, and the resulting violence, had reached the University administration, raising questions and concerns over her ability to teach effectively. He was apologetic, but the fact remained that her tenure had been denied, and her termination was effective immediately. She found empty boxes waiting at her desk, and a custodian carried the remains of her academic career to her truck.

Once home, she had called Jake and coldly informed him that his stupidity had gotten her fired. He said he was sorry to hear it and he wished he could change things, but soft laughter in the background seemed to negate the validity of that statement. He told her that Sam had called him, furious over the things Bella said to Leah. He said she would have to apologize to Leah, or Sam would refuse to allow Bella to come for Christmas dinner. Bella told Jake that Sam could stuff himself with his own turkey; she knew belittling when she heard it, and she would be damned before she sat at a table with a woman who was so cruel. Jake asked how much she been drinking, and she hung up on him, too.

The latest call, and the one that, oddly, seemed to have affected her the most, came this afternoon from Dr. Riggs. She spoke of the importance of the research and how grateful everyone on the study team had been for her participation. A formal letter would be coming from the Center, but she wanted to personally let Bella know: the results of the testing found no probability of improvement in either range of motion or sensation in her case. She was very sorry, but perhaps Bella's participation would enable another patient's successful rehabilitation in the future.

That was the news she had most dreaded, yet least anticipated. She thought she had avoided building up her hopes, but apparently she had been mistaken. It wasn't completely for nothing, but the feeling of disappointment washed through her before she could raise that point with her irrational side, leaving her stunned and staring at the phone.

"Well, Merry Christmas to me," she said aloud, toasting the tree that took up her front window. Somehow, her cozy homespun ideas for decorations had never materialized. She had been less than motivated lately, and the Christmas spirit had not only eluded her, but had probably taken a fast flight to Rio. Bella contemplated the bare fir over the edge of her glass. Hanging photos of family and friends no longer seemed appropriate, since she seemed to have none left of either. Yet the tree should at least be allowed to fulfill its destiny.

An idea occurred to her, and the more she thought about it, the more she liked it. Putting down her glass, she rolled to the front closet and shoved the boxes of photos out of her way. Carefully, she lifted a bag from the floor and brought it to the coffee table. The treasures inside, shoddy as they were, held more value for her now than any pictures. She delicately opened the paper encasing the first object, a threadbare red silk kimono. She draped it around the base of the tree, and it made a festive skirt. Next to be unwrapped was the chartreuse Nehru jacket. She held it as high as she could reach, placing it around the body of the tree. The orange feather boa went around the bottom of the tree, like a flirty hemline. She returned to the closet for the battered cardboard box that held the topper. A quick trip to the kitchen to retrieve the mop, and she was back.

She lifted the black silk hat carefully from its confines and placed it on the end of the mop handle. Slowly, she raised the hat to the top of the tree, settling it on the pinnacle before removing the mop. She wheeled herself back to get the full effect. Something was missing: the jabot. She pulled it from its paper, brushing it softly against her cheek before centering it between the open sides of the jacket at an approximation of throat -level. She pulled back and smiled for what felt like the first time in days.

It looked ridiculous and, therefore, perfect.

Bella spent the rest of the evening as she usually did, listening to Anthony Masen and working her way through a couple of bottles of wine. She no longer took the Restoril at night, preferring the Percocet to help her relax. The Restoril interfered with the dreams, making them disjointed and forgettable. She needed the dreams to keep him with her. How else could she look upon his perfect face or hear his soft musical voice, except in dreams. It mattered not that the dreams were more often nightmares than otherwise. She would take him however he came to her, as angel or demon, as long as she could see him.