Chapter 35

"Huntington's Disease is an inherited condition that damages and kills brain cells. It is an example of…"

Plink.

"…an example of autosomal dominance of alleles in Mendelian genetics. Autosomal dominance—as you remember—occurs when…"

Plink, plink.

"…when the effect on phenotype of one allele, uh…"

Plink. Plink, plink.

"…when the effect of one allele—wait, the effect of one phenotype, er…"

Plink.

I sigh and glance down at note card on top of the pile in my lap. It's been an hour since I came outside to practice the presentation for my biology project, but I haven't even made it past the first paragraph. The information refuses to stay in my head no matter how many times I read over it.

Of course, it doesn't help that I'm distracted by anything and everything. The cars driving by. The rumbles from a powerful bass speaker in the house across the street. The steady plink of rainwater dripping down a drain spout and onto a rusted metal trashcan lid. My attention skips and wanders and jumps from one thing to another. If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if I suffered from ADD or something.

But I don't have to wonder. I know exactly why I'm distracted, why I've been walking around in an absent-minded fog during the day and struggling to fall asleep at night. I know why I spend long periods staring off into space, forgetting to move, and why there are other times when every part of me twitches with restless energy. I know why I haven't been able to form a real smile for weeks.

I know why I feel this way—it was my decision, after all—but I don't know how to get over it.

I don't know how to get over him.

Almost against their will, my eyes slide over to the small rancher on the other side of our fence. The blue and white For Sale sign is both a relief and a torment. I can't wait to see light in the windows again; the empty house is creepy in its dark, foreboding silence. There are times, especially during sleepless nights, when I get the irrational, paranoid feeling I'm being watched by someone lurking in that house—someone dangerous like Peter or Andrew, whose location is still unknown. My imagination has even gotten carried away once or twice with thoughts about James's ghost coming back to make good on his death threats.

So, yes, it will give me a little peace of mind to have the house safely occupied by perfect strangers. But on the other hand, the place holds plenty of good memories, too. Hours and hours spent talking to Edward about anything and everything. Watching him, and later Mary Alice, through the oval-shaped hole hidden behind the bushes, seeing them grow and change as the months passed. Sliding books and magazines under a section of rain-rotted boards so he could learn about a world outside of the tightly restricted one his dad forced on him. Developing a friendship that helped us through some of the worst times of our lives.

It almost seems wrong that anyone else should live there. The last thing I need is another reminder that Edward's not a part of my life anymore.

If I was confused about how to feel before walking away from him a month ago, that's nothing compared to the emotional roller coaster I'm riding now. I constantly question whether I made the right decision and then catch myself looking at the schedule for the bus to Carlisle's house. Some days I think I overreacted to what happened, that it wasn't such a big deal, and other days I wish I would've kicked him between the legs on my way out the door.

My head and my heart are at war with each other, and I can't decide which one should come out on top.

Wincing in frustration at the fact that another half hour just passed by without any progress on my presentation, I decide to quit for the evening. Mama's going to be calling me into dinner soon, anyway.

We normally don't eat together, instead grabbing a bowl of cereal or something else easy whenever hunger strikes. Even when there's pizza or take-out for dinner, we go our separate ways after getting our plates. If the weather's decent, I like to hang out on the front porch; otherwise, I'll eat in my room while reading a book. Mama almost always sits in the living room and watches TV. I could probably count on two hands the times in my entire life we've eaten together at the kitchen table, and half of them have happened in the last month when a certain guest has come over.

Tyler Crowley is the guy Mama's currently dating. I'm not sure if he's an "official" boyfriend or not; they seem to be taking things slowly. He's older than her—in his forties, I think—and has a pretty mellow personality. They met at the restaurant where they both work, though he's a bartender and not part of the wait staff like her.

I like him okay, and he comes off as a decent guy. Other than maybe trying a little too hard to be "cool" sometimes, I haven't found anything that bothers me. By far, he's the best person Mama's ever brought home—though that bar wasn't very high to begin with.

It's obvious that she likes him and wants their relationship to work. And given her terrible track record with men, I really should try harder to be more enthusiastic when Tyler comes over. I'm not rude to him or anything, but I'm not very warm, either.

It's hard when I feel so empty inside.

And to be completely honest, I feel…envious, or maybe even a little bitter that she's all smiley and up in the clouds while I can barely seem to make it through each day. It's not that I don't want things to work out for her—because I do—but seeing her relationship develop while mine just exploded is sort of like pouring salt in a deep, open wound.

It hurts.

The late afternoon rain has eased off to a light drizzle, so I walk out to the mailbox as a way to procrastinate going back inside and facing the happy couple. There's a small handful of envelopes and flyers inside that I browse through in search of bills. While Mama's been doing great keeping on top of stuff like that, my old habits die hard—and I'm worried that hers will, too. I'll probably always be on the lookout for signs that she's slipping up again.

There aren't any bills in the mix today, but I do find two identical light green envelopes, one addressed to Mama and the other to me. My heart begins to race as I take in the neat, loopy handwriting on the back. I recognize it at once.

It's Cynthia's.

Ecstatic, I almost drop the rest of the mail in my hurry to rip open my envelope. Inside is what I'd already guessed: an invitation to Rosalie's baby shower at Cynthia's house. She's due the second week of April and is waiting until the birth to find out the sex of the kiddo. I'm secretly rooting for a boy.

The smile falls off my face as quickly as it appeared. As much as I'm dying to go, there's no way Mama will ever let me. I haven't seen any of the Cullens or McCartys since Cynthia drove me home that morning over a month ago. Mama was so mad when she found out the basics of what had happened with Edward. She said I wasn't allowed to spend time any more time with them and threatened to tell Social Services about the incident if I didn't stay away. As far as threats go, it's been very effective: a report like that might cause the agency to reconsider letting Edward and Mary Alice stay with the Cullens.

I miss them all so much—almost as much as I miss Edward—and have thought about sneaking over a few times. But I'm afraid to take the risk of Mama somehow finding out. I'd never forgive myself, or Mama, if Edward and Mary Alice were yanked away from the family that loves them as their own.

Still, I really want to go to Rosalie's baby shower. It would make me so happy to see them again, and I could use some cheer in my life right now. Maybe it's worth taking a chance. Mama is supposed to work that day, and I could tell her I was going to Tanya or Heidi's house. She'd never know the difference.

With only a twinge of guilt, I memorize the information, then casually slip the invitations in between the pages of a Walgreens ad and drop it in the recycling bin at the curb.

As expected, Mama and Tyler are all hearts and grins in the kitchen when I finally drag myself inside. I do my best to keep a neutral expression on my face, which is all I can manage. Already, my attempt at playing nice isn't working very well.

Mama doesn't seem to notice my mood, not she ever really does.

"Hey, baby," she sings out. "I was just about to call you in. Go 'head and set the table; supper'll be ready in a couple minutes."

Looks like we're having spaghetti again. None of us are very good at cooking, though Tyler does handle a grill well enough. I have to admit, it was nice when he bought us a little charcoal unit. Hamburger isn't that expensive and makes a nice change of pace from what we usually eat.

Still, none of our meals come close to those at the Cullen and McCarty houses. My stomach growls at the thought. Absently, I wonder if food is a typical thing at baby showers—as if I need more of a reason to want to go.

"Let me give you a hand with that," Tyler offers, breaking me out of my reverie as he comes over to the table. "How's your speech going? Making good progress?"

"Yeah," I grunt lowly before catching myself. Pausing to glance up at him, I try again, more politely this time. "Uh, I've still got a ways to go, but I'm getting there." I even twist one side of my mouth up into a kind of strange grin.

It's a start.

Tyler, for his part, seems happy about my attempt. He nods his head and smiles. "I'm sure you will. I know your Mama's real proud of you. She talks about how good you do in school all the time."

My eyebrows go up in surprise. I had no idea: she's never said anything like that to me before.

"My baby girl's a smart one," Mama brags as she brings the pasta to the table, confirming Tyler's statement. "Mark my words, she's gonna get her diploma and outdo us both."

"You didn't graduate high school?" I ask, curious about the past she hardly ever talks about.

Mama laughs. "I was too busy warmin' your milk and changin' your diapers. Babies is hard work, and don't you forget it. Best be smarter'n me and keep your legs closed 'til you get older."

"Mama!" I hiss lowly, my face flaming in embarrassment. I plop down in a chair at the table and duck my head as if that could somehow make me invisible. I can't believe she said something like that in front of Tyler.

Thankfully, he picks up on the way I'm feeling and starts talking about some sort of big sports game that's coming up. Mama hangs on his every word, and I'm able to survive the meal with minimal interaction. Though I avoid looking in Tyler's direction as much as possible, I do shoot him a grateful half-grin when he leads her to the TV so I can clean up in heavenly solitude.

It's nice being able to let go of the awkwardness I feel around the two adults, but the bad part about being left alone to my thoughts is…exactly that. The shadowy gloom sneaks up as soon as my focus slips, like a cat stalking its prey. One second I'm inspecting a plate for remaining soap bubbles, the next, I stand frozen in front of the sink, dish forgotten in my lifted hand, as my mind drifts across the city, back through time, to one of the many occasions when Edward and I would clean up together after Cynthia's meals.

Sometimes, we'd hurry through our chores to get back to an evening of finishing homework, watching TV, or looking for quiet corners to sneak in a good session of heated kissing. Other times, the cleaning itself would become our entertainment. We'd hold silly races to see who could finish a task first. Kitchen items would take on character roles from the TV show Blue's Clues, a favorite of Mary Alice's, and entire dramatic sagas would be acted out. And even though someone could walk in on us at any time, there was still plenty of kissing. We just kept it on PG side.

Mostly.

An abrupt cheer from the living room startles me back into the action of washing the dishes—I guess their team must have done something good—but memories involving Edward's lips, tongue, and hands continue to run through my head. And while I know going down this path never ends well, I crave the intense feelings before the crash too much to stop myself from taking the trip.

I love that tightness in my stomach when I think about the sensation of our tongues moving together in a familiar, unique rhythm. There's a jolting tingle of excitement in my chest every time I remember the warmth of his body against mine through our clothes and wonder what it might've felt like without those layers separating us. And nothing in the world could compare to the way my heart took off and soared when he looked at me with passion in his eyes, with longing and now-obvious love, like I was everything and the only thing he needed in the world.

Ugh, I miss him so much.

If Mama hadn't given my phone back to the Cullens, I'd probably be digging it out of my pocket with soapy fingers and calling him right this instant. Heck, I probably would've given into that urge weeks ago, maybe even the same day I told him goodbye. So maybe it's a good thing, after all, that I don't have any easy, immediate way of getting in touch with him. Because right on the heels of the all the wonderful kisses comes the painful memory of The Other One.

And it always brings along feelings of hurt, shame, and anger.

Stuffing the plate into a slot on the drying rack, I let out a frustrated growl and violently shake my head back and forth in hopes of clearing my mind like an Etch-a-Sketch. Sadly, the only thing I get for my effort is dizziness and a slight headache.

Maybe a distraction in the form of a good book is a better idea. At the very least, I'll be less likely to give myself a concussion.

"I'm gonna read in my room for a while and then go to bed," I announce to Mama and Tyler on my way through the living room.

They chime in with a chorus of goodnights. Tyler looks like he wants to say something else to me but then decides against it. I respond with a mental shrug. It'd be great if he could solve all my problems with a pep talk. But not even Dr. Henry, whom I'm still seeing once a week, has been able to do that. Though, she also says it's not so much about making my issues magically disappear than it is learning healthy ways to cope with them.

Apparently, stumbling through the day like a depressed zombie isn't very healthy.

Due to said vegetative state, it takes me almost twenty minutes to finish the simple task of getting ready for bed. When I do finally crawl under the covers with a library book in hand, however, I'm surprised to find myself fighting to keep my eyes open. Normally, instead of powering down for sleep, my brain is too busy coming up with dreary thoughts of a tumultuous past, an unhappy present, and an uncertain future.

Tonight, I'm out like a figurative light before I'm able to turn off the real one beside my bed.

And it's then that I discover the evil genius of my subconscious. Instead of harassing me while I was awake, it waited to attack a helpless captive. Trapped in fitful sleep, I'm assaulted with a weird mishmash of dreams that are half memories of real events and half fictional scenes of both the good and bad variety.

Dream Me sits on Edward's lap in the McCartys' snowy backyard as a bloody body stares with sightless eyes in our direction. Mr. Masen is there, too, of course. He looms large and shadowy over us with a raised makhaira in his gnarled hand, ready to strike. But before the killing blow can be delivered, the location shifts to Primo Pizzeria, where Edward fights an incensed Eric and Mary Alice sobs as I walk away from them for good.

But I don't get very far before finding myself in Carlisle's basement, drowning my anguish with a bottle of vodka. The reason is partly the same as Edward's was: I want to forget all the pain and have just a few moments of peace in my head, even if I know I'll pay for it later. The tipsy, silly, easy feeling—one that I remember from the time the ten-year-old me stealthily tried a beer from Greg's stash—has taken over and made everything okay.

All of it.

So when Edward storms down the stairs and pushes me down on the bed, I'm fine. When he grabs my chin and kisses me roughly, I resist with all my strength—but only so I can enjoy how his fingers dig harder into my skin. He pins my arms above my head and reaches down to the hem of my pants…and I've never wanted anything more in my life. I struggle, I yell at him, I fight—but he doesn't listen, he doesn't stop. My hips arch up to meet him at the same time that I taste his blood in my mouth, as he fumbles with the button of his jeans...as he pushes them down around his thighs…

As I feel him bare against me for the first time…

Jolting awake with a gasp, I sit up and blink rapidly in the dim-yet-too-bright light of the bedside lamp. It takes me a minute to get my bearings, and I'm sorry when I finally do. My body is covered in sweat, my heart is pounding, and tonight's partially-digested dinner is churning in my stomach.

Dammit.

I had that dream again, and I'm just as shaken up by it now as I was the first time, over two weeks ago.

Despite the, um, rather graphic nature of the dream, it bothered me enough that I made myself talk it over with Dr. Henry. And though she assured me that it's perfectly normal, that I'm really not the sick pervert I initially labeled myself, I still haven't come to terms with what the dream means, or—more importantly—what it doesn't.

It's just that I can't stop asking myself who the hell actually goes through traumatic, scary events and then is later turned on by them? What kind of person has such a deviant hidden side? Have I been this messed up for a long time without even realizing it?

Like a good little patient, I bobbed my head up and down when Dr. Henry yet again insisted that "everyone deals with trauma in a different way." I pretended that I believed getting off on my fear was somehow not a slap in the face to everyone else who'd ever been assaulted. I told her I agreed with her statements about control and how the loss of it was really what scared me—and not necessarily the sexual act itself. Heck, I even said I could buy into her suggestion that my alternate reality dreams were some of the ways my subconscious was taking back control.

But the truth is, I don't know what to think.

My eyes have now adjusted to the light and sweep restlessly over the small room with its sparse furniture and lack of decor. It's not the most uplifting sight, that's for sure. Deciding that I can brood just as well in the dark—no sense in making the electric bill higher than it needs to be—I twist over the edge of the bed to reach for the lamp. My aim isn't that great, however, and I end up smacking my elbow against the table, knocking various items to the floor in the process.

A random assortment of things fall, but I only notice the descent of one object: a small, delicate wooden carving of a swan. It's surprising well done for being the work of 13-year-old, but the craftsmanship isn't what I care about. It could look like a headless chicken and still be one of my most precious possessions. I love it because I love who gave it to me.

With an unexpected sob of sadness, I snatch the figurine from the dingy carpet and clutch it to my chest.

Edward made this wooden swan and gifted it to me as a Christmas present—the same night he kissed my cheek for the first time. Has it really only been a short 15 months since then? That Christmas, his family was still living together, the Cullens and McCartys were complete strangers, I had yet to learn firsthand just how dangerous Mr. Masen was, and Esme...poor sweet Esme...

My eyes begin to prickle and burn.

How could so much have happened in that time? How could our lives have changed so much?

And how could Edward and I have gone so far—only to end up nowhere at all?

Streaming tears drip from my chin as I throw back the covers and lurch off the bed. Agitated energy sizzles through my body, causing me to pace back and forth in front of my window—the window that Edward crawled through on several occasions in direct defiance of his dad.

I take in deep breaths but still feel like I'm suffocating. The room has suddenly become too small, the air too heavy. I've got to get out of here.

The clock reads 3:18 a.m.—hardly the time to be stampeding outside on a cold, wet March night in my pajamas, but the possibility of a little hypothermia is the farthest thing from my mind. At least force of habit has me slipping into a pair of shoes before making my way through the dark kitchen and out the back door.

Though I didn't have a planned destination when I left my room, my legs carry me straight to a familiar evergreen shrub that grows unchecked against the weathered fence. The concealed gap at the back of the bush is smaller than ever; I haven't disturbed its branches since last summer, back when Edward and I had a huge fight over my suggestion that he ask Carlisle to help them get away from his dad. The painful memory replays in my head as I fall to my knees on the soggy ground and push past bristly green boughs.

It's nearly pitch black in the small hollow within the bush, but my body easily folds itself into the usual spot. There's still a comfortable indentation in the thick layer of crushed leaves, pine needles, and loam despite the passage of time. Eyes closing, I rest my head against the boards and take in a lungful of chilly air. Though I'm now surrounded closely on all sides, the stifling pressure on my chest has gone just as quickly as it appeared, and the droning haze in my head—the one that's plagued me since I fled from a sobbing Edward—seems to have gone with it.

My fingers trace absent paths over the wooden swan's body still clutched in my hand. I can practically feel the effort Edward must have dedicated to it within the simple, yet carefully sanded lines. A fingertip discovers a thin rounded ridge around the base of one wing, and after considering the strange ring for a few seconds, I realize that it's probably a bead of glue.

Huh. I wonder if he'd accidentally broken off a wing while carving or maybe knocked the finished figurine off a table like I had. I wish I could just text him like I used to and find out. Well, whatever the case, he'd been able to fix it so well that I'd only now noticed.

The essay writer in me smirks at the beautifully apropos metaphor in my hands. A damaged wooden swan, a broken Bella Swan, a shattered friendship. If I could be an outsider looking in, the tragic parallels would make for an easy A on an English paper.

The million-dollar question, of course, is whether Edward and I—whether we—can also be mended.

Before now, I could barely think about that night without being overwhelmed into numbness. The memory was a dark, deadly abyss whose edge I would tiptoe around with my eyes half-covered, cautiously taking a step forward, then jumping back in fear. I knew I needed to get closer, I needed to face whatever the depths held, but I just couldn't.

Somehow, there's been a change in me. Not a big one by any stretch, but enough that I feel I can finally take my hands away from my eyes. I can look around, get my bearings, and maybe even figure out a way to move over, or around, or even through the abyss.

I can finally begin to heal.

Maybe I'm ready to go forward because I'm tired of the endless back and forth that really just has me standing still. Maybe the wooden swan's solid body in my hand is grounding me, is reminding that there's good to go along with the bad, that there's plenty of meaning in life and it's up to me to find it.

Or maybe it's simply that enough time has passed.

I don't think the why is all that important right now.

A spark of excitement lights in my stomach. It's a good feeling, a hopeful feeling, one that I want to hold onto. But the anxious fluttering also makes me aware of the rest of my stiff, shivering body. As calming as this special spot beside the fence is, it's also cold, wet, and cramped.

Any and all further thoughts will need to be had indoors.

In dry clothes.

On a nice, soft mattress.

And maybe with some hot chocolate.

I put one hand on the ground to push myself up, and that's when I feel it: damp smoothness under a thin layer of leaves. I think it's some sort of paper. As soon as my fingers close around the edges, I realize I'm holding an envelope.

My heart begins to beat faster, especially when I find two others under it. The one on the very bottom is the most wet and warped; it feels like it's been there for a longer time.

But how long is that? Although the branches of large bush provide shelter, the weather's been pretty ugly recently. The envelopes could have lain here for days, weeks—even months. I hold the top envelope close to my eyes to see if there's writing, but it's just too dark to make anything out.

My hands are shaking from more than the cold now as I scramble out through the shrub's foliage. I'm half excited, half scared, and one hundred percent impatient.

I'm dying to know what's inside the envelopes.

I can't get into the light fast enough.

Traveling, lessons, recitals, competitions, husband deploying, farm maintenance, the daily grind...real life's been a little busy! But, I'm still trying to write whenever I get the time and energy. Thanks for sticking with the story!

xxoo