EPILOGUE PART ONE
Edward
If you freeze a heart shaped potato, it will grow roots.
If you wrap a heart shaped potato in saran wrap and stick it into the far corner of your freezer where it is safe, and protected, and loved, it will still grow roots.
Despite all of your efforts to keep the potato safe from itself, from its nature … from the ugly truth, it will still grow roots. At the end of the day, the heart shaped potato is still a potato. All of your hard work and dedication in shielding it will not change that simple fact.
"You should have allowed the potato be a potato, Edward," Bella says, shaking her head at my poor heart shaped spud.
I cut the roots off one at a time. "Maybe, but I love this potato more than any other potato, and I wanted to keep it safe."
"It's only a potato. A plain and dirty potato, babe," she says, laughing as she jumps onto the kitchen counter. "Besides, that potato has real, real serious problems. I've heard that potato, the one you love so, so much, is a little bit crazy."
Bella winks, turning the page on her cookbook, kicking her feet out in front of her.
"Watch your mouth, woman. I love my potato, and I won't allow you to talk shit." I kiss it before sticking it back into the freezer, confident that it will last as long as I keep cutting off those fucking roots. Turning back to my girl, I kiss her face and her neck. Running my hands up her thighs, I whisper into her ear, "Besides, we're all a little bit crazy."
She gets the chills, giggles against my lips and wraps her arms around my neck. "Maybe, but your potato, she's crazier than the rest."
I nod, agreeing with her before licking her bottom lip and sticking my cold hands under her shirt. "What are the chances that I'd be lucky enough to find that particular heart shaped potato? Out of all the potatoes in this world, all the "normal" potatoes, I was the one chosen to have the heart shaped one? Pretty small, I'd say." I kiss along her jaw. My thumb rubs over her nipple through her shirt. "I'm pretty fucking lucky to have such a unique heart shaped potato, and I'd never take that for granted. Even if it does have roots."
Her eyes roll into the back of her head as I kiss up her neck. "Your potato is defective. You got the substandard potato. You chose the wrong bag."
"Take that back. It isn't even close to being true," I whisper against her skin, pulling her shirt over her head.
Bella falls back onto the kitchen counter. Her arms fall above her head, and her legs wrapping around my waist. I kiss up her collarbone and touch the side of her breast.
"Your potato loves you, too, you know?" She squirms, laughing when I bite her nipple over her bra. "Your potato is grateful for all you do for her. She sleeps well at night because she knows you'll always be around to help when the roots get a little out of hand. And when your potato goes a little bit crazy, she is well aware of your love. Your potato told me to tell you that."
Unhooking her bra, I throw it behind me. "Does my potato know that she has great tits?"
Bella bites on her bottom lip, closing her eyes and nodding her head. "Yes."
Hooking my fingers into the waist band of her shorts, I pull them down her legs. Dying when I see that my potato isn't wearing any underwear.
Situating myself back between her legs, Bella has chills that run up and down her naked body. She touches the side of my face, I kiss her palm and love the way the metal and diamond around her finger binds her to me.
Pulling her back to the edge of the counter, I unbutton my pants while I lick over her nipple and watch the blush consume her cheeks.
"Does my potato know that she drives me fucking wild? Does she know I've loved her since I was ten? I would die for her?"
"She knows. That's why she's going to marry you."
I love the words. I love that she wants me forever. So easily mine.
Feeling between her legs, her back arches off of the counter. The words "Please," and "I need you right now," leave her lips softly. Bella's hands are in my hair, on my face.
I slowly sliding inside of her. "Bella, baby … I'm going to be late for work."
Going six months without an episode, I can feel Bella becoming restless. She isn't as quick to get out of bed in the morning, the laundry is piling up, and she's beginning to close into herself. The empty stares and the daydreaming are more frequent. There are dark purple circles under her eyes from being unable to sleep at night.
It fucking kills me. After all of this time her depression only seems to be getting worse with each vicious cycle.
This time will be bad. I can feel it.
When I love her like this, giving myself to her to take and use in whichever way she needs, Bella is better. Our bodies move together, heavy breaths and clinging limbs. I want to be here, in the now, enjoying her skin against mine. All I can manage to think about is who I can call and have come over to watch her while I'm at the hospital.
"Love me, Edward … love me," she moans, legs and arms locking me to her.
"I do. So fucking much." I kiss her neck, her hairline … stroking as deep as I can.
I almost had myself tricked this last time. I thought for sure Bella and I had figured out a routine in keeping the depression at bay. She sees a psychiatrist once a month and is religious about her meds. She goes to school, taking any class that sparks her interest. She is carefree, a lot like my sister.
For the last week I've watched it creep in, and I'm fucking terrified.
I kiss over her flushed cheeks. Bella smiles and hums. Her closed eyes open, looking at me with her dark browns. The depth and the significance of the brief stare is enough to let me know that she is thinking about the same thing I am. She feels it too, just afraid to confirm. So I tell her that I love her, and I touch every inch I can reach. Speeding the movements in my hips, I hope she feels my desperation and my sincerity. Neither one of us dare say a fucking word about the inevitable—the silent condition that rules our lives.
The next couple of days pass slowly. I have no other choice but to leave for the hospital every day. It's not the way it was when I was in college. I can't stay home because Bella isn't feeling well. I worry for her the same as I always have, but I have an obligation at work.
She's beginning to be mean and quick tempered. Bella's frustrated but trying, balancing on the edge of depression. I can see the fight in her. She tries to prevent it from taking her over, but it's a battle she has been losing since she was a kid.
Until one day she doesn't have any more fight to give.
"You treat me like I'm a fucking child, Edward!" she snaps, walking past me into our bedroom.
She slams the door in my face. I hear her crying through the thick wood. My heart beats a million beats a second. My palms are sweaty, and my own anxiety reaches its peak. Leaning my forehead against the cold door, I ask her if I can come in before opening the door and stepping inside.
Taking off my tie, I slip out of my shoes while Bella sits in the center of our bed with her face in her hands. There isn't anything I can say that will make her feel better. She'll use my words against me, so I remain silent while changing out of my work clothes.
"I'm alone all fucking day," she spits. "I miss you, but you're always at work."
I hang up my shirt, stepping out of my pants. "I know."
More sobs. More tears rocking her core. "I don't want your sister here. I don't need a babysitter."
I sit carefully on the side of the bed, wanting to touch her so fucking badly. "She won't be here to babysit you, B. I promise."
She cries harder and harder as the minutes pass; shaking the bed and hurting my ears, my pride and my heart. I should be able to fix this. I'm a doctor. I've studied about treating and curing people and their aliments, but there is nothing I can do for the one person who means everything to me.
I'm helpless.
I can only sit back and listen to her ear shattering sobs knowing this is only the beginning. Tonight she won't sleep, but tomorrow she will sleep all day. Bella won't eat, and she'll stop talking. She'll lose weight, and manipulate me into having sex with her. She'll feel so bad afterward that the crying will start all over again.
Who knows how long it will last? A few days. A week. A month. A few months.
"Bella," I whisper her name. "We have to do something about this. We can't just sit back and let it happen to you."
Taking a chance, I look over at the love of my life. Her green circle glasses blocki the view of her red swollen eyes. She doesn't even attempt to smile, laying her cheeks down on her knees. Scooting close, then closer again, until I'm right next to her and my arms have her safely pinned against me.
"I hate feeling like this. I can't breathe. I feel like I'm dying."
"You're not. I swear you're not."
Another sob. Her feet start to kick and her finger nails did into the skin of my arm. "My heart is beating too fast. I can't catch a breath."
"Everything's okay," I assure her.
Looking back at our lives, this type of depression is a condition that was passed down to Bella through genes and birth. Symptoms showed themselves as early as age two. Her pediatricians didn't think it was possible, but talking to Charlie and Renee about it. They did. By age five she was hiding behind her glasses, unemotional. By age ten, she'd met me but nothing about her personality had changed. Bella was awkward and overlooked because of her unsociable personality. Bella was detached to everyone except for me, and around age twelve, the symptoms really began to show. She was consumed by fifteen.
I'd like to think I did something to help—that any of us did—but the reality is we did nothing more than contain and treat, again and again. We got Bella by.
Maybe it's our fault it's getting worse.
Maybe it's my fault. I'm her worst enabler. I gave her the glasses back after she went years without them. I allow her to sit around all day and do nothing. I'm the one telling her that everything is okay even though it's not. Not even close. It's always there, lurking and teasing. Not only affecting our day to day life, but our future.
What if we want kids? Will they be born with it, too?
Lounging Bella down her back, she fights against my grip. Trying to convince me that she can't breathe, she hits and pulls on my clothes. Her hands shake and her eyes tremble. Her own mind's betraying her body. It's so fucking sad I can cry.
"You're having a panic attack," I whisper into her ear, unsure if she's even listening. "I wouldn't let you die. I would never let anything happen to you."
Seems like hours before her breathing becomes normal again. My skin burns from where she scratched and hit me. Her glasses are broken, and her face is swollen. A few shaky breathes and some left over tears, Bella apologizes.
"I can't live like this anymore. I can't do it."
What do you say to something like that?
Sorry, but you were born this way? Your brain is fucked up and there is nothing you or I can do about it? Get used to it because this is your life, Bella … our life.
I don't fucking think so.
