Chapter Song - Out of Time by Running Young
And I know the world keeps spinning,
And I know I'm out of time.
I know the world keeps spinning,
But I'll take my time with you.
December 24th
Perched on the kitchen counter, I watched the multi-colored lights glimmering under the star-filled sky as the smell of cinnamon and thyme wafted through the room. I could hear Christmas music from the next room, the younger cousins running from the living room to the kitchen, giggling as Phil followed behind, trying to catch. Gran began singing along to the piano, despite Aunt Charlotte's pleas to stop. Gran didn't listen to her and she sang Little Drummer Boy until her heart was content, even if she was off-key and confusing the lyrics with Silent Night. I admired Gran's enthusiasm for the holiday, especially after the year we had. She was never one to relax during this time of the year, always decking out her house, hosting dinner both Christmas Eve and day and spending an ungodly amount of money on presents no one truly needed. She even wrapped the cactuses out front in lights, every single bulb carefully placed around a spike that I imagined took extreme dexterity to complete.
Even if it were tradition, I had hoped this year, she would call everything off.
This was the first Christmas without my mom … without her helping Charlotte decorate the interior of Gran's house, arguing where the snowmen should go. Without her trying to assist Phil with the ham, nearly burning it in the process and filling the kitchen with smoke. Without her singing with Gran, just as off-key as she was, but still filled with a joy I lost when she died.
It would always be without her now; her presence, her voice, her smell, her energy, and her love. Everything seemed ruined, like every cheerful memory I had was tainted by the fact that I would never have another moment with her.
The house was warm, but I was cold.
The kids entered again, Phil right on their heels as I emotionlessly watched, forcing a smile as Phil gave up, his breathing ragged as he leaned up against the wooden island. I had noticed slivers of gray hair peeking out through the black at the top of his head and dusting the new beard he sported. The past few months have aged him, his skin beginning to lose shape on his forehead, wrinkles forming, making him look much older than he was. Tragedy does that to you; runs you into the ground until you're nothing but dust. He at least was smiling, something I hadn't seen before Mom had passed.
"I'm getting way too old for this," He breathed, pressing his hand to his chest as I spared him an empathetic smile. He eased himself up, inching closer as he looked out the window, as if he were expecting to see something. He then turned back to me with a raised brow. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," I said, sliding from the counter. "Just savoring my time being back with you guys."
"By yourself?"
"I just needed a second. This is … A lot."
As he went to say something, the door swung open, Aunt Charlotte peeking her head through. "Time for dinner!" Phil forced a smile as we walked together to the dining room. I felt his eyes on me as if he were waiting for me to break at any moment. He knew something was different; he had even mentioned it several times, asking why I seemed despondent and quiet lately. Every time I shrugged and gave him the same answer: I was fine. I never went into any more detail than that. He has no idea what happened and what I found out, and I swore to myself I wouldn't tell him. I wasn't sure if I wanted to ruin what he thought of Mom, especially if he found out Charlie had something to do with her relapse.
No, it would only hurt him more.
So, I stayed quiet, holding in the secrets that were kept from me for so long. They tore at me; swirling inside, holding me hostage. They made it difficult to sleep, even after a month of leaving Forks, I was still plagued by what happened and I knew I didn't want him to feel the same. And so, I stayed quiet, only giving bits and pieces, never revealing too much. Never enough to hurt him.
I sat down at the dining room table next to Gram who sat at the head. She smiled at me, reaching over and patting the top of my hand as I spared her one in return. I could see the worry in her hazel eyes, could see the look that she and Phil exchanged when they thought I wasn't paying attention.
Uncle Sam said a quick prayer as our hands connected around the table. There was warmth in the room, love radiating as I stayed motionless and cold. When hands were released and everyone was ready to eat, Gram spoke.
"I'd like to take the opportunity to remember someone who isn't here," She began as I felt a crash in my chest as if someone had hit me straight on, leaving me breathless. Phil had a similar reaction, both of us hoping that we made it through the holiday without dwelling on those who were missing. It was hard enough as it was. "This has been a trying year. And I know Renee is looking down on us, loving that we are keeping this tradition going. She wouldn't want us to mourn any more than we already have."
I peeked at Aunt Charlotte, who wiped away a quick tear, Uncle Sam reaching for her as he pressed a kiss to her temple, the intimate moment causing me to look back down at my empty plate.
"I just want to say," Gram began again, her voice cracking as I turned to look at her. "Thank you all for coming. I would not have survived if it had not been for all of you." She reached for me, squeezing my hand as I showed her a halfhearted smile, squeezing back to show my gratitude. "Okay," She reached for her napkin, dabbing her eyes. "Enough tears. Let's eat!"
Everyone began reaching for the middle of the table, grabbing bowls and passing them around as I stayed motionless, the twisting in my stomach, making everything less appetizing. I didn't want to cause attention, so I put a little bit of everything on my plate, but I couldn't find the strength to eat, moving the food around with my fork as conversation erupted between family members. At one point, I managed a bit of green beans as I could feel Phil's eyes on me, as if he were observing. I swallowed hard, ignoring the sickness I felt immediately after.
"Bella, how is your father doing?" Aunt Charlotte asked as Phil froze next to me. I cleared my throat just before taking a drink of water.
"He's as well as to be expected," I responded as she nodded in understanding, knowing full well of his addiction from my mother. "I haven't spoken to him since I've left," I said willingly, but immediately bit my tongue at saying too much.
"Is he still at that house?" She asked as I nodded, staying silent. Everyone could sense my uneasiness, but I tried to relax, tried to avoid the attention on me. Thankfully, Uncle Sam interjected and began talking about sports, leading the conversation elsewhere. I didn't want to seem cold, but I couldn't force a conversation about Charlie or anything about Forks. My feelings were still sensitive to the topic and I briefly wondered if I would ever get over it.
xx
"You barely ate anything," Phil said as we entered the kitchen of his home. I shrugged off my jacket, hanging it over the chair. "I'm worried about you, Bella."
"Don't be."
I walked to the cabinet, opening it to find a glass before filling it with water. Phil hesitated around the island, watching me intently. His stare was uncomfortable, making it seem as if I were on display, as if he wanted me to know he was watching and being mindful of every movement I made. He was studying me, waiting for a weakness so he could jump in, try and reel more information from me that I did not want to give.
"Since you've come back," He hesitated, hedging around his words. "You've been like a ghost. It's like you're a different person."
"I'm fine, Phil," I said, agitation creeping into my voice even though what he said was true. I had arrived back in Phoenix shortly before Thanksgiving, and in the first few weeks of returning, I barely left the guest bedroom Phil had graciously offered me. He questioned me, tried to help me open up, but I was clinging to my sadness as if I was unable to let go. I tried to be strong, tried to put everything behind me, but I found it difficult even to sleep. I avoided Thanksgiving dinner and any family functions as much as I could. And despite everyone who asked me how I was, my answer was always the same.
I'm fine.
"I don't believe that," He answered, and I became frustrated, setting my cup down and onto the counter, crossing my arms over my chest. "Something happened, and for whatever reason, you are not telling me." I sucked in my bottom lip, knowing that if I gave him nothing, he would continue to question me. Everything I do would relate back to my trip to Forks, and I didn't have the energy to go back and forth with him. I realized I either needed to give him something or do better at hiding how I felt.
"We had a falling out," I breathed, pressing my palms onto the island. Phil blinked at me, saying nothing to urge me to continue. "I … I realized he wouldn't stop drinking, and I confronted him. He didn't like it and we argued. He's never going to stop, and I wasn't going to sit around and watch him die."
Phil was passive for a moment until trouble washed over him, a look of pity shot in my direction. He hesitated, his leg moving as if he wanted to come to me, but my body language said enough to warn anyone to stay away. I didn't want to be comforted. I just wanted to be alone.
"You can't change him, Bella," He said as I let out an empty laugh, nodding my head.
"I know," I inhaled sharply. "It's why I left."
I had hoped that was enough, and when he nodded his head, my shoulders visibly relaxed. Phil wasn't one to pry, but he also didn't want to be left in the dark. And despite the tone I set, he moved over to me, pressing a kiss to my forehead. His paternal instincts briefly made me wish that he had been my father from the beginning. If that had been the case, I wouldn't have had to go through all this heartache.
January 4th
"Isabella Swan?" The receptionist asked as I stood, straightening my skirt as I met her at the desk. "Go ahead and go through the double doors; first office on the left," She smiled as I nodded, thanking her and headed down the hallway, following her directions until I was in front of the office, a gold nameplate on top of the mahogany door reading Siobhan Byrne. I swallowed, placing my knuckles to the surface and knocking twice. I heard a voice command me to enter, and I opened the door, seeing fiery red hair on the other side of the desk, the muted colors in the room relaxing me almost instantly.
"Bella!" Siobhan jumped up from her seat, her icy blue eyes filled with joy the second she saw me, moving around her desk to reach me. We embraced tightly, something telling me it was more than just a way to say hello, but a hug that also held remorse.
Siobhan and I had met shortly after my graduation, and she is currently the head Director at S&K Publishing, along with her partner, Katherine. I had interviewed after receiving my diploma and Siobhan wasted no time in hiring me as a copy editor. There was something about her I related with; our taste in art and literature almost exactly the same. The first time we met we gushed over The Scarlet Letter and its themes of wisdom and suffering, something that is easily missed by most readers. From there on, we had a kindred relationship. She was my boss, but I had thought of her as a good friend.
A week before I was supposed to start work, Renee passed. Siobhan was disappointed I backed out of the position, but understood I needed time to heal, and I wasn't sure how long it would take. After Christmas, and admitting to Phil an ounce of what truly happened in Forks, I knew I needed to at least pretend to move on. Sitting around wasn't going to get them off my back. I needed something tangible to show that I was okay. Luckily for me, Siobhan was more than eager to meet with me.
"How are you?" She asked, pulling away to look me in the eyes.
"I'm fine," I forced a smile, repeating my mantra.
She cocked an eyebrow, letting me know I didn't have her fooled. The good thing about Siobhan was her ability to adapt and move on rather than linger and pry. It was a quality I had wished my family had, rather than picking at the wound over and over again. She brushed her long red locks back and gestured to the seat as I moved past her, both of us sitting in our respective chairs.
"So, you are back," She stated, interlocking her fingers as she rested her chin on top of them.
"I'm back," I assured her.
"And you are ready to commit to a job?" She questioned, her blue eyes watching me warily.
"Of course. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't," I squirmed under her gaze. Even though I thought fondly of Siobhan and our friendship, she could still be extremely intimidating. I felt uneasy in my choice of clothing, looking down at my plain white t-shirt and tweed pencil skirt. Was I too underdressed? Was I coming across as weak? I wondered if she could sense I wasn't serious about this, as if she felt I needed more time to grieve when I had been doing nothing but since July of last year.
I can't stay in that house any longer. I need out.
"Well, the Copy Editor position has been taken. We offered it to Jane Grady," She said dismissively as if she were unhappy over the decision.
"I understand," I nodded, feeling a hint of jealousy over the loss of a position I had worked so hard to attain.
"I wish we could have waited for you, you would have been fabulous in that role," She said, grinding salt into the wound. I winced, brushing my hair back as I situated myself in my seat.
"I understand the role is gone, but I'm hoping if you have something else, I'm willing to work for it. Even if it is something low, I just want to get my foot in the door," I told her with a definitive nod as a small smile crept over her lips and just as quickly vanished. She moved to her laptop, her long fingernails clicking away as the light from her screen reflected on her skin, making her look porcelain.
"I have a position open for Editorial Assistant," She said, looking back to me. "It is, however, a significant pay cut from what we originally offered you." She spoke, watching for my reaction.
"I don't care," I shrugged. "I want to work here for you and Katherine."
Siobhan clicked on her laptop a few more times before looking back to me, "There are some other positions available in our other sites … some with significantly higher salaries. Would you be willing to relocate?" She asked as I was still for a moment, thinking over her question. I knew I did not want to stay in Phoenix forever, that it was stained with unhappy memories, ones that outweighed the positives. But I also knew I did not have the funds to up and leave, even if I wanted to.
"Eventually," I answered with a nod. "I'd like to start here, though, and have the opportunity to interview for the Editorial Assistant position."
Siobhan laughed, one that radiated from her chest as she smiled at me, shaking her head. "You know you don't have to interview, Bella. The position is yours."
"Really?"
"Of course. I was disappointed when you reconsidered the position in July. Please, don't get me wrong, I understand why you did," She stopped, her tone dropping significantly. "As someone who has lost a parent, I get it. That's a whole different type of healing. And I respect you for making that decision. But from the moment we met, I knew you were destined for great things, and I still feel that way. I'm not one to let talent slip away. I pride myself on creating the publishers of the future."
I felt a lump in my throat, tears threatening to escape as I choked them back. Siobhan could sense my change of emotion, and she quickly reached over with a box of tissues. I grabbed one quickly, running it under my eye as I felt silly for reacting in such a way. But, Siobhan wasn't one to hold that against me. She was the first person since my mother to tell me she believed in me. And her words, while welcomed, still left an ache inside.
"Thank you," I said, just above a whisper.
"Enough of that," She stood, walked around the desk, and stopped just in front of me. "Let me introduce you to your new colleagues."
March 21st
I sat at my desk, furiously typing against my keyboard as I eagerly moved onto the last paragraph of a new article by a freelance writer Jane was interested in. I hadn't even realized that my coworker, Bree, had been standing at the side of my desk. I did a double take, observing her annoyed expression as she pressed her arms across her chest.
"What?" I asked as she laughed, shaking her head.
"Earth to Bella, where are you?" She questioned, pointing to my head. "Sometimes, I think you live in your own world up there."
I spared her a laugh, nodding my head. "Sometimes."
"We are going to get drinks after work. You want to come?" She asked as I scrunched my nose, immediately cueing an eye roll from her. "Let me guess, Jane wants this by tonight?"
"He just submitted the article three days ago," I sighed, gritting my teeth.
"I hate freelance writers sometimes," She scoffed, reaching out to touch my shoulder, "I guess we'll see you on Monday, then?"
I nodded. "See you then."
Bree and the other girls left shortly after five as I stayed behind, wrapping up the last paragraph before printing and binding it. I left it on Jane's desk for her to review when she comes in on Monday. I looked at the clock, it nearing seven as I headed back to my desk, grabbing my jacket and bag and making my way out the door.
Working at S&K had been a blessing in disguise. I jumped into it, eager to get out of the house and out of my mind. But the job had become much more than that. I was going through too much to realize how much I loved publishing. My return was wobbly at best and I felt rusty after being out for six months, much to the dismay of Jane. I knew she was questioning Siobhan's choice, despite the fact that her job was originally mine. But Siobhan remained faithful in me. Her confidence helped me through the first month and I was finally standing on my own two feet. Jane came around eventually, realizing I was an asset. I finished things in a timely manner, was here when needed, and flexible when it was necessary. I had even overheard Jane and Siobhan talking about my achievements and how overqualified I was for the job. I knew that too, but I was happy to be doing something that meant something to me, even if it was just a stepping stone,
It was cathartic, really. Doing something you loved, spending time with things that made you happy. I hadn't felt that since being with…
My thoughts ran cold, my heart aching as he entered my mind. In my car, I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. As I reached a red light, my eyes flickered to my phone, it lighting up at my touch. There was the same red bubble next to my voicemail box. I had been staring at that bubble since before Christmas, part of me wanting to cave in and listen to what he left me, but the other part still feeling scorned by his betrayal.
It was a constant battle back and forth, wishing I had the courage to either listen to it or delete it. The voicemail Edward left me was from November, only a few days after I went back to Phoenix. He had called me several times, texted me, begging for me to talk to him. And I was weak, I knew it, so I turned off my phone to severe the ties, so he could get the hint without me having to tell him directly.
I didn't turn my phone on until a week later, finding the one voicemail I still couldn't listen to.
This was another reason I loved to work. It's hard to get your mind off someone if you spend all day at home. Work gave me meaning and helped me to forget about him, Charlie, and Forks. I was still grappling with the truth, still angry at them both for lying. But the voicemail was the last part I had of Edward. If I deleted it, then everything would be finalized. He stopped reaching out, stopped trying to get a hold of me. If I deleted the message, it would be the last string attaching the two of us together.
Twenty minutes later, after a constant argument with myself, I pulled into the driveway of Phil's house, the very same one we lived in together as a family. I noticed he wasn't home, his car missing from the driveway and the lights off from inside. I stayed in my spot, turning to look at the red, 'for sale' sign in the yard. When Phil approached me about selling the house, I was taken by surprise but ultimately on board. Financially, I couldn't afford to live on my own yet, and Phil was more than welcoming to house me in the meantime. He said the house was too big, for two, but that is also contained both happy and sad memories, ones he was willing to let go in exchange for peace.
His words resonated with me, and I realized that despite the problems I was trying to work through, he was as well. It was easy for me to forget that Phil was trying to cope with the loss of Mom, just as much as I was. The house was no longer a place of happiness for us. It hadn't been for quite some time.
I exited my car and made my way inside, hanging my jacket in the side closet and kicking off my heels. I stopped for a moment, rubbing my temples as I vowed to make it an early night. I made my way into the kitchen, finding leftover lasagna that Gram had made the night before. I busied myself with sticking the pan in the oven and setting a timer for ten minutes, allowing it to heat.
The house was quiet, nearly deafening. As I waited for my dinner, I closed my eyes, conjuring up her laugh just down the hall. It was odd how her voice was so familiar, yet it felt as if I hadn't heard it in years. I knew it was just my mind, scratching an old record to make me believe she was in the other room and I began rationalizing with myself that she wasn't there. I knew it. I knew I was hearing things because being back in this house made it so. I found myself constantly turning behind me as if someone was watching, or investigating a sound that was eerily similar to someone calling my name. But it was just my imagination, my mind desperately trying to create something out of nothing. I found myself wishing she was here with me, standing at the counter, trying and failing to cook something for dinner. She was a horrible cook. I remembered the time she tried to make vegan lasagna. She had left it in too long, the noodles turned into mush, clumping the eggplant and burning the tofu. It tasted like hot garbage, but she was proud of herself. And despite the stomach ache later, I ate it anyway.
My fingertips touched the coolness of the island, my eyes closing as I imagined walking in, seeing her hazel eyes light up as she showed off her latest meal, even if it was a little overcooked. I could smell garlic, hear pots, and pans moving around as if she was really in here. She began to hum, and I remembered the tune immediately.
I'm coming back someday, come what may to Blue Bayou. Where the folks are fun, and the world is mine on Blue Bayou…
I felt tears brimming, but they never fell. As I opened them, the kitchen was filled with blue light, signifying an oncoming storm. The counters were clear, free from any mess, the smell had dissipated to nothing. The temperature had dropped, so much so that I wrapped my arms around myself, smoothing down the goosebumps that appeared on my skin as I silently chastised myself for giving in to a silly fantasy.
God, I needed out of this house.
With a fist, I rubbed at my cheeks, walking to the sink as thunder rumbled outside. Hanging my head low, I looked out the window to catch a faint reflection of myself. Being back in Phoenix did nothing for my skin; it still drained of color. I covered the purple rings that stained under my eyes with concealer. I didn't want anyone at work worrying … giving away the fact that I still couldn't get a decent night's sleep. And despite the happiness I felt while at work, everything else was sadness. It deadened my mind, like a black cloud hanging over me. Every step I took, it was never far behind. A constant reminder that I felt so alone, even when I had people who supported me.
I scrubbed at my face with my clammy hands, unable to look for one more second. My phone began to buzz, and very slowly, I reached for it in my back pocket, pulling it out just in enough time to see a missed call.
It was from Forks, Washington.
And within the red bubble, the number had turned from one to two.
I clicked on my voicemail box, seeing the new message next to Edward's unopened one. I hesitated, briefly wondering if he had gotten a new number. It was hard for me to believe he would have changed his number just to trick me into answering. He wasn't that type of person. I thought about Charlie, wondering if he was trying to reach out, but that seemed far-fetched. If he didn't care enough to reach out when I left, what would change that now?
Before I could continue to go back and forth, I finally clicked on the voicemail, bringing my phone to my ear as a voice came to life; one that was unexpected but familiar.
"Bella, it's Carlisle Cullen. I need you to call me back when you receive this message. I'll be here at the office until ten tonight, so whenever you can, get back to me. Talk soon."
The voicemail disconnected, and I pulled my phone away, realizing that the number was not Carlisle's cell phone, as I had that information stored, but instead, it was his office line at the hospital. His voice was always calming, but I could hear the urgency behind it, a desperate plea for me to call. Charlie was a prideful man; he wouldn't call me even if he were in desperate need. But his doctor would. And despite the anger I still felt with him, there was no hesitation in what I did next. If he was calling from the hospital, that could only mean one thing.
I redialed the number, bringing my phone back to me as it rang twice before answering.
"Dr. Carlisle Cullen."
"Carlisle."
"Bella?" His voice softened, but a hint of surprise was hidden behind it as if he didn't expect to hear from me. "Thank you for calling me back. It's been … Awhile. How are you?"
"I'm good," I lied, tapping my thumb against the granite countertop.
"Are you still in Phoenix?"
"I am. How are you? How are Esme and Alice?"
And Edward?
"The family is fine. Alice and Jasper moved to Seattle, and Emmett is in Portland with Rose," He said, forgetting a family member. "It's been a whirlwind in the last few months, but everyone's okay," His tone was calm, as if he knew the unasked question that was caught in my throat. "I have to be honest; I wish I were speaking to you on better terms, but, you were the only one I could call," He went quiet, a deep exhale leaving him as I heard papers shuffling in the background.
"What's wrong?"
"It's Charlie," He stopped, allowing me a moment to steady myself. "There was an incident last night, and he went unconscious at the bar, hit his head against a table. I was here when he was brought in and I thought the worse of it was a concussion. This behavior isn't exactly abnormal for him, especially when he is at Masen's."
Carlisle stopped again, as if he was trying to pick his next words methodically, which was unlike him. Being a doctor gave you the ability to be blunt without consequence because no matter what, people will listen. Now, he was careful, hedging even. I could feel a pit in my stomach because when it came to Charlie, Carlisle was always straight forward. But I could sense his struggle.
"When he woke – he showed signs of extreme memory loss. He didn't even remember being at the bar at all. It was unusual, but not out of the realms of alcohol poisoning. Still, I ran some tests, and I got the results … And I fear it's worse than what I originally thought…"
"Worse?"
"Bella, his liver disease has progressed, quicker than I anticipated. All the healthy tissue he had is gone, and … I'm afraid to say that he's in stage four of cirrhosis."
There was a ringing in my ear, as if there had been an explosion right beside me, my brain stammering as my thoughts struggled to catch up with the words. I tightened my grip on the phone, bringing it down as I closed my eyes, taking in a staggering breath. I became hyper-aware of my body; it trembling as I felt a knot in the back of my throat, making it difficult to breathe. I could hear my name through the receiver, but there was nothing I could say as my mind had gone numb. It felt as if we just got the first diagnosis, but yet, in the time that I had been gone, it had progressed so aggressively that I couldn't help but wonder what state I had left him in, no matter how angry I was.
I felt nauseous, knowing what this meant, knowing how this would end for Charlie. His only hope for survival was going to be a transplant, one that Carlisle made very clear would not happen, not with his lifestyle. I could feel the bile churning in my stomach, burning my throat as if I were going to be sick at any second. I turned, bracing myself against the sink as my head ducked, my unsteady hand turning on the water as I cupped it in my palm, dousing my face. I coughed a few times, wiping my mouth with the sleeve of my sweater, my stomach still twisted as I brought the phone back to me.
"How long?" My words were hoarse, quiet. I could hear Carlisle sighing as if he didn't want to answer. "How long does he have?"
"It's … Hard to say. He's been put on dialysis that he will need to continue to do every two weeks to keep his liver functioning. But, my main concern is the reason why he fainted at the bar. He had a seizure."
"Seizure? Is that normal?"
"For those in cirrhosis, yes. Ammonia is processed in the liver and is expelled from the body in urine. Ammonia can travel its way to the brain tissue but is removed by astrocytes. Because of the damage to his liver, he's not expelling the ammonia quick enough, which means larger amounts are getting to the brain, and it's far too much to be removed. And when there is too much ammonia, it can lead to seizures, sometimes even comas." Carlisle trailed off, leaving the information to wrack around my brain as I attempted to process it all.
I had no idea what Charlie had been doing since I left his house, and I would be a fool to think that he wouldn't revert to his old ways, but this was all too real. All the fears Carlisle told us months ago when I found Charlie on the floor was coming to a head, one that made me realize that no matter what I did or what I said, this was inevitable.
"I've stabilized him, but I don't know how long it will last until his next one, or what will even happen if he has another. For now, he's still a little foggy, but otherwise coherent. I tried to sway him to the transplant list, encouraged him to still apply, but he refused."
"I thought you said he wouldn't be approved?"
"It's unlikely. But that doesn't mean he shouldn't try. If anything, for his morale. But he seems to be very aware of his chances, and … I'm afraid he doesn't want any treatment."
"What do you mean he doesn't want it?" I asked, and Carlisle went quiet, choosing his words.
"He has filed for a DNR, in other words, a do not resuscitate."
"What? Can he do that?"
"Legally, yes," Carlisle answered. "I tried talking him out of it; he still may get a few years, even on dialysis. But, he knows his chances are low, and he'll be on the list for a while, if not for the rest of his life. He told me he didn't want that."
"So, he'd rather die?" I cried angrily, feeling a breath caught in my throat as it came up as a gasp, my hand shooting out to grip the island, stabilizing my footing.
"Bella, I know this is tough. And I know you have cut off contact with him and my nephew because of the circumstances, and I don't fault you for that. But not even Edward can get him to change his mind, and he's tried several times," The mention of Edward caused my chest to shatter, thinking of him trying to help Charlie, even during my abscense.
"What do you want me to do, Carlisle?" I asked, my voice powerless. "He doesn't want my help; he never did. What makes you think I can change his mind?"
"I don't know if you can do anything. But, I figured I had to ask."
Multiple emotions were running through me … the pain of losing my mom, the resentment of being lied to by the man I love, and my father's insistence to never do the right thing. At what point do I let go? At what point do I say enough? I was tired of holding the burden; I was tired of storing so much agony inside of me and allowing it to control every aspect of my life. Finally, I found a semblance of happiness in my job. There was light at the end of the tunnel for me but this news had all but diminished it. Why was I the one to hold Charlie accountable when he clearly had no intent on bettering himself? Why did I have to sacrifice my happiness to help him when he did nothing to help me? And despite the fear I felt, the knot in the back of my throat growing with my impending anxiety, I knew I needed to let go.
"I can't do this anymore," I whispered, shaking my head. "I'm not responsible for him."
Carlisle was quiet for a moment before he spoke, "I understand."
"Do you judge me for it?"
"No," He said pointedly. "I don't know everything that happened between the two of you, but I can put the pieces together. I'm sorry he has pushed you to this point, but I understand."
"I need to think."
"I'm here when you need me, Bella," Carlisle said as we exchanged goodbyes. Thunder rumbled in the distance as I stood alone in the kitchen. Grief washed over me as I lost my appetite, turning off the oven before disappearing into my bedroom.
April 2nd
I successfully wrapped my hair up into a messy bun as Phil and I worked together, moving filled boxes towards the front of the living room. The house had been sold, and Phil had bought a condo big enough for the both of us and closer to his job in downtown Phoenix. We had spent the last week packing everything and the movers were expected on Thursday. I explained to Phil that I would only be there temporarily, that once I have money saved, I would be finding my own place nearby. Phil was more than accommodating, telling me there was no rush. Truthfully, I believed a part of him didn't want me to leave. But I knew, in order for us to heal, we couldn't rely on each other as much. I needed my own place and so did he.
Phil began working on the garage as I made my way into the spare room, which Mom had turned it into an office. I brought empty boxes with me along with tape as I began placing items that were going in one box, and those that we were being donated into another. I leafed through some of the pages of our favorites before placing them into the box and taping it securely for the move. I then moved a cardboard box with my foot, eager to get those that were tucked in, collecting dust at the top. I needed a stool to complete this task, and even with the additional height, I was still using my tiptoes, my hand reaching up and feeling around until it landed on a thick stack of paper. Unsure of what it was, I pulled it down, inspecting what I now realized was a pile of envelopes. I stepped off the stool, noticing that there were several bunches bound by a single rubber band. I turned the front towards me as I wiped the dust off, seeing my name scratched on the front, along with my grandparent's address.
The returning address revealed that they came from Forks, and at a glance, there had to have been ten or more, all from the same handwriting with postage stamps indicating the date, some as old as the early 2000s. I moved the box out of my way, and reached for the leather chair, lowering myself into it before pulling off the rubber band. Some of them were opened, slit right down the top as others were untouched despite the dust they had collected. The one in the front was stained from white to yellow, the edges chipped and worn as if it had been handled several times. I set the others down, holding the first between my fingers, turning it to reach into the already opened back.
I pulled out the thin sheet of paper that was folded three times, dust falling from the letter and onto the desk beneath me as I read the top. It dated September 12th, 2005.
B,
This time, eleven years ago, your mother and I were stranded in our Toyota during a rainstorm. You were coming whether or not we were ready, and trust me, I was not ready. I definitely wasn't ready to deliver you by myself. But I had no choice. And even though, on that particular day, I wasn't with you the whole time, from there on out, I spent every September 13th with you. I remember on your fifth birthday, we got you a marble cake that you snuck into before breakfast. And on your ninth birthday, I took you to the batting cages where a stray ball knocked you unconscious. Your mom was furious with me, but I thought we had a good laugh about it later on. I'm sorry I can't be there for your eleventh. But like delivering you that day in the rainstorm, I have no choice in this.
I can't call you to sing to you (phone was disconnected). But, I hope I've sung it enough to you that you can imagine hearing me.
Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear, Bells. Happy birthday to you!
Love ya, kid. Sorry I couldn't be there. Hold on tight to Mr. Kitty for me.
Always,
Dad
I could feel a pit in my stomach, uneasiness churning inside of me as if someone stepped on my chest, making it difficult to breathe. How have I never seen this before? The question loomed as I realized that this letter was sent the first birthday I had after Mom packed us in the car and drove us to Phoenix. I remember receiving birthday cards from him, but never letters. Did he add these into the envelopes and I just never read them? I wasn't sure if I ever saw Charlie write a letter a day in his life, especially one that showed emotion. I fought back the tears, trying not to think of how lonely he had to have been to sit down and write this.
I tried to digest his words, and with a shaky hand, I put the first letter to the side, grabbing the next from the stack. Opening it from the back, I pulled it out easily, uncovering the letter that dated December 20th, 2005. Only a few short weeks later.
B,
I should be getting my phone turned on, and I'm going to call you soon. Maybe you can send me a letter back with your grandma's number? Thought I had it, guess I don't. How's school going? Everything is OK here. You know, I realized after I sent you the last letter for your birthday that you left Mr. Kitty here. I found him in your room under your pillow. I know how you love this damn thing; I'll keep him safe until you and Mom come home from your trip.
I got a job down at the plant. It's not much, but it's going to help. Thank god for Uncle Billy, he really helped me out. I'm thinking when you come home, we can go fishing with him and Jake. I know you hate the water, but I think it would be fun. Mom can come too if she can stand the smell.
I want you to know that I am trying really hard for you. I'm going to meetings with some special people who are going to help me. I know it's been rough for you and rough for Mom, but I got this. I'm going to get better and you guys can come back and we can be together again, because this being apart is for the damn birds. I miss you guys.
Anyways, I'm going to get us back on track. Pinky swear.
Merry Christmas, Bells. I got your presents here when you return. Love ya, kid.
Always,
Dad
I was no longer fighting the tears, feeling them drip down my cheeks as I took in a staggering breath. He was trying his best, trying to repair what he had broken while battling addiction. I remember Mom telling me he never tried to get better, that he felt it wasn't worth the time. And either she didn't know that he tried, for us, or she wrote him off despite his wanting to have his family together again.
I thought of how I left him a few months ago, how hard it was for him to show any emotion except for sarcasm and anger. But, there was a time where he was desperate to get better, for me. I reread his letter, my breathing hitching as I folded it up, moving onto the next. When I opened the envelope, there were two letters, one addressed to me and the other to my mother. The one for my mom was extremely worn as if it had been folded and unfolded hundreds of times. I set mine to the side, openings hers.
February 7th, 2006
Renee,
Point taken. You are still angry and I understand. Are you even letting Bella read these letters? Why haven't I heard back from her or you? Or are you intentionally doing this? That seems cruel, even for you. You cannot keep me away from our daughter, it's not fair. I haven't seen either of you since you left, and I've been trying my damn hardest to get on track, to stop drinking, but you are making it difficult for me. I need my family; I need my daughter. I need you, Renee. It's not the same here without you guys and I feel it every night. I'm fucking depressed, okay? What is the silence going to accomplish?
Just give me something, anything that tells me you guys are looking at these. That's all I need. Please don't keep our daughter away from me, no matter how much shit I've put the two of you through. I'm trying to be a better man, and I would like you to help me with that. I know you need your time and space and I respect it but enough is enough.
I love you. And I miss you so damn much. I miss you being here next to me; I miss the way you smell and the sound of your laugh. This house is so damn cold without you.
Please, give me something. Give me anything. Help me.
Always
Charlie
I felt my stomach twist, imagining my mother reading this and ignoring it, even as he begged. I couldn't imagine her being so callous to dismiss him when he was trying. The thought of it made me feel ill, and so not to dwell on it, I picked up my letter and unfolded it. The tone was different, he asked me more questions about school if I had been making any friends. He mentioned nothing about Mom and at the end, told me he missed me. The next envelope was immediately in my hands and just like the second one, there were two letters inside. I pried open the one for my mom, scanning the words.
March 1st, 2006
Renee,
I can't believe you are doing this. We've only been separated for six months, and you already want a divorce? Do you not even want to try? For us? For Bella? You said in your letter you are trying to protect her, but protect her from what? From me? Was I really that bad that you are trying to shield me from my own daughter? What kind of fucked up world are you living in, Renee? How is that going to accomplish anything except hurt her and me?
Yes, I relapsed, but I am back on track. You can tell Sue to mind her damn business. And I don't need you throwing it in my face every time; it wasn't that long ago you were struggling right alongside me. Maybe you're the bigger person for getting better, but this whole situation makes you just as shitty as me.
I want you to give Bella the letters, I know you haven't been. Take away your frustration and hatred for me and think about our daughter, who probably is feeling like I don't give a shit. You're lucky I'm not closer, then you wouldn't have an upper hand. You're afraid I'm going to poison her, but this whole situation is going to make her resentful.
You can't do this, Renee. You know I have nothing. I'm begging you.
Charlie
I sat there, absorbing in the words that my father wrote on the piece of paper. My fingers traced the indents of the pen, the pad of my thumb ghosting over the words I'm begging you. His second letter to her indicated that she did indeed respond, and I mulled over the words she could have written. From his response, it seemed as if she was intentionally keeping me from him, a theory that made me feel uneasy. I set the letter to the side and read my own, a stark contrast to the one for my mother. It was light-hearted, he spoke of the freak winter storm they had, of how the neighbors were doing and how his job was going. The letters following were still filled with hopefulness as he indicated several times about when Mom and I would return, even though it never happened.
Letters for Renee ceased, and he only addressed me going forward. The bulk of his letters were written and sent in 2006, sometimes even upwards to four times a month. But the closer I got to 2007, I had noticed the time between letters increasing. They became shorter, and his handwriting was messier. I had wondered if he had begun to give up, realizing that we weren't coming back. I reached the envelopes that were unopened and was down to the last two of the pile.
November 3rd, 2006
B,
Holidays are coming up. I'm hoping to see you, maybe you can convince your mom to fly you up to visit? I'd hate to spend another Christmas alone. But that's not your fault. Did you get the birthday card? I know it's not much, but I saw it at the store when I was picking up things and the picture of the cat made me think of you.
Love ya, kid.
P.S. found this in the kitchen drawer, thought you'd like to have it.
Always,
Dad
I peeked into the envelope, reaching for the small polaroid picture that was faded from time, but still showing a younger Charlie laying in the same recliner he has owned since 94', fast asleep with an infant on his chest, the two bundled up together. At the bottom in black ink were four words scribbled across.
Me and you, kid.
The tears slipped from the corner of my eyes; my breathing ragged as I brought the picture closer. How could she have done this to him? I was lost, confused, unsure of what to believe as I was left to piece together a story that I knew nothing about. I wiped my nose with the sleeve of my sweater and with a shaky hand, grabbed the last letter in the pile. I turned it, my fingernail sliding underneath the seal as I pried it open, pulling out the last piece of paper.
December 25th, 2007
B,
I'm sorry I'm not with you today. Shitty hand I was dealt, huh? I don't think your mom is changing her mind. Don't know if you'll even read this.
For what it's worth, I didn't want this life.
I wish I could change it all for the two of you, but I think I've screwed it all up. I know I put you guys through hell. I wish I could take it back.
I hope you do great things. Better things that I could only ever dream about. I think you can.
Look after yourself and don't take shit from anyone.
Love ya, kid. Pinky swear.
Always,
Dad
The old Grandfather clock in the corner ticked by painstakingly slow as I sat, paralyzed, the letters scattered around me, the photo of my father and I still clutched in my fingers. The questions I had were unending, and I wasn't sure I would ever receive an answer as they died right along with my mother. Still, I was reeling, a crack in my chest unearthing a feeling I had lost long ago for Charlie. Pity. It was clear that not only did he want me in his life but that our distance pained him and that my mother was unwilling to forgive his sins to let me around. And for the first time since her death, I found myself genuinely angry with her.
"Bella, you hungry for lunch –" Phil rounded the corner, stopping at the doorframe, his eyes surveying the mess I had created. "What are those?"
I swallowed hard. "Letters. From Charlie."
Phil's face paled, the realization setting in of what I had found. I knew immediately that these letters were no secret to him. And once again, I felt my heart drop, the lies that everyone surrounded me in almost too thick to look past.
"Did you know about these?" I questioned my voice breaking. Phil stayed silent, leaning against the doorframe as he exhaled, scrubbing his hands over his eyes. "Did you know about these, Phil?" I asked again, my voice louder as I stood from the chair. His arm fell, his body pushing off the frame as he walked towards me. He looked down at the letters, nodding his head as he rubbed his chin.
"I knew," He answered, his voice low. I looked around at the letters that were scattered, picking up different ones while still holding the polaroid in my hand.
"Why am I just now seeing these? Over ten years later?"
"She didn't want you to see them. I thought she got rid of them."
"Why was she hiding these from me?" My voice was low, unveiling my anger and frustration. Phil shook his head, looking at me as if he were just as lost as I was. Because the only two people who had all the answers were either dead or a thousand miles away. "She purposefully kept them from me, hid them away while Charlie begged to see me."
"She was protecting you."
"Bullshit!" I spat. Phil sighed again, holding his hands up in surrender as I held a threatening stance, angry at my mother, angry at him for keeping me away from the truth. "It's one lie after the next … I'm tired of being told something other than the truth. I'm tired of people keeping things from me because they think it's for the better. It's not fair."
"It's not."
"Then tell me why. You must know something … She had to tell you something … you knew about the letters. Why did she do this? Why did she keep me from him and lead me to believe that he didn't give a shit?"
"The letters came before me, Bella. By the time I was in the picture, he had stopped trying," He answered. "Your mother…" He paused, hesitating. "Your mother was trying to protect you. I'm not saying it was right, but that's what she felt. And you know how she got when she felt passionate about something," He countered, something I could relate to. Mom stuck to her beliefs no matter what, very rarely wavering. "She told me about the letters, she felt guilty keeping them from you, but she thought if she gave them to you, you would want to see him. And she didn't want you to get hurt. After all the shit he put you through, can you blame her?"
"She is not a victim in this, Phil," I growled, angrily. "Before her sobriety, she was just as bad."
"I'm not saying she is a victim, but she got through it. She got better, and he didn't. He chose not to and that's what she was protecting you from."
"But he did try! He went to meetings and got sober! She had no right," I stifled a cry, shaking my head. "This whole time, all these letters and I had no idea. Why would she lie to me?" Resting my face in my palms, my stomach felt nauseous, my throat choking on the cries I tried to keep quiet. "Everything is so messed up. All of this," I sobbed, looking up at him.
What I said next was calculated. If no one would be honest with me, then I needed to be honest with them. There was no more tiptoeing around this issue, no more hiding it to spare feelings.
"Did you know that Charlie was here? He came to Phoenix before she died," I admitted, releasing the secrets I knew to absolve myself of this pain. But Phil was quiet, staying still and unmoving as he watched me just before looking away as if he were aching. "That's the reason I left Forks… Because I found out. I found out Charlie lied to me. He came here when he was drunk out of his mind, begging for her to come back. And he said something that triggered her, he said something that made her relapse and that's why she died!" I choked, feeling the words gurgle in my throat as I took in a sharp inhale of breath, wiping away my tears as I cursed, standing from the chair and pushing it angrily away from me.
I ended up by the window, leaning against the sill as the warmth leaked into the room, tingling my skin. I groaned against my palms, scrubbing away at the wetness of my cheeks, frustrated at exposing myself in my most vulnerable way, even to Phil. I turned to him, his eyes watching me cautiously, but mercifulness behind them.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"What was the point? It would only hurt you."
"Then, can't you see why your mother kept the truth from you?"
"It's not the same, and you know it," I bit furiously. "If Charlie had said something to set her off, telling you wouldn't change anything. She's dead, and there is no bringing her back. I missed out on years with my father, who was alive, because she didn't want me around him."
Phil thought on this for a moment, staying still until he nodded his head. "You left Forks because you thought Charlie had something to do with her death?" He asked in clarification. I stayed silent. "Charlie isn't at fault, Bella. He didn't put the pills in her mouth."
"He might as well have."
"No," Phil shook his head. "It feels like that, but there was… So much more going on. Things you don't even know," He said as I scoffed, the irony of him telling me I was unaware of other variables not surprising. "I know, Bella. I know he came here," He whispered, crossing his arms over his chest. I watched him, dumbfounded at his words.
"You know?"
"Yes. I know," He grabbed the chair on the other side, settling down as he rested his arms onto the desk, watching me with soft, gray eyes. A sadness wafted within him, as if he was struggling just as much as me. "It wasn't just the one time … Him showing up wasn't out of the blue. I don't really know how it started or who started it. But … Your mother and I were not in a good spot. She had a few rough months at work and with your Gram, and I was away a lot. You moved out and she was just … lonely. I should have paid more attention to the signs," He paused, stewing in the guilt of his own words before clearing his throat, reining back his attention. "She blamed me for abandoning her, told me she was struggling and I blew her off. I thought she was just being dramatic; it wasn't unlike her to make a huge thing out of something small. But then, I found messages from him on her phone and confronted her. She admitted they had been talking for weeks. She said she just needed someone to listen to her."
"Was it romantic?"
"I don't think so," Phil hesitated, unsure of the answer. "I don't know … And I don't think I want to know. At least, not on her end," He admitted as I continued to lean against the still, staring at my clasped hands. "She told me she got caught up in the past, that her loneliness made her do things she wouldn't normally do. I thought it was a bunch of bull, but I don't know if I blamed her for it. She was right; I ignored her when she needed me. I thought she was just going through a down time; she's had them before. And when I confronted her, she cut it off, but the damage was done. We were separated for a while after that."
"What?" I hissed, thinking briefly back to the few times I caught him without his wedding ring, chalking it up to him working in the garage or just coming from the shower. "How long?"
"It wasn't long. A few months, maybe. We were working through it, and she tried, but I knew she was still depressed. I begged her to see a therapist but she blew it off every time," He scratched at his scruff, rubbing at his eyes as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I didn't know she was using again. I suspected it, but I didn't know. I confronted her and she ignored me. And when Charlie showed up … She told me about it, told me she sent him away, to wherever it was … She found out he ended up in jail and begged me to bail him out. And that's how it was with her. She was angry one minute, and then filled with guilt the next. She was always up and down, Bella, especially at the end."
I stayed quiet, motionless, because I couldn't deny what he was hinting at. My mother was a free spirit; she marched to the beat of her own drum, something that I was envious of. She was fiery, passionate, headstrong, and stubborn. But as quick as she was to show those traits, it was just as quick for her to change them. If things weren't going her way, or if someone had said or done something she didn't like, she was defensive … argumentative, sometimes even emotional for no reason. She had bipolar tendencies, something I wondered if she was born with or had gradually adopted over time, especially with her addictions. I had mulled over these thoughts for some years, especially when I was at the other end of her anger. It didn't happen often, but enough for me to notice the red flags.
I leaned myself off of the sill, walking back to the desk as I sat down into the chair, slumping forward to rest my elbows on my knees, resting my forehead in my palm as I tried to absorb all of the information, digest it in any way I knew how.
"After Charlie left, I barely saw her."
"I barely saw her," I admitted, remembering the last month of her life, no defined memory of when we had last spoken. It was more than likely something casual, maybe a text message or a quick phone call … nothing of significant importance, which left me feeling empty.
"Your mother was an addict, Bella. And she got over it. But she relapsed. I don't think she meant to kill herself. I think she was sad, and she used the pills to help her and she became careless," He whispered as fresh tears made their way down my swollen checks, a choking sob escaping me. "I know she didn't want it around you. And she didn't want it around me. She distanced herself from us to save us from the truth."
"It isn't fair. None of this is fair."
"I know."
"Why didn't she want me to help her?"
"I don't know," He answered honestly, tears slipping out of the corner of his eyes.
"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you explain this all to me after she died?" I questioned.
"Like you said: What was the point? Nothing would bring her back. And I thought it would bring more heartbreak than clarity. I didn't want you to think she was a liar, and I didn't want you to resent her for everything. That's why she cut us off. She was trying to get better," He explained as I shook my head.
"It was just a lie. It was all a lie; everyone has lied to me. She lied to me about Charlie and he lied to me about her. Edward lied about what he knew and so did you."
"Edward?" He questioned; the name unfamiliar to him. I bit my tongue, cursing at myself for slipping up.
"It was … a friend, in Forks. He was Charlie's sponsor," I explained. "We got close, and he knew Charlie was down here, but he didn't say anything to me."
"I know you feel lied to, and I get it; all I can do is apologize. Our intention, even speaking for everyone else, was not to hurt you. It was actually the opposite. It was to shield you from a horrible truth that would only cause you pain. Your mother was sick, Bella. Addiction is a disease and it was winning. It killed her," He trailed off, watching me intently. I stayed still, thinking back to when I found her, thinking of how she left me. The memory would stay with me forever, etched into my mind like a scar. Despite the lies and the agony it put me through, I knew that in the pit of my soul, their intentions were good — even Charlie's.
"It's killing him," I answered as Phil watched me with a fixed stare. "I got a call from his doctor a few days ago. He's dying."
"Why are you here, Bella?" Phil challenged.
"I don't think I can face him," I whispered honestly. "Not after everything I said before I left. And now, the letters …"
"That's a bullshit answer, and you know it," He huffed, shaking his head. His tone had turned glacial, his stance stilling as his eyes glared at me. "Haven't you learned anything from your mother's death?"
"Don't compare it," I warned him.
"We had the signs with her that we chose to ignore. And we acted surprised when she died, but my instincts told me she was using again, and I disregarded them. The last few months of her life were spent arguing and fighting over things so superficial and I wish every day that I could get just a minute back with her to tell her I love her. To forget about everything that happened and just hold her and tell her how much I cared. Because at the end of the day, that was all she needed," His tone had turned sad, his eyes pleading as I felt it in my core, his words resonating with me despite my walls trying to cast them out. "You don't get by in life staying resentful, Bella. Learn to let things that don't matter go. I'm not telling you to forget, but you need to forgive."
I fell silent, staring at the letters scattered in front of me across the mahogany wood, the paper faded from white to yellow from age. The man who wrote these letters was different on the outside from the man I took care of in Forks. The man in the letters was desperate to be with his daughter while the other was desperate for her to stay out of his business. He had grown a thick skin, coming to terms with the fact that I was gone from his life. He thought it was a choice I had made freely when in reality, I never knew he cared. It was painful growing up, feeling as if you weren't worth the time and effort for a parent to fight for you. That's how it was with Charlie, before I knew of these letters.
He tried. He was unsuccessful, but he tried.
I thought back to when I arrived in Forks, the shock and irritation that clouded over us as we both tried to find a middle ground. The man who wrote those letters was gone from sight, huffing when I tried to help, but slivers of a paternal nature shined through, even if just for a second. It was the small moments that made me realize that despite the history, he still cared.
We grew closer, despite my uneasiness towards it. I forced myself to help him out of the memory of my mother. But even I could admit that my fight was to ensure I wouldn't lose two parents, something I realized I was failing at miserably. Take my anger and my resentment away and I still had a dying father. I acted as if I didn't care, as if losing him would be nothing more than losing something unremarkable.
That's not me.
The thought made my hands shake as I held them close to me, trying to soothe the nausea that crept at the bottom of my stomach, licking the back of my throat.
"Bella," Phil interrupted my thoughts, bringing me to attention. His features were soft as if he could sense my conflict. Slowly, he stood, staring down at me with a look of compassion.
"Don't let your last words to him be in anger. Trust me, that's a guilt you don't want to have on your shoulders. You need to let it go. You need to be with him."
April 3rd
It was nearing evening when I reached my terminal and found a secluded seat near the large windows, the Arizona sunset painting the sky red. While I knew I was doing the right thing, I still felt hesitant. The lies that had surrounded me were still sensitive to grapple with and I instinctively wanted to remain angry. Phil would say that even though he loved my mother wholeheartedly, that was the worst of her traits. She spent time holding grudges that weren't necessary and not worth the time. He begged me not to give in to the same feelings and remember that forgiveness is warm and needed.
I had looked up just as a plane took off, and just a few feet in front of me, a father and his daughter watched in delight, the two pointing to the plane as it caught air, flying into the clouds. The man kissed her on her chubby cheek before pulling her into his arms, taking her back to the mother who watched them from the seat nearby, a loving smile gracing her lips. I watched them for a moment longer, as if to torture myself, as the father held the child on his lap, the mother reaching over to kiss the top of her head. I looked away from the private moment, a twist in my stomach longing for something I never had. A few text messages came in from Phil, as if he could sense my dilemma. You can do this. I wrote a short thank you before opening my contacts, my lips pressing together as I tapped my thumb along the side of my phone.
I scrolled through the list of names, stopping just short of the one I knew I needed to call. I pressed down, the call screen appearing as I brought it to my ear. It rang only a few times until it was picked up, a familiar voice coming through.
"Dr. Cullen," He said, his tone short.
"Carlisle," I said after a beat, my voice shaky.
"Bella?"
"How is he?" I asked, leaning my elbows onto my knees as I closed my eyes, hoping I wasn't too late. The thought set an anxiety inside of me that until now, I didn't realize I had. What if I was too late? What if the last words he heard from me were in anger? What if we never had a chance to make our peace, and just like my mother, words were left unspoken?
"He's here tonight," He began, an audible breath releasing from my lips. "He wanted to be at home, but he was in a lot of pain. I've got him on morphine to relax him, but I'm afraid it's not looking good, Bella."
"Do you think …" I paused, holding in a staggering breath at the realization that I would soon lose him too. I just only hoped I could make it in time. "Do you think he can make it until tomorrow?" Just as I asked my question, the speaker above came to life.
Alaskan Airline, flight 990 from Phoenix to Seattle, is to start boarding in ten minutes.
"I'll let him know to wait, if he can," Carlisle's tone had softened, a comfort relieving the nerves that were alight like live wires. "Do you need me to pick you up, or can I send someone?" There was meaning in his tone and I knew to who he was referring. The possibility of seeing Edward had never left my mind; in fact, it was a welcomed thought, despite my anger. But, I wasn't sure I could handle him being the first one I saw. I needed to get to Charlie.
"No, I'm going to rent a car at the airport. I should be in around midnight. Will it be okay if I come straight to the hospital?"
"Of course. I'll be here for you when you arrive," Carlisle and I ended the conversation, the phone screen disappearing as my voicemail box appeared, the red bubble with the number one beckoning for me to touch it.
I missed his voice, missed his presence. I was reminded of Phil's words about not holding grudges … to learn to let things go. And I wanted to let my anger go. Starting with Charlie, and ending with Edward. Hesitantly, I grazed over it before pressing down, the message coming to life as his voice filtered through the receiver, immediately bringing tears to my eyes.
"Bella, I don't even know where to start. God, I," He stopped, tripping over his words as his tone sounded dejected, strained. I missed him so much. "I'm so sorry for everything. I should have told you the moment I realized what happened, I know I should have. And I know you are trying to wrap your head around the reasons I didn't, but I trusted when I shouldn't have. And I know if it were me, I'd need space to think too. I know you are hurting … But, I hope you know… I hope you know that no matter what, I never wanted that."
"I never wanted you to doubt me and, shit," Tears had appeared in my eyes as I heard him choke up, wiping away the ones that escaped down my cheek. "I need you to know there is more to the story. Things that Charlie doesn't want to tell you, but I don't want to lie to you anymore. I'll tell you anything you want to hear. I just need you to call me back. Just, call me back. I love you."
AN: I hope this extra long chapter makes up for my three month hiatus! I apologize for the abrupt departure. I had a lot of personal things going on that kept me away from writing.
Thank you to you all who continue to support me and this story. Those who favorite, follow and review - I am so in love with each of you!
To Fran, who always gives me the best feedback on how to improve.
Only two more chapters and an epilogue left.
Until next time,
ii