Happy Saturday, people!
Usual housekeeping first:
1. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all your reviews and alerts. I love hearing your thoughts and theories.
2. Also thank you to Team Momo, who work tirelessly to help me make this readable. My stories wouldn't exist without them and I'm so grateful they're in my corner. Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar are in the editing chairs. AGoodWitch, IAmBeagle, Driving Edward and RobsmyyummyCabanaBoy pre-read.
3. I still don't own - SM does. But I do own the recipe for the chocolate and mint marble cake, for the spinach and ricotta pasta, and for the Cake Fairy's chocolate cake.
The dinner of misfits was, by all accounts, a big success.
Ready for the next? Here we go.
Word of caution: remember that blanket trigger warning I gave with the Prologue? This is where it starts to matter.
BEHIND THE IVORIES – CHAPTER 21
"I give up," Bella announces when I answer her call. No greeting, no preamble.
It's a Friday afternoon in April, a week after the dinner of misfits at my loft. One of those early spring sunny days that make you want to ditch work and go take a nap in Boston Common. This is why I'm trying to focus on signing off on the remaining features for our June issue before a) I fall asleep at my desk, and b) the magazine goes to print without me. Bella's call becomes a perfect excuse to take a breather.
"Hey, Ladybug. Hello to you, too. What are we giving up on, exactly?" I'm being sarcastic with my greeting, but by now, I know she can decipher my tone. She's cracked the Cullen code.
"Sorry, Edward. Hello. That was rude. Are you busy? I can call you back later if you are." She adds that on as an afterthought, with one of those shy whispers of hers. They've become rarer of late, at least when she talks to me. I can't speak to the millions of words she bestows on the rest of the world.
"I'm trying to be more domesticated." And frustrated, based on the irritation seeping through her voice.
"What does the domestication of Bella Swan involve?"
"Yeah, yeah. Laugh at me, Betty Crocker."
"You had no problem eating my food last week, and now you're insulting my talents. I could be offended. Instead, I'm intrigued." Because I'm wondering what has the laces of her Chucks all in a twist.
"I'm taking my frustration out on you, aren't I?"
I harrumph into the phone, then answer verbally. "You're venting. I'm here, and I'm listening. That's how it works. So, what are we frustrated about?"
"Grrr. I've been trying to learn to cook. Feeding oneself independently seems to be a key element of domestication."
"And how is that going?"
"I murdered my microwave. It buzzed, got smoky, and it made a weird 'kerplunk' sound. Then, nothing. I need an intervention."
I want to snicker at the thought of Bella's wonderful kitchen engulfed in smoke, but I refrain. It would send the wrong message. "Did that trigger the fire alarm? Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine. But now I need a new microwave."
"No, you need a teacher."
"Well, how would I go about it? Call 1-800-MARTHA-STEWART?"
"No. But you have my number, right?"
"Duh. I'm calling you." Silence descends for a spell. "Oh. Oh! Would you? Do you? Edward?"
"Yes, Ladybug?"
"Would you really teach me? Basics? Nothing fancy?" She sounds incredulous and enthusiastic at the same time. I'd give my Peabody award to see her face right now.
"Yes. We'll start from ABC. Come over tonight for dinner. You're cooking."
"I don't want to be responsible for landing the editor of the Tatler in the hospital with salmonella," she protests.
"You won't. I'll be there teaching you. No salmonella."
She sighs, then replies, sounding more determined and less guilty for asking me a favor. "What time?"
"Seven okay?"
And that's how I start giving Bella cooking lessons.
&&&IVORIES&&&
That night, Bella knocks on my door at exactly one minute after seven.
"How come you didn't ring the intercom?"
She walks inside, then throws her black leather jacket and matching scarf on the back of the couch. "I have Jake's code for the front door."
"You little unauthorized intruder." But it makes sense that Jake would give her access to the building and, I suspect, to his own loft too. "I do have a coat closet, you know?"
She shrugs. While she makes her way into the kitchen, I'm left to look at her retreating back and at the loose, ethereal cloud of her riotous hair softly dancing on her shoulders as she walks. Loose clutter tends to unnerve me, but I shake off the passing irritation and follow her.
She sits at the breakfast bar, but that's not how this is going to work.
"Nope. Come around here, Ladybug. You gotta work for your dinner tonight. Hop off that stool and join me."
She complies. A diverted smile shines on her face and crinkles up those chocolate and whiskey eyes of hers. They're shining even brighter in the mellow light of the old-fashioned looking LED bulbs in my kitchen.
I retrieve an apron from the towel bar on the side of the island and pass it to Bella. "We're about to get messy. I suggest covering up."
She gives me a once-over. I'm not wearing an apron. Not after Mac hid all the sensible, non-descript ones I had and replaced them with a vinyl monstrosity showing a full-frontal reproduction of Michelangelo's David's crotch.
"I'm highly trained in this; you're not."
She huffs and eyes me with skepticism oozing from all her pores; her gaze shifts from me and my apron-less self and the vinyl monstrosity. Then she relents. "Only because you're being so kind and teaching me. But it's under duress. What the hell is this thing anyway?"
I can't help but snicker a little at this. She's adorable, and she doesn't even have to try. "The short explanation to that would be 'Mac'."
"That tracks," she answers. "What are we cooking tonight?"
"You, Ladybug, are cooking spaghetti tonight. Nothing elaborate. Do you like spicy foods?" I don't ask about garlic because I saw her add it to her salad last week.
"The spicier, the better."
"Then this is perfect. Spaghetti aglio, olio, e peperoncino. Quick, easy, and spicy."
A second later, sparkles of recognition dawn on her face. After all, she did live in Milan for a while. "Oh! Oil, garlic, and hot peppers. I love it! This is going to be so much fun! What do I do? What do I do?"
I proceed to list my instructions, and she follows. Ten minutes later, the water's boiling, and the condiment ingredients are ready to be sautéed in olive oil.
"Time to throw in the spaghetti. Open the box."
She does, then starts sliding the uncooked noodles out of it.
Before we have a pasta spillage disaster, I need to stop her. "Slowly. You don't want it to end up all on the floor."
"Right. Do I break it in two before throwing it in?"
Oh, for fuck's sake. "You did not just ask me that."
She turns to me; baffled doesn't even begin to describe her expression. "Don't you have to break them in half, so they'll fit in the pot?"
"Don't let anyone in Italy hear you say that, for the love of pizza. No, we don't break them. Just let them slide gradually into the pot from the box. You won't end up with loose spaghetti on the floor or on the counter. Then, slowly, start stirring with the wooden fork. As the noodles soften, they'll fit."
Bella looks at the pot of boiling pasta as if it's a crater full of bubbling lava, then grabs the box of spaghetti. "Slowly, right?"
"In musical terms, go for adagio, maestro."
She nods, walking closer to the pot, and gently slides the opened box upside down. "Adagio. I can do that."
It's a tense thirty seconds while she dumps spaghetti in the pot at an excruciating, slow-as-molasses speed. But when she's done, there are no wayward noodles outside the pot, and she looks as proud as punch.
"I did it!"
"You did! Now stir before they stick together."
She starts stirring. Her movements, so graceful when she's at the piano, are disjointed and tentative. After a few minutes of that, she grimaces. "Some are still sticking together."
"It happens. Pour in a few drops of olive oil, and then stir again."
"Oil and water, who would've thought. Now, what do I do? Keep stirring?"
"Nope. We have sauce to make. Keep an eye on the pot, don't cover it, and come over here."
In the ten, twelve minutes it takes for the spaghetti to cook, she manages to follow the rest of my instructions to a T. The little saucepan with sizzling oil, garlic, and whole chilies smells amazing. But when the kitchen timer buzzes, Bella almost jumps.
"Oh, goodness! I almost forgot. It's ready, right? Do I just drain it?"
"You should taste it. The trick is to set the timer at the early end of the cooking time they give you on the box, so you can taste test it for doneness. If it's still too chewy, you can let it go for another minute or so."
She tries to grab one piece of spaghetti with the big wooden fork, but the noodles keep falling off. "How the hell do I do this without ending up with second-degree burns?"
I teach her a trick to do that, then she tastes the spaghetti and declares them done.
"Now you drain them," I instruct.
"The sauce?" she asks, panic etched on her face.
"I turned it off for you, but remember to check what you've got going."
"Okay, okay. Draining. I can do this." She looks alternatively at the pot and at her hands. Then, she eyes the kitchen sink as if it stood at the other end of an impassable ravine. "Can I do that without dropping the pot?"
"Try to grab it. If it's too heavy, I'll do it for you."
She huffs. "This is nonsensical. I can't call you every time I need to drain pasta. Let me try."
I shrug, but then step in when she looks unsteady on her feet. She's clearly not used to this.
"I'll do it. This time. Then we'll buy you one of those self-draining pots, okay?"
"Sounds good. I'm hungry!"
When we sit down to eat the delicious pasta we cooked together, it's with a side of great conversation and laughter … and it's not just my fingers that sizzle from the inside. The air around us sizzles. That night, I go to bed wondering what this is between us.
But I wake up screaming and in a cold sweat. Another nightmare.
&&&IVORIES&&&
At the rhythm of two to three lessons a week, Bella's taken to cooking like a fish to water. By mid-May, she's fairly confident in cooking pasta dishes, easy fish and meat entrees, and now she wants to tackle desserts. Figures, the chocoholic wants to learn to bake.
On this late Friday afternoon, she'll be in the driver's seat for Esme Platt-Cullen's chocolate cake.
Yes—that chocolate cake.
She doesn't even ring the doorbell or the intercom anymore. She just knocks when she arrives, just to make sure she isn't catching me with my pants down—her words, not mine. I gave her my door codes last week. Hell, if she has Jake's, she might as well have mine too.
When I open the door, she's standing there with an insulated bag and a blinding smile. Now that spring temperatures and flowers are finally blooming in Boston, she's ditched the scarf and gloves. In fact, today, she's sporting a vintage Led Zeppelin T-shirt, her regulation black jeans, and purple Chucks.
"Spring has sprung! Can't you just smell it in the air?"
"Who bathed you in sugar this morning?"
She pulls a face at my sarcastic retort, then makes herself at home. "Jeez, we're baking a cake today; you should sound happier, Mr. Editor. Who got your drafts in a bunch this week?"
"Bah. Nobody in particular—same shit, different day. But you're peppy today. What's gotten into you?"
"Two words, Edward. Chocolate. Cake."
Of course. She's looking forward to the treat, but she has no idea what she'll find once she bites into it … in about two hours. I've already warned her it takes a while to bake a cake.
"What's in the bag?"
"I cooked dinner. I followed your recipe," she declares proudly. She sets it on the kitchen island, then opens it. It smells amazing.
"From the fragrance wafting from that Pyrex casserole … that should be some sort of chicken dish."
"Bravo!" There's a glint of mischief in her proud smile. "Chicken piccata. But I made a little customization."
She's getting confident to the point of experimenting. That fills me with a new kind of pride—I taught her that. "What did you change?"
By now, she moves around my kitchen with ease and replies to my query while she's setting the casserole on the counter. No sense in putting it in the fridge now, if it's going be our dinner, plus, it's still piping hot. She must have taken a rideshare over here instead of walking.
"So, the recipe called for chicken stock, which I didn't have. But I had the butt-end of a bottle of white wine, so I figured why not? Still liquid, right?"
"It's a nice tart flavor; it should go well with the capers. And it won't be enough for us to get drunk on it. Plus, it evaporated in cooking."
"That's what I thought! See, I'm learning this. The other change: I had some olives lying around, and I figured capers would go with olives. So here we are. Chicken piccata with olives."
I whistle in appreciation. She's truly getting the hang of cooking. "That was quite possibly a stroke of genius, Ladybug."
"Thank you," she exclaims, launching herself into my arms. And again, my skin tingles when she's so close.
"Ready to bake?"
She grabs her apron—by now, she has her own—and nods. "Can I snitch the chocolate?"
"You should know better than to ask such questions."
She shakes her head, laughing. "You're no fun. You're worse than that guy who shouts all the time. What's his face?"
"The Brit?" Then a realization dawns on me. "Are you watching cooking shows? Trying to replace me already?"
She huffs, but she's smiling preoccupied. "What if I am? I'm widening my culinary horizons; so there. This cake?"
"It won't bake itself. Now, we start by reading the recipe and measuring out ingredients …"
&&&IVORIES&&&
"Can't I have a taste now?"
Two hours later, all told, the cake's out of the oven, and it's looking perfect. Someone's impatient to taste it.
"No. Let it rest for a while. Do you want to burn your tongue? It's still scorching, Bella."
"You're being mean to me," she whines. Separate this girl from her chocolate fix and you'll have a fight on your hands.
"Aren't you hungry? Don't you want to taste that fantastic-smelling chicken piccata you made?"
She looks at me in disbelief, as if I just sprouted an extra head somewhere. "Well, yes. I am hungry, for chocolate."
I can't resist a roaring laugh. She drives me nuts. The good kind of nuts. "You know, you're not modeling good behavior for Miss Bea."
Shrug. "Who gives a fuck? Bea isn't here. Give me my chocolate, you cruel man!"
Because she dives across the island for the cake, I grab it before she can and turn my back to her. But she runs around the counter and tries to snatch the cake pan from me. It's no mean feat to resist her; for such a small physique, she can be quite combative. The chocolate cake is providing her prime motivation to fight me off. The skirmish ends with us both laughing, in between epithets at each other and varied protestations of cruelty—from Bella.
Our childish antics get louder and noisier and almost drown the buzz of the intercom. Almost. We sober up, but Bella's still wheezing.
"I can't believe I battled you for cake."
"Actually, that sounds like you to a T. Let me see who the interloper is." When I walk to the intercom, a smiling Mac is pulling funny faces at the security camera. "We've picked up a stray," I announce, buzzing him in.
"Let me guess. Mac?"
I nod. "This should be interesting. Wonder what's up with him."
She shrugs again. "Should I set three plates for dinner?"
"Might as well. Heaven knows he has a talent for inviting himself if food is involved."
Five minutes later, a perfunctory knock on the door announces Mac's boisterous arrival. "Hey, Ed. Hey, piano girl. Well, isn't this cozy?"
"Cooking lesson, Mac. Cooking lesson." Bella warns him with a look that could refreeze all over again the entire ice cap melted by climate change.
"Jesus, now you're hanging out with Ed, you're sounding more and more like Gordon Ramsay," he quips.
"That's the guy!" Bella exclaims. "The chef—the one who's always screaming!" Then she turns to Mac. "That was unfair and mean. Take it back."
"Oh, come on, I was joking," he replies.
"If you don't take it back, there won't be any cake for you." She has him there. Mac will never pass on cake.
He drums his fingers on the counter, looks first at me, then at Bella. "You're not giving up, are you?"
She shakes her head. "Nope. More chocolate cake for me if you don't cave."
Mac stomps his foot on the floor. A legitimate toddler tantrum in full effect. And the man is thirty-seven. "But I want cake. Also, why is there cake, and why wasn't I invited?"
"Do you take it back?" She's worse than a dog with a bone. Maybe she should start interviewing people.
"Fine, I take it back. You're not a jerk like Ramsay. Now, do I get cake?" He finally sits down at the island, and Bella pushes toward him the table setting she set up for him. "Thanks. What's the occasion?"
"Maybe you should start with another question," I suggest, "such as, what the heck are you doing here on a Friday night?"
He turns serious all of a sudden. "Oh, that."
"Yes, that," Bella interjects. "It better be a good reason for cutting into my allotted dose of chocolate cake."
While Mac mulls over his answer, I grab plates and the casserole dish, and pass them on to Bella for plating.
Then I open the fridge and call out to Bella and Mac. "What are we drinking, people? Water? Beer? Coke?"
"No lemonade?" Bella asks. When I shake my head, she concedes. "Water's fine, then."
"Mac, beer?"
He nods as I pass Bella a glass and the purified water pitcher. The concerned look is back. "Yes, booze will do me nicely. Thanks, Ed."
We dig into the chicken piccata, and for a few minutes, talk evaporates into enthusiastic food-related noises.
"Man, this is fucking delicious! Ed, your recipe?"
Bella blushes, but doesn't correct Mac. "No, brother. It's all Bella's cooking tonight, cake included."
"Holy fuck, piano girl!"
"Yeah, yeah. I learned to cook. All thanks to Edward, though. He's had the patience to teach me."
I bump my shoulder into hers. "The chicken piccata is all you, Ladybug. Credit where it's due."
"Thank you," she whispers, leaning into me. It's another of those shy whispers, but it sounds tender this time. Intimate, almost. If it weren't for my photo editor chowing down chicken like there's no tomorrow in the background.
Which brings on my next question. "So, Mac, what's up? What brings you here? Other than dinner?"
His fork clatters to the granite counter of the breakfast bar. I'm just hoping this time he'll actually answer the question. He looks uneasy for a moment, then moves his fork back on to his placemat, dabs the napkin at his chops, and finally heaves a deep, nervous sigh. "I'm going out on a date."
"And that's newsworthy because …?" Bella asks, not without some sass to her voice.
"Because I'm going out on a date with your friend Miss Whitlock."
Silence—deafening, leaden silence—engulfs us. For ten seconds, maybe? Then Bella recovers. "So, who asked whom? I have a bet going with Jake. Don't let me down, Mac."
Mac groans. "You knew?"
Bella pats his forearm affectionately. "She's my closest friend. You think she wouldn't tell me? But, since I'm so considerate, I didn't pester you. Happy now?"
He snorts into his beer. "Yeah, you're so considerate you're betting on my dating life. I swear it's always the quiet ones. Boy, I came here for words of wisdom, and this is all I get. Can I get cake, at least?"
That's when it hits me Mac may have hoped to catch me alone for a heart-to-heart. I figured things would evolve between Ross and him when she made a point of apologizing personally to him, but the rest wasn't my damn business. So, I let sleeping—or dating—dogs lie. "How's that for words of wisdom, Mac? Are you happy with that? Can you live with that, regardless of who asked whom?"
He knows my short question hints at much more. It refers back to our discussion so many weeks ago. With a steadying sigh, he sits up, then looks at me. There's a new light shining in his eyes. "You know what, Ed? Yes, I can live with that."
"Good. Now, chocolate cake, anyone?" Bella asks.
It's the moment of truth. She's slicing it. Now she hands out a slab of it to Mac; of course, it'd be a slab—after he negotiated with her for five solid minutes. Then she passes me another slice of more humane proportions. She takes the third slice after carefully cutting one of her desired size.
She's chewing on her first bite and moaning. Strangely, Mac isn't making any lewd jokes about it because he's also munching on it. He's also just thrown me one of his "oh shit, you didn't" looks.
I did. I most certainly did.
She swallows that bite. To me, it feels like a boulder rolling onto my shoulders. She takes another bite. She mulls it over—again. Another slight moan.
"Oh my God … But this is … You are …"
There's no escaping, no lying now.
"Yes, Ladybug. I'm the Cake Fairy."
She blinks again. Then the smile she gives me dispels all my anxiety, all my doubts. She's okay with that. Her only answer is a whispered, "Thank you."
"Yes, yes. We've discovered Betty Crocker's secret identity. But what's with that 'Ladybug' you keep throwing around, Ed?"
Mac, as usual, has to ruin the moment.
&&&IVORIES&&&
"I can't believe it was you!" she exclaims the next morning when we meet again.
It's not disbelief coloring her voice. It's one of her go-to expressions: "I can't believe [insert unbelievable thing]!" But it's not disbelief; it's not skepticism either. With Bella, it's more wonderment. It's childlike awe for all the shades of what's possible under the sun. She's a self-avowed radical optimist, as she stated in Jasper's stellar interview last January.
Today, her "I can't believe" refers, obviously, to last night's big reveal.
"You're not upset about it?"
"Are you kidding me? No, why would I be?"
I shrug, not quite sure how to answer her. "Let me phrase it this way. Plain and simple, I kept it from you. I should have told you sooner."
She shakes her head, still giggling over the whole thing. "You told me. That's what matters," she states. She's throwing my own words back at me, so I can't even argue with that. "Why did you do that?"
Since we started our cooking lessons, our Friday dinners have morphed into shopping the farmers' market together on Saturday mornings. And it's among this kaleidoscope of colors, fragrances, flavors, and voices that we're having this informal confession of sorts. We stop here and there to look at the stalls, accept samples from vendors, and take sips from our drinks of choice, but the conversation flows parallel to our actions, undeterred by the noise that surrounds us.
"We had a rocky start, you and I. Didn't we?"
She nods, then starts replying, but I beg her to pause. She relents and motions for me to continue.
"When I learned you love chocolate, I thought I'd do something nice for you, so—"
"So, here we are, Cake Fairy. Thank you," she replies, threading her fingers with mine. The gesture is not lost on me. "It was always you, wasn't it?"
"You mean the cheesecake? Yeah, it was me. When you came to the office that first time, I almost outed myself. I made another cake for the break room, but …"
"Mac! He finished it! I remember that. Must have been a tense ten minutes for you, huh?"
I stop to throw my plastic cup in a recycling bin, then turn to her. "Sit with me for a spell?" By some miracle, one of the benches at the outer edges of the market is free. "It was. But it was worth it. I would've told you then, if you happened to eat that cake. It wasn't meant to be a secret forever. I just didn't know when to tell you. Or how."
"So you showed me instead," she concludes. "Shall we walk back to the house?"
We're done with our shopping, and it's getting close to lunchtime. I nod, collect our bags that I always insist on carrying, and head off with her in the direction of the Wisteria House.
The farmers' market takes place in a school parking lot that overlooks the river. Bella's place is only a few blocks away. We walk in silence, taking in our surroundings, weaving through foot traffic and cyclists that zip around us. When we come to the last big turn before Chestnut Street, we stop at the intersection in front of the Marriott. Their parking lot has been in shambles for weeks with repaving and new construction. Today, for the first time, crews are working there on a Saturday.
In my peripheral vision, workers are bustling around a hole in the ground while an excavator dumps a load of torn-up blacktop on a pile of debris. Whatever was in that bucket of rugged steel falls on a heap of broken concrete with a loud, cataclysmic thud.
Mangled memories flood in before I can stop them. Distant staple guns become gunfire. A jackhammer morphs into mortars. The gnarling noise of a tank crushing debris under its crawler belts. Chopper blades whirr over me—a Black Hawk hovering.
"… Mac …" Bella's laugh is an echo.
Her words drown. Too far away. Garbled.
Another wall of concrete crashes to the ground. Fighter jets hiss above me. Mortar shells land with parabolic crashes. Machine guns—rapid fire popping around me. A destructive explosion. Then, disjointed shouts and cries all over.
"Mac! Marie! Get away from there!"
"Edward, look at me," Bella pleads.
But her words don't register with me. All my instincts and training tell me to duck and run for cover. And run I do until I find shelter. Not far enough away from the noise. The battle still rages around me. The Black Hawk still hovers, but the steady whirring of its blades tells me its altitude remains constant. They're not coming for us.
Right then, when another load of mutilated concrete walls thuds to the ground behind me and all around me, a sound pierces through the haze in my brain.
It's humming. It's whispered humming. There are no words to it.
"Marie? Mac?"
They don't answer, but the humming continues. And bit by bit, the sound becomes familiar. This humming treads the outer limits of my conscience. It's a voice my heart somehow recognizes, but my mind can't quite place yet. The humming floats around me; its sound soothing, calming. It's a cocoon of peace that slowly, gradually drowns out the cacophony of war and despair.
"I'm here, Edward. I'm here."
I know that voice. It's not Marie's.
Then, I remember—Marie is dead. Marie is dead, and I'm alive. If I'm alive … then I'm not in Homs. Whose voice is it? The humming? Where does it come from?
The humming continues. It reminds me of my mother singing me to sleep when I was a child. Only, the music is different. This reminds me of a piano and … sea glass?
"Breathe, Edward. Breathe," the voice pleads.
"I'm not in Homs. I'm not in Syria," I croak out at long last.
My voice is hoarse. My heart hammers in my chest. Then I take a cursory look at my surroundings. Cars zipping back and forth on the road. Glass panes and metal frames. A long stretch of metal seats. A bus shelter. Then, her.
"Bella."
"Yes. Can you hear me now?"
A small hand squeezes mine. It's Bella's. She delicately unfurls my fingers from the vice-like claws I'm wielding. She straightens one finger at a time, then lays my hand flat on her chest. I feel the soft cotton of her shirt beneath my finger pads.
"Can you feel that?"
Thump. Thump. I feel that humming through my fingers and the sounds sizzles under my skin until it reaches my ears. It's her heart beating beneath my fingers. "Yes."
She nods. "Do you have any anxiety meds?"
Meds. She's asking me about meds. I blink, then let my mind wander and catalog information. It's a slow, tortuous process. Meds. Therapy. Anxiety. My doc. The prescription I tried, let expire once, but refilled dutifully at the behest of my shrink. The numbness. The blanket of padded sounds and feelings around me I couldn't deal with. I'd rather take the pain and face it.
"No, I don't take anxiety meds."
Another nod. "Can you try to breathe with me?"
"Yes."
"Nice and easy. Slow, deep breaths. Breathe with me, Edward."
I close my eyes and give myself over to the rhythm under my fingers. With slow, shallow inhales and exhales, I stop hyperventilating and start breathing normally again.
Bella's own hand grips mine on her chest. More warmth. More zingers of electricity under my skin.
"Do you think you can walk? Try stretching your legs."
When I do so, I feel like I've run the Boston Marathon. My legs are unsteady but also feel like pillars of stone, and my knees crack and pop when I try to stretch out.
"Slow down. Carefully. Keep breathing with me."
After a few minutes of this—breathing in silence, finding a rhythm I lost in the rubble—Bella rubs my shoulder with her free hand. "My house is only a block away. You need to rest. We'll go slowly. One step at a time."
&&&IVORIES&&&
I've lost track of time, but somehow, we made it to the Wisteria House. I don't know how long it took us. Bella won't tell me. With unflinching patience and tenderness, she just brought me back from the abyss.
I can't even fathom how she knew to do this.
"How?"
She sits beside me on her couch, handing me a cup of her herbal tea. She said it's a soothing lavender and chamomile mix. It should help calm me even if I don't have any anxiety meds to take.
"I've had a few panic attacks over the years. Mostly due to extreme, paralyzing stage fright. Some were before and some after James and I imploded. I've learned what helps me. I figured it wouldn't hurt to try with you. Otherwise, I had Mac on speed dial."
"Thank you." My voice breaks when I talk. I don't know how to thank her, to repay her. For her compassion, her support, her being there without question, without judgment.
Then it comes to me. This is my "someday."
"I think … I think I need to tell you. About Syria."
Her hand lands on my forearm and concern mars her features. "No, Edward. Not today. You must be exhausted."
"I am. But I need this. I need to cast this out. Please, Ladybug."
"I'm here. I'm listening."
I close my eyes because I can't bear to look at her while I dig up those memories again. I sit back in the corner of the couch and relinquish the warmth her hand bestows me. I can't touch her while my mind conjures those scenes from hell again. I need to stand on my own. I need to dredge up all those horrors without editing; otherwise, I'm not doing Marie or Remi any justice. I'm not doing any of the victims any justice.
"A shadow walks with me. Everywhere I go, this shadow walks along. It's a shadow of loss. It's a shadow of what-ifs. It's the shadow of guilt." I swallow deeply before continuing.
"Why did they have to die and I survived? Why don't I have the spine to do that anymore? I'm caught between the rock of knowing I can't and the hard place of feeling like a failure because I can't. But it's a shadow all the same. And it walks with me. It makes every step of my life darker.
"I was a war correspondent for almost a decade. I had brushes not with death, but with being perilously maimed, I'd call it. Mac and I always made it out in one piece. Mind you, we weren't cocky about this shit. Cocky gets you killed. We followed only the most reliable info, the tried and tested contacts. We took every possible precaution. We still managed to chase down every story and every lead. It all worked until Syria. Because Syria, and Homs in particular, turned out to be a whole different brand of clusterfuck. The rest of the world, history books, journalists, politicians, and pundits call it 'the siege of Homs.' I call it hell." I blow out a breath.
"I've seen hell. I've heard hell. I've smelled it. I've touched hell. I've lived it.
"It's a pockmarked city of buildings lying in piles of rubble, where the only sounds are popping gunfire from snipers up above you and the hissing flight of missiles that tear across the sky, gray harbingers of an apocalypse that never ends.
"It's a makeshift clinic in a half-destroyed apartment where the only colors are the abandoned toys of children who ran for their lives, with the smell of alcohol used as disinfectant mingled with the rot of war-torn flesh and the rusty, lingering stench of decaying blood.
"It's the cries of the wounded and the wails of widows, too traumatized to nurse their newborns, suspended in a nightmare where every step, every breath, every word could be the last.
"That was my nineteen-day stint in hell, and for all that I'm thankful I'm alive and breathing, I feel like a rotten failure of a man that I can't put my ass back there and bear witness to it. What does that make me, Bella?"
I try to ignore the way my voice breaks or my field of vision grows increasingly hazy because I'm speaking through tears. For years, I've kept all of this inside me. I barely vented to my therapist, too trapped in my "get on with it" mentality. And maybe I did get on with it, but at what cost? And what of the demons that still lurk out there in my nightmares, or in the PTSD threatening to flare at any moment?
Still, Bella doesn't even flinch. She simply rises to her knees in front of me, armed with an actual embroidered handkerchief. No paper tissues for this girl who just pulled me back from the brink with her music. "Sea Glass," that's what she was humming all that time.
"What the hell does that make me?" I insist, still hoarse.
"Human, Edward. It makes you human."
&&&IVORIES&&&
That night, suspended between sleep and consciousness, I hear the humming again.
"Sleep, Edward. Sleep."
How are we feeling? Who wants to give EditorWard a cuddle? He needs it.
See you next week, peeps!
