Thanks for all the favs and follows. It's been fun so far.
Ps: There might be a EPOV coming your way...
Anything twilight related belongs to Stephanie Meyer
I barely made it into my room before my phone started ringing. Smiling I answered it.
"How do you always do that?" I heard a giggle on the other end.
"You keep asking me that and I keep telling you..."
"It's a feeling." I interrupted her.
"Exactly! So tell me, what's going on?" I sighed and sat on my bed letting my back hit the sheets.
"Just a lot. Dad and I had a pretty emotional night. Cathartic but draining. Most of the teachers were nice. I think I made a friend, her name is Angela and I got a lot of stares and comments. But nothing too bad, and not to my face."
"Well, that was to be expected. Anyone particular that got under your skin?" I contemplated not telling her but I knew I wouldn't get away with it so I said screw it. "I talked to a really nice guy this morning. He seemed ok. It was a little weird talking around the whole thing you know?"
"Yeah, I can imagine."
"Anyway everything was fine but when class ended he waited for me. I guess wanting to see if our next classes matched. You know being helpful. But when I stood up..."
"Don't tell me he did something stupid?" She screeched, probably damaging my only working eardrum.
"No, he just... was shocked...I guess. He didn't say anything and I left. That's it." It was quiet for a minute.
"Hmm, don't assume anything yet. I think I need more information before I can assess the situation." She sounded so serious that I couldn't help but laugh. "Hey, I'm trying to help you here!" She protested but I could hear her laughing too.
"God I miss you." I sighed.
"Me too. Four weeks and three days to go sister!" I grinned closing my eyes.
"How did your test go?" I asked and we dove back into the conversation. We only hug up when Alice was called for dinner. Stupid time difference. I spend a good part of the afternoon sifting through the books Mr. Yorkie gave me, to see where I still needed to catch up or revise. Besides some independent study for gym class, I obviously couldn't participate, I didn't have a lot to do. I guess we were further ahead had back home last year than I had thought. Relieved but already bored at the thought of sitting through all those lessons again I changed into sweats and began my daily routine of stretches and physio. I'd gotten pretty good at doing them by myself. The physiotherapist at the rehab clinic did a lot of work with me and I didn't have to do much myself in the beginning. Back then it was all about mobility. Not letting my muscles atrophy. They did that while I was still out too. A weird thing to think about. Being moved around and touched while you're unconscious. When I started to get some feeling back he gave me homework. Muscle strength exercises. They were a bitch. Especially in the beginning. Something as simple as pointing my foot or bending my knee (with my foot still on the ground mind you) was excruciating. And I had a perfectly working leg to compare it to. After ten months the workout was pretty much automatic for me. I could do it in my sleep. That's why I still had weekly check-ups with my physio. To check if I still made progress or had gotten comfortable. That's what mom called it. My physio called it stagnating. It's always possible that I've reached my peak. So I need to get checked to see if I progress, if there are any complications, and have it monitored. It was a miracle that I had gotten as far as I did already anyway, at least that's what I remember them saying in the beginning. Given that my trusted physio was thousands of miles away right now I've been transferred to a Dr. Cullen. Dad is convinced he's a miracle worker. He's not technically a physio but a trauma surgeon. I guess that makes him overqualified. He'll be wasting the time he could be spending saving lives checking if I was being a good girl and doing my homework. Great, something else I'm responsible for. God, I've gotten cynical. That's the problem with those exercises, it gets your mind thinking. A dangerous thing in my situation. Pulling myself up on the bed I debated what I should do next. I always needed to think it through carefully because if I chose to get something to eat or watch tv, sit on the back porch, etc. I needed to be sure. considering that if I went down the stairs I wouldn't go back up again soon. If I forgot something it had to stay there. I couldn't call dad every time I didn't think before I did something. Wait... Getting up and pulling myself along the wall to the door frame I called out for dad. "Yeah? Everything ok? You need something?" He hollered back up. I could hear the TV running in the background and hesitated.
"Where did you put my stuff?" The noise instantly stopped and it sounded like he had leaped out of his chair knocking over something and cursing before he appeared at the foot of the stairs a bright grin on his face hope and excitement glinting in his eyes.
"It's all in the garage. Should I bring it to your room? I have a cover for the floor too." He looked like a little boy who just got handed a big tub of ice cream. I immediately turned red.
"Yeah, that would be great." He nodded and quickly disappeared from view. I opened my door as far as I could before moving to my desk chair and pulling a hairband from my wrist.
While I was at the hospital I had been staring at the white walls not being able to do much and trapped with only my thoughts for company for the majority of my days I threatened to go crazy if I didn't do something. I felt like I was suffocated by all that was happening around me without being able to make it better for anyone. To console my mother or at least relief her from the responsibility of taking care of me. I saw that I was pulling her under with me. She wouldn't survive this if she had to really look at me. See that I was still here and not going anywhere. That she was stuck. Just as much as I was. I needed to be able to breathe a little. Preferably without needing help from my mom or hurting myself which I almost did a couple of times in those first days. When it was almost time for dad to go back to work because his vacation and sick days were all used up he struggled with leaving me in my state. I saw what it did to him so I tried to conceal it but I failed miserably. Then without a word one day he just stopped his constant frowning and restless leg bouncing stood up and left. I just gaped after him. After a few hours, convinced he'd had enough, I resigned myself for not seeing him again before he went home.
The next morning though he walked in not long after rounds his arms brimming with bags his face hidden behind a large wooden trunk. I was so confused. He brought all that stuff over to my bedside and said: "I want you to give this a chance. How do I start this..." He ran his hands over his face then turned to me with a serious expression. "What do you remember about Grandma Swan?" My brain needed a moment to catch up to what he was talking about. I was still on heavy drugs at that time.
"She was sweet...and she always smelled of coffee and cinnamon." I didn't know why we were talking about my grandmother. He laughed. Getting a wistful look in his eyes at the memory of his mother.
"I don't know if you remember this but she was a passionate painter. Of course, by the time you came around, she couldn't do much anymore. You know the painting of the fishing lake in the entryway of our house?" I nodded recalling the peaceful-looking pond on the hallway wall hanging above the coat rack.
"She did that. A lot of her stuff got ruined when our roof got torn off by the hurricane but I still have some stuff. Anyway, my point is she loved to paint. She did it when she was angry at my dad, sad about my grandma's health, or just because. It was her way of communicating, expressing herself. I know you feel stuck just laying here day in and day out so I want you to try something." He pleaded and pulled up one of the bags on the bed. I was still confused and riveted by how he talked about grandma. He didn't do that often and it was the first time I heard about her being an artist. I took the bag from him and to appease him looked in it. It slowly dawned on me what he was trying to do or get me to do. Oddly I wasn't irritated or frustrated by his attempt (my emotions were all over the place right now so there was no telling how I would react to anything). I looked back at his sheepish-looking face and felt a crack in my carefully constructed dam. I knew it was a mistake getting dependent on him now when I knew he had to leave soon. But at that moment I couldn't stop the overwhelming feeling of connection I felt to my grieving father. He wiped the tears from my cheeks and took the bag from me giving me a watery smile and beginning to show me how I could use the supplies he ha had brought me.
Looking back it had been a genius idea of dad to hand me this tool. It was life-saving. At least it saved my sanity. Dad came back up with a huge easel under his arm leaning it against the wall and putting the trunk next to me.
"I'll get the sheet!" He called vanishing again. I smiled, loving his enthusiasm. He loved that I took to painting like he never could. Grandma tried to teach him but he just didn't have the eye for things and he had terrible hand-eye coordination. I wonder how he was able to shoot a gun? When I first started I did a lot of abstract painting. Getting the toughest emotions out by not trying to form anything specific on the canvas. I've gotten more and more realistic with time, trying out different styles and mediums. Bless YouTube. Oil gave me the most freedom and I loved the gradients I could create and how vibrant the colors were. It was therapeutic in some ways. Mom didn't like it at all. of course, she thought it was a waste of time. She welcomed my love of books because my language proficiency could get me into a good college. But painting was for rich people who didn't have to work and could spend their days playing with colors. Her words, not mine. It didn't surprise me. Dad put a big white sheet on the floor between my wardrobe and my bed. By that time I had opened the trunk which was not the one, he gave me in the hospital. This one was much bigger and a lot older. It was out of dark mahogany and hand-made by my grandpa. He had gifted it to grandma when they had gotten married. Dad had promised it to me when he saw how much I enjoyed his mother's passion. I wished I could share it with her. I moved my hand over the worn wood and marveled at the history beneath my fingertips. Unlocking the big metal look at the front I retrieved my paints, brushes, mediums, and cups. I poured some paint thinner into the jar and put the lid on it.
"Could you open the window?" I asked. The toxins and the smell were a problem indoors if you didn't have a proper studio or painted outside. I doubted I'd be able to do that much here.
"Of course." Dad moved to the window. I was glad it was big on the sunny side. That would give me better lighting.
"I'm going to open mine too and leave the door open so there is circulation." He sprinted away again. I felt it when he opened his window the cool air rushing past me disturbing the papers on my desk making me shiver. Carefully moving over I pulled a sweater out of my drawer putting it on.
"Do you need anything else?" Dad was standing in the doorway still looking like a kid in a candy store. It was endearing.
"No, dad. Thank you. I've got everything I need." He nodded and smiled at me. Content. He kissed me on the cheek and left me alone. Putting on a record on dads record player I picked up my brush.
I only noticed how late it was getting because it got darker outside and I had to turn on the light in my room. I stopped not long after that. The artificial light discolored everything. I began the cleanup only now feeling the stiffness off my shoulders and back and my throbbing leg. Sighing I tried to stand wincing at the pain shooting from my hip to my toes like lightning. I had to grab onto the chair to avoid falling when my legs buckled. A hand came to steady me.
"Easy there. I think we need to work on that." I hadn't noticed him coming in. "What do you think I'm doing? I'm working on it every day." I spat. Regretting my words immediately. I whipped my head around.
"I'm so sorry dad. I didn't mean it. I know what you mean I'm sorry I ..." I stuttered. He hushed me with a look.
"It's ok. I get it, calm down... I'm not mad, you didn't hurt me. Ok?" I noticed my breathing had gotten labored at the thought of upsetting him. I nodded. He smiled and rubbed my back still steadying me.
"Ok, let's move this to a more comfortable position." He said leading me to the bed. I slowly sat down cringing.
"What can I do?" He knelt before me. I had to think for a minute. I sighed laying back on the bed bending my good leg so the foot was on the bed.
"Can you pull the other leg up from under my knee? But support the lower half." He nodded. This wasn't the first time he helped me but I've come a long way since the last time. I grabbed my right leg and put my foot on my left thigh so my knee was facing the door.
"Now slowly bend it at the knee. Slowly." I'd done this stretch this afternoon on my own without much trouble but knew it would hurt like a bitch now. He took my foot in one hand and put the other under my knee on the back of my thigh.
"Good now you push the leg with the hand on my thigh towards me. Again, slowly, until I say stop."
"Ok." It didn't take long for the pressure to become too painful.
"Stop." I strained.
"Should I move back?"
"No, it's ok. Hold it there." I concentrated on my breathing. In through my nose out through my mouth.
"You know if I wasn't confident you liked it here I would think you held a grudge against Forks." Dad mused, distracting me. "Huh?" I huffed intelligently. He laughed. "The painting."
"Oh, yeah you might think that. but... what I see when I look at it and you see is vastly different from what let's say...Phil would see." He laughed again.
"Your right. He would shrivel up in this weather like a dried-up grape." At that, I had to laugh myself.
"Ok, now the other side."
Dad made us dinner that night and we played poker until I started to fall asleep at the table. the smell of the still fresh paint was comforting and me to sleep in no time.
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