Chapter 7
In the quiet of the sickroom, time had a way of standing still.
In the hours that turned into long and distant days, life outside moved on, but the world inside stood still. Seconds, held in silent conference at the bedside, turned to minutes, and those minutes into hours. Moments passed in halting procession— at first hardly at all, and then all at once in a rush and a blur. When they were alone together, Esme and her dear one, she thought that time might never stop in its endless, reckless stampede through her life and her home. It changed the light with each passing minute, making new shadows on her face, illuminating new marks and bruises that Esme had not noticed just a moment before. It changed her temperature— darkness forcing a drop, and the morning a nervous, aching rise. Sometimes, she felt cold, and Esme would move to the drawers to hunt up another comforter or sheet, but before she could settle, before she could be still, the girl would sweat and shake.
The shaking, Carlisle assured her, was only shivers in the dark. They would not hurt her, could not hurt her, unless her temperature rose too high, but they bothered Esme nonetheless. She had never felt like this before— so unsure, and so useless— and she was so unused to being rendered unhelpful that she tried to make up for it by doing whatever she could to make it right.
And all the while she kept her constant vigil, doing what little she could to make their girl safe and happy.
The room was softer now— gentler than it had been before their return— its hard, clean lines and dark contrast of colours replaced by softer hues and furnishings. Esme had liked the sharpness of its original design with classic, imposing furniture and bright, vibrant colour, but somehow, these choices did not seem fitting for a girl like Bella. Esme knew little of her tastes— Bella had offered no opinion about their home other than an occasional praising compliment— but Esme took her cues from subtler, gentler clues.
Bella liked soft blankets that didn't scratch her when she held them. She always gravitated towards a gentler palette, rather than the bright, imposing pieces that might have suited Rosalie or Alice. Edward had liked her in blue— had admired the way her skin had contrasted with the deeper, cooler tones— but Bella herself seemed to prefer greens, and sometimes grey. Esme had dismantled the bed that had dominated the space, hauling it away to make room for the equipment and tools, but already she had purchased a different set for when the gurney could be retired, this one made of warm, rounded wood instead of sharp, clean metal. She had placed a plush, fluffy rug on the floor to keep away the chill. She had turned on the fireplace to keep the room toasty warm.
It was the very least that she could do, to perform these small kindnesses that would show just a small measure of the love she felt for this girl who had claimed her— who had claimed all of them.
Esme waited, every day, for a change that would not come. She prayed, as hard as she'd ever done before, for some sign of movement, for some new and welcome progress.
She waited three days in tense, unhappy silence, before that prayer was finally answered. It came with her husband, arriving just on schedule at the crack of dawn, his face pensive and his gaze fixed on the glowing, beeping monitors. He did not move as quickly as he usually did— did not enter as surely, or as calmly— and though she had no reason to be, the sight made her anxious.
"What's wrong?" she demanded, her mind going over everything she had seen, everything she had heard, since his last visit two hours prior. She'd spent every moment of those hours with their girl, tracing patterns on her pale, soft skin and whispering secrets and songs into her sleeping ears. She had not yet woken— Carlisle's routine of sedatives had made sure of that— but this time, his smile morphed into a frown.
"Nothing's wrong," he said as he reached out, his hand brushing over the buttons on the monitor. A new screen came up, this one unfamiliar, and strange.
Esme said nothing as she waited in suspense for an explanation for this change. His routine had never varied— he always entered, always smiled, before he checked the tube between her lips. When he was satisfied, he would draw her blood and take her temperature. He'd check her IV, sometimes flushing it with a large syringe of saline, and yesterday, he'd hung a bag of antibiotics.
"Only prophylactic," he'd soothed when she'd risen in alarm. There had been no change, no shift in her temperature to suggest infection, and Esme knew this for a fact because she'd held that sweet, pale hand from morning until night. "She's bedridden, and hasn't been able to move anything in her chest with the ventilator in the way. I don't want any bacteria from that seawater taking hold in her lungs because she can't cough it up."
The antibiotics had done nothing but alter her scent, which had already been diluted by the constant infusion of saline. It had not changed her colouring, which was still too pale, and it had not brought her back from her constant, deep sleep.
Carlisle had checked her eyes again, watching as her pupils contracted and dilated with each pass of the penlight. He'd squeezed her fingers— too hard, Esme thought, and too long— and she'd seen the flicker of movement, the quick pull against the pinch. Only once he was satisfied, sure that she had not deteriorated, did he move to the final item on his checklist— the broken bones in her chest which, according to his most recent x-ray, were slowly starting to heal. Two had begun to knit, he'd told her, and the three others were coming close. He'd removed the defibrillator two days prior, having deemed its presence unnecessary now that her heartbeat had stabilized. Esme had watched it like a hawk, her eyes trained on the rise and fall of the jagged, green line on the screen, but she'd had no reason to worry as the beats had stayed constant and regular.
And so today, under Carlisle's curious frown, Esme felt her resolve waver, her confidence crumbling.
"Nothing is wrong," said Carlisle again, flicking the screen back to the one she knew. "I mean it. She's doing well."
Esme, shaken, said nothing.
"I want to try her off the vent," he said, and Esme blinked in surprise. "Her sats are at 96, and she's no longer on oxygen… it's breathing for her now, but with regular, unaltered air."
Esme frowned, concerned.
"Will she tolerate it?" she asked, peering nervously at the ribs that were still black and blue. "Will it hurt her?"
"It might," he admitted. "It will mean more work for her own muscles, but the sooner she can be taken off, the higher her chances of recovery."
Esme waited, pondering.
"And you think it's best?"
"I do."
"And if she can't handle it?"
"Then I'll reattach it," he said, as if it were nothing more than an inconvenience. "I won't remove the tube until I'm sure. I'd just like to disconnect the machine and she if she'll breathe on her own. It's the first step to waking her up. Without it, she'll continue to sleep."
And so Esme, agreeing rather reluctantly, watched with concern as he tinkered with the machine, cutting the rhythmic hiss short before the it was detached from the tube in her throat. The moment was rather anticlimactic— she had not known what she should expect, nor what her husband was waiting for, but when she heard the first, brief inhale, it was like a balm to her weary nerves.
Carlisle, his relief almost palpable, let out a shaky, quiet laugh.
"That's it, sweetheart," he whispered to her, his face cracking into a smile. There was another breath, and then a third, and though his eyes stayed glued to the monitor, he did not seem alarmed or distressed.
The fourth inhale was deep, the fifth one deeper still, and by the time they'd watched the rise and fall of her chest for a full five minutes, Carlisle was satisfied.
When he took the tube away, gently peeling the tape from her cheeks, he left behind two angry, red spots. Esme smoothed them at once, feeling the heat and swelling beneath her hands, but she pulled away when Carlisle moved again, his fingers hooked around the tube.
Bella coughed when he pulled it, her body spasming even in sleep, and Esme cringed at the strain on her ribs, though it did not wake her. She did not look as Carlisle threw it away, his gaze once again fixed on the monitor, and after a moment of quiet contemplation he produced a nasal cannula, which he attached to the oxygen tank at the head of the bed.
"Is that necessary?" Esme asked, alarmed. "I thought you said she was breathing on her own."
"And so she is," Carlisle replied, adjusting the flow before he tucked the excess tubing behind her ears. "Her breathing is liable to be shallow now that she's in control. I don't want that to make things difficult for her."
Esme only sighed, retaking her seat at the bedside. Carlisle stood behind her, his face thoughtful and subdued, and when she spoke again, he grimaced.
"Are the boys back yet?" she asked, glancing through the window beyond which the sky had only just begun to lighten with the sunrise. "Have they found anything new?"
"They're following a new trail," said Carlisle and she saw the darkening of his eyes, the tightness in his face. "They found another scent— not hers, but another one of us."
It was so rare for Carlisle to be angry, and even rarer still for him to show it, that Esme had to pause, giving him a moment to collect himself.
"How far?"
"They tracked her all the way to the Canadian border last night," Carlisle said, and this time, he turned away. In the glow from the window, he seemed almost haloed in light as he surveyed the long stretch of yard that led to the woods. "She hasn't come near the house, and they can't figure out where she's established her base."
"What base?"
"She has to be working from somewhere," said Carlisle dully. "She can't be planning, plotting like this, from the trees."
"She might be…"
"She's changing clothes," he said, shaking his head as he turned again. "She's not simply living off the land. She's got somewhere to keep her things, and she's avoiding Alice."
"How would she even know…?"
Carlisle's face tightened again.
"I think we can thank our cousins for that little complication," he replied. "You remember Laurent?"
"Naturally."
"He took a liking to Irina, or so I'm told," said Carlisle wryly. "He'd pledged himself to our lifestyle, before he walked away from them. Irina and he grew quite close. I'm almost positive she shared more than she should have."
"And so Alice…"
"Has seen nothing, and is half-mad with frustration," said Carlisle with a laugh that was not at all humorous. "It's like we've come full circle."
He glanced at the girl, still breathing steadily, and sighed.
"She can't see Bella either."
At once, Esme stood.
"What do you mean, she can't see her?"
"I mean she can't see her," said Carlisle dryly. "Not a thing but that infernal, grey mist, like before."
Esme stared.
"But she's…"
"Healing," said Carlisle again. "She will wake, once the sedative wears off… I can't explain it, Esme. She's always been an enigma."
It was true. This girl, this child who had so completely and utterly captured Edward's heart, had always been an oddity, an exception to almost every rule. It frustrated Esme— regularity, they could understand, and routine, they could follow, but there were no guidelines, no protocols, to make sense of such unknowns.
Carlisle interrupted her musings before she grew agitated.
"Perhaps it's to do with us," he said sadly, his finger dusting over the sharpness of Bella's cheek, which had lost all of its roundness. "Maybe we've done this."
Esme felt a pang of guilt.
"There was never any trouble before… Alice could see her as clearly as any of us."
"Ah." Carlisle shook his head. "But we were here before, my love. Here with her. And there was nothing, before, that suggested to me that she might be capable of inflicting such violence on herself."
Esme squeezed the warm, soft hand again, reassured at the healthy, defiant pulse beneath the skin.
"She was living, Esme, before we left her," he said, "and even though we're here with her again, we have only the barest understanding of what our absence actually meant."
"She'll heal…"
"I hope so," Carlisle leaned over the bed to press a kiss to her temple, so soft and so sweet, and inhaled the delicate, fragrant scent with a sigh. "I hope so, darling, for her sake, and for ours."
It was the middle of the morning, with a sky as blue and clear as a sapphire, when the second change began.
Seated just as she was when Carlisle had left them, returning to his workspace beyond the office to track his inventory, Esme waited, as still and as silent as a statue. She had no need to move, no need to fidget or fuss, and she was quite content to simply be, alone and at peace. The girl had not so much as twitched— her face smooth and calm, her hands limp and cold. At her side, the monitor continued to beep, the clip on her finger sending all manner of data to be compiled and displayed, and all the while Esme sat, and waited.
The medication flowing through her veins was something that Esme was not familiar with. She was not used to the smell of chemicals, so foreign and so strange, and there was something about the way they altered her natural scent that put Esme on edge. She had learned to master this worry— to keep it quiet and subdued— and she had soothed herself by studying it, by learning the flavours and tones of each individual substance.
She knew Bella's natural scent as if it were her own— the floral undertones, the sweet, peachy tang. She knew what the medicines smelled like through the plastic of tubes and syringes— the same smell that sometimes followed Carlisle home from his work at the hospital. She learned all of the different aromas— saline, opiates, sedatives, antibiotics, stabilizers… all acrid and unsavoury, but each distinct and unique from all the others.
What she had not understood was the mixing of these things— the differences in the blood in response to these chemicals, and the way those chemicals were altered by the substance of the blood. The morphine made Bella smell like nettles— as if the taste of her would prickle and sting. It flowed freely, mingling with the salt of the saline, for Carlisle would not abide suffering, even in her unnatural sleep. The antibiotic smelled like decay— like mold beneath old, wet leaves— but when it entered Bella's body it dissipated somewhat as it mingled with the rest.
The sedative was a beast all its own— as strong as liquid steel, with a stinging burn like acid and a tang of bitter metal that made Esme's nostrils flare. This smell was strong— stronger than any of the others— and so she noticed it clearly, its presence constant and steady. She had grown thankful for it, as those hours passed. Thankful that it kept her still. Thankful that it kept her safe.
So when it began to dissipate, to vanish into the air like smoke, she knew, then, what would happen.
Seconds did nothing— barely even scratched the surface— but as those seconds stretched into a minute, and then two, she began to notice the changes. It began on her face, where Esme caught the briefest twitch of a brow, the parting of her lips. Then she felt the fingers, their small movements jerking across the thick, warm covers. A foot was next, and then a shoulder, and before another second had passed, there was a gasp, so sharp and so sudden.
"Carlisle!"
At once, the room was full.
Her husband came first, arriving in mere seconds from the office just outside the room. He did not ask why she had called him— he had been expecting this, waiting for it, for almost thirty minutes. He took one glance at the monitors— the heartbeat strong and steady, the respiratory rate acceptable— and waited, his hands braced on the foot of the bed. Alice came second, her angry, sullen face morphing into worry, and then pity. The boys came last, each on the heels of the other, but it was Emmett who pushed his way through, past Alice and his father, to stare, alight with sudden excitement, as they witnessed another twitch, and then a quiet, garbled sound.
"Dad."
The word broke Esme's heart.
"You're safe, sweetheart," was the first thing that Carlisle said. At once Esme saw the monitor pick up, the pulse rate increasing. "It's alright, darling… you're quite safe."
She moved again— her hand this time— and brought it, trembling, to her lips. Her motions were clumsy, almost as if she were drunk, but it did not faze Carlisle and he smiled, a little sadly.
"Can you hear me, love?" he asked, and this time, the eyelids twitched. Esme saw her fight, watched as she struggled to peel them open to face the light. At once, Alice yanked the curtains closed, making it a little easier. "I'd like you to open your eyes, Bella. Please."
And not a minute later, after the request had time to sink in, Esme saw what she had spent three days waiting for— she saw those eyelids flutter, and then squeeze, before they cracked open in slow, careful blinks to stare, unfocused, at Carlisle's smiling face.
"Hello sweetheart," he said, his smile plastered in place. She did not react, did not speak. "Can you hear me, Bella? Do you know where you are?"
The girl said nothing, her eyes swimming with sudden tears.
"Oh no, honey…" Esme could not help herself. Those tears were scalding, too much, and she wiped them away with the edge of the blanket, ignoring the way the girl's body jumped, her heart rate increasing.
"Give her a minute," Carlisle said and another tear fell, sliding down her face to disappear into her hair. "I'm sure she's a little confused."
The heart rate spiked again, this time more sharply, as she turned her head, wincing. Carlisle had warned them this might happen— that she would be stiff, and sore, even with the relief of the morphine— and that she would be confused. So terribly, and utterly confused…
"Shhh…" Carlisle's touch was cool, and grounding. She stared at him again, unspeaking. "It's alright. Take deep breaths, honey. You're okay."
Esme watched as she tried, and failed, to do as she was told. Carlisle waited— longer, perhaps, than Esme was comfortable with— until there was some illusion of ease, some semblance of calm restored.
"That's right. Just like that."
There was another silence— so stifled, and so long— and before anyone else could speak, Carlisle's voice rang out.
"I'd appreciate a moment of privacy, if you don't mind," he said and at once, she saw Alice's outrage. Emmett, too, looked as if he might protest, but when they smelled the tears, so strong and so frightened, they relented. Emmett said nothing, but backed slowly away from the bed and through the door, his gaze lingering on the girl for as long as he could see her. Jasper was gone before he'd finished speaking the words, slipping soft and silent into the dark hallway. Esme, too, backed away, but did not leave the room, and Alice, her face ablaze with a mingled sorrow and pity, leaned down to kiss her, her lips brushing a tear, before she, too was gone.
And all the while Bella stared, perplexed and afraid, as she fought to make sense of where she was and what had happened.
In the quiet, Esme could hear her heart hammering ferociously behind her broken ribs. The oxygen, still hissing, made her frantic breaths a little easier. Carlisle was unmoved, hovering over the bed with his fixed, unhappy smile, and the girl, staring wildly back at him, blinked, and cried, and then closed her eyes again.
"No, honey," said Carlisle, running a cold finger over her cheek. The touch made her flinch. "Don't close your eyes yet."
They opened again, this time with more focus.
"Do you know who I am, love?"
She nodded, quick and soft.
"Can you tell me?"
Her tears spilled over again.
"It's important, honey. Do you know where you are?"
This time, she shook her head.
"That's alright…" His light came out again, and Esme knew him well enough to see his concern. "That's alright, darling. Look here, please."
She followed his direction, squinting away when the light hit her eyes, but he persisted, unmoved by her discomfort. This was followed by more tests— she squeezed his fingers, pushed her feet against his palms. Her gaze continued to roam, bewildered and upset, and when she found Esme, crouching at her side, her face crumpled like wet paper and she began to weep.
"Oh honey…" Esme stood then, and ignoring her husband's worry, reached out to take that trembling, broken body in her arms. The cries were loud— great, painful, hiccuping sobs that carried well beyond the confines of the room— and they hurt, each sound like a blow to Esme's heart. Carlisle stood back, his smiling mask dropped like a hot coal, and he said nothing when Esme, desperate to soothe the terrible tremors that came next, slipped herself onto the gurney to wrap her arms around around her girl.
Esme did not know what to say as Bella wept— loud, keening sobs that told of every misery and every pain. Esme knew that Bella did not have the right words to use— that she may never find them, even when the she was well— but Esme did not need to hear them now. She did not need the soothing spell of speech to calm her, did not need the empty, hollow promises to make liars of them both. She did not need to hear the words because she already knew them— heard them ringing in the rough, desperate cries of the broken child in her arms, and in the perfect crystal shatter of her own unbeating heart.
"Oh, darling…" The words flowed like honey, liquid and smooth, but they did nothing to take away the sting. "Oh sweetheart…"
She turned, then, feeling the warm, wet face in the crook of her neck. Carlisle watched them, speechless with sorrow, but he did not dare to touch her, to touch them. Esme felt his hurt— his wretched guilt and sadness— but it was nothing to the suffering of the girl in her arms.
The girl who had loved them. The girl they had betrayed.
"You're safe, my darling," Esme said, speaking the only promise she knew she could keep. "You're safe, my sweet… I love you. We all love you."
And when the girl spoke back, her voice rough and muffled, the words struck Esme like knives in her back. She bore them well— did not let them show in her voice or on her face— but she knew that Carlisle saw right through her, her hurt as obvious to him as his own. Her hands came up to smooth the hair away from that trembling, tearstained face and as she kissed her, pressing her lips against the warm, flushed cheek, the words came flowing out again, falling like stones at their feet.
"I'm sorry," Bella wept, the words barely audible through her tears. "I'm sorry, Esme. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
A/N: I'm on a roll, guys... I've done absolutely nothing else all weekend. Thanks again for tuning in.
XO
