North Star
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight. All recognisable characters, content, or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
Chapter Seven:
Bella
The 13th of September dawns dull and dreary, though I don't expect much else of Forks, Washington. In any case, the weather, despite it's valiant efforts, can't bring down my mood, and after I proceed through my usual morning routine, I bounce downstairs with a skip in my step and a grin on my face. I'm 16 years old today, and after school, I'm slated to sit the driving test that will determine whether or not I can get my provisional license. If all goes well, I'll be able to drive (legally and independently) by the end of the day, and not even the thought of a pop quiz in Trigonometry can bring me down.
"Happy Birthday, Bells," Charlie greets me with a hug, a bristly kiss on the cheek, and a breakfast of toast, yoghurt, and sliced fruits. He's even boiled a couple of eggs for me, and although I don't expect I'll be able to eat it all, I appreciate the gesture regardless.
"Thanks, Dad," I acknowledge, briefly squeeze him tighter, and then release him to his red face and inaudible grumbling, "You didn't have to make breakfast for me, you know?"
He shrugs. "Not every day my only child turns 16. Can't cook you pancakes, but can at least save you the effort of making breakfast yourself."
"Well, I appreciate it," I inform him, "It looks great. Thank you."
Opting for a glass of orange juice in lieu of my usual chai tea, I drop into the seat across from Charlie, and dig into my breakfast with enthusiasm. As always, I'm famished, and despite my earlier doubts, I finish the meal with ease.
"You're picking me up after school, right?"
Charlie huffs a laugh, and rolls his eyes. I've pestered him about this on and off all week, but he's been pretty indulgent, thus far. This time is no exception. "Yes, Bells, I'm picking you up after school."
"Okay, cool," I acknowledge, "I'll see you later, then. Have a nice day."
"You too, Bells."
I leave the house with a smile on my face, and as usual, Tyler waits for me at the end of the street.
"Happy Birthday, B," he greets me with a hug, and although things are still a little awkward between us, the sentiment is genuine.
"Thanks," I acknowledge with a smile. We walk on, towards school, chat idly about school and TV shows we've watched recently, and we both carefully avoid the proverbial elephant in the room. We'll have to talk about it at some point, I know, but at least for today, I intend to let the subject be.
Tyler does too, it seems.
"Do you have anything special planned for your birthday?" Tyler asks. We're in the Forks High parking lot at this point, and I can see the others in front of the main building, clustered together, and watching our approach.
"Other than a visit to the Department of Licensing this afternoon, not really."
"That's so dope though," Tyler says, "I'm stupidly jealous."
I'm bulldozed by an exuberant Jessica before I can reply, and I'm quickly passed around for a series of hugs and birthday wishes. I'm surprised, also, by the presents offered, and even as I accept them graciously, I insist that the effort wasn't necessary. I've only known these people a short while, after all, and although it feels as if I've known them forever, I can't guarantee the sentiment is reciprocal.
"Don't be silly," Jessica rebukes, "Of course it was necessary, you're our friend. What did you think, we'd do nothing? Pfft."
"What she said," Lauren agrees, her arm linked through mine, "Turning 16 is a big deal, you know?"
"Evidently," I acknowledge wryly. "Thanks, guys, you really know how to make a girl feel special."
Mike buffs his nails on his shirt, and offers me a cheesy grin. "What can I say, I'm just that awesome."
Jess shoves him with a scoff. "And what are we, you ass, chopped liver?"
Mike raises his hands, in surrender or supplication, I'm not too sure. "You said it, girl."
As they begin to squabble, the rest of us - Ben, Eric, Angela, Lauren, myself, and Tyler - watch on, unabashedly entertained by their byplay. They bicker like an old married couple, and I wonder how long it's going to take for them to notice, or to do something about it.
Alas, the levity doesn't last. The school bell blares shrill across the school grounds, and I begrudgingly make my way to Trigonometry. Angela and Eric accompany me, of course, the latter lamenting the pop quiz that awaits us in class, the former quietly resigned to our fate.
At the door to our classroom, I smile at my friends. "Spartans, prepare for battle."
Eric bites back a chuckle, and continues, "For tonight, we dine in hell."
"Goodness," Angela rolls her eyes, "It's just a quiz."
"Ah, our voice of reason," Eric says theatrically. He slings an arm over Angela's shoulder, and it's rather comical, because she's about four inches taller than him. "What would we do without you?"
They walk into Mr Cassidy's class ahead of me, I follow, and we drop carelessly into seats near the middle of the room. I busy myself with gathering the things I'll need - stationery, calculator, paper - as my peers filter in, and when I glance up again, Edward Cullen is seated directly in front of me.
I flinch, startled and horrified, and my good cheer dissipates like smoke in the wind.
In fact, I kind of want to vomit.
-!- -#-
Jacob
The Quileute Health Centre isn't particularly crowded, though that's no surprise. In a tribe this small, it's rare that the clinic is ever busy, and although it makes for shorter waiting times, the waiting itself is still as nerve-racking. It's perhaps when I worry the most, when the reality of my father's poor health is most poignant, when the absence of Rachel and Rebecca is the most cutting.
At 14, I shouldn't be here, attending my father's medical checkups. I shouldn't require a hardship license to drive him to and from, shouldn't have to take careful note of my father's blood pressure, blood sugar, cholesterol. I shouldn't have to take careful note of adjustments to his medication, shouldn't have to remain perpetually cognisant of his diet, and all the rest of it.
At the very least, I shouldn't have to do it alone.
Admittedly, my father's friends do what they can, Charlie, and Harry, and Sue, and I'm more grateful for them than I can truly say. Since her return, Bella's made an effort to help out, and my father's sisters try as well; when they're not wrangling their respective broods of children, that is.
At the end of the day, however, I'm the unfortunate bastard left with a man who is too proud to accept help, too stubborn to accept that he's sick, and conversely too world-weary to put any effort into improving his quality of life. In fact, most of the time, I'm half convinced he's just waiting to die, to join my mom in whatever comes after, but I don't have the balls to ask, and I don't think he'd give me an honest answer if I did.
Either way, I can't decide if I hate myself more for thinking it, or Billy for giving me a reason to.
"Chief Black," Dr. Carpenter's voice projects across the waiting room. Eyes turn towards us, curious and pitying and all the rest of it, and I grind my teeth.
Of course, all they see is the wheelchair. All they see is the man aged before his time, frail and tired, and I think I hate them too.
On auto-pilot, I push my father's wheelchair into the exam room Dr. Carpenter guides us towards, and I drop gracelessly into one of the patient's seats available therein.
"You've grown," Dr Carpenter observes. He and Dad have already exchanged the usual pleasantries, made a little more informal by the fact they'd attended the reservation's only high school together.
I force a smile. "I guess that's par for the course, right?"
"That's right," Dr Carpenter agrees, "The way you're going, I bet you'll be as big as your old man."
He and I both glance at the man in question, quiet and diminished, far removed from the same man who'd once loved, laughed, lived so freely. It's sometimes hard to believe he's the same figure from my childhood, quick to joke, to grin, to play. A lot has changed since then, and I wish, desperately, to go back to those days.
I'm sure I'm not the only one.
-!- -#-
Paul
Dr. Marks is a child psychologist who specialises in grief therapy, and Naomi and I have been seeing him for six months. I'd been reluctant to start visiting him at first, but my grandfather had eventually used the Naomi card - did I really want to hinder her ability to move on from the tragedy that had just torn apart our family? - and, begrudgingly, I had acquiesced.
Months later, and I can concede that Dr Marks has likely helped us both immensely. Mostly, I find comfort in the facts, knowing the various stages of grief, learning to recognise what I'm feeling, and how they relate to the anger, the bargaining, the denial, depression, and/or acceptance.
In truth, it's also nice to just be able to talk out what I'm feeling with someone who is completely impartial, and although I'd be heckled mercilessly for it if anyone found out, I can't bring myself to give a shit. Mind you, I'm not shouting out the fact I'm seeing a shrink from the rooftops, but I'm not about to deny it if someone asks, either. Not that anyone has, or likely will in future.
In her car seat, Naomi sings along to some Top 40 trash on the radio, and I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I hate this car - it's my mom's, or was, rather - and so I use it infrequently. It's more fuel efficient than Grandpa's piece of shit station wagon though, and therefore, it's the only car I'm allowed to use for the commute to Port Angeles.
"We gonna stop for dinner, Paulie?"
"On the way home, Nay-Nay, like always," I answer, "You'll have to think about what you want to get."
It's turned into something of a tradition, just between Naomi and I, and it's pretty much the only thing about our weekly sojourns to Port Angeles that I look forward to. Naomi's a bright, effervescent light in the darkness of my life, and sometimes, I can pretend it's just another one of our Paul and Naomi outings from before the accident. But then, inevitably, she'll bring up something that will, in turn, bring me crashing back to reality, and the all-consuming grief will come crashing back down, too.
I sigh to myself, pull up in front of our therapist's office, and help her out of her carseat.
Something tells me it's going to be a long, arduous session, and I am not looking forward to it.
Naomi slips her hand in mine, looks up at me through big, unassuming brown eyes, and I muster up all the will power I can. Not for me - perhaps never for me - but for Naomi? I'd do anything.
Author's Note: I'm sorry for the long wait. The muse pulled me away from Paul and Bella and the gang for a while, but fear not, I'm not giving up on these guys. Not yet, anyway.
This chapter turned out a lot more bleak than I'd expected, but this is how the muse wanted it to be written. Paul's in a really dark place right now, and Jacob's got a lot of anger inside him. As for Bella?
Well, her problems are self-explanatory, aren't they?
Anyway, thanks for reading. Leave a review? Until next time, -t.