Chapter Five
. . . Coping . . .
.
.
.
Life isn't the same anymore with Mom gone.
I feel like I've been robbed somehow, and I don't laugh as much anymore. It used to be that I'd seek out Edward, and nevermind that he'd prefer being alone, but nowadays I'm finding that I prefer to be alone, too. Like now, as I swing on our rope swing in the backyard. It's cold and my nose and cheeks are numb from the breeze that swinging creates, but it's still bright and sunny out. So I'm going to swing until my nose falls off or until it's time to go inside and fix dinner, whichever comes first.
It's been almost two weeks since we found Mom face-down on the couch, and she still hasn't asked to see me or Edward. Dad told us she probably wouldn't, but it's a bitter pill to swallow. And as soon as I have that thought, I wince, because I can't even seem to think the same way without feeling some sort of remorse.
Dad changed his shift hours at the police station to the daytime so he can be home when we are. Edward and I have been watching TV at night in the living room instead of the basement, partly because we don't want him to be alone, and partly because we don't want to be alone. Well, except for those moments when we do, that is. If Dad's home, I want to be where he is. If he's not, then I'm either in my room or the kitchen. Last night, I made chicken tetrazzini and while my sauce was far from perfect, I've actually gotten pretty good at cooking.
Being around Edward makes me uncomfortable. His eyes are too sad, too dark, too knowing. Both Dad and Edward seem like pale shadows of themselves, but Edward especially walks around as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. It scares me, because I need to believe that Mom will be okay, and that's she's coming back to us to stay.
. . .
Art class is my escape. We're working on collages now. Mine is of Mom's face. I sketched her as I remembered her: laughing, head thrown back, hair flowing across her shoulders. I'm gluing itty-bitty pieces of construction paper to the drawing, a slow and tedious process, but it calms me. Sometimes I go into a kind of trance while working and forget where I am. Those are the best moments, but they don't happen often enough.
Jasper's collage is one of the scenes from the movie Saving Private Ryan, one of the bloody ones. It's grossly graphic, but it's really good. Like, maybe good enough to win an award. I've noticed that Mr. Meyer visits us more than anyone else just to see how Jasper's coming along.
Mammoth Boy, who's actually Embry Call and is the shyest person I've ever met, is doing an airplane, one of the commercial jets. He draws them obsessively. Whenever we're between projects, he's sketching out some kind of airplane. Across from him, Tanya's working on her project: the bunny from Alice in Wonderland, but he looks more like a pink-nosed donkey. It makes me and Jasper snicker.
Today is Mozart Monday in Mr. Meyer's class. We all groaned at first, and he told us that there was some kind of study that proves listening to classical music helps with abstract reasoning, which could only improve our artistic skills. Maybe he's right, because it puts me into the zone like nothing else lately.
"Is Edward going to the Awesome 80's dance?" Tanya asks, and I'm jolted out of my happy little zone face-first.
Edward wouldn't be caught dead at a dance. "Why don't you ask him?"
"Because I want him to ask me," she huffs.
She's bitterly disappointed because Edward went back to ignoring her after their bathroom makeout. Which I wouldn't know anything about, since I'm kind of avoiding Edward, but Tanya keeps going on and on about him. Doesn't she realize how pathetic she sounds?
"He's the best one I've ever kissed," she sighs and gives me goo-goo eyes. "Can you tell him for me?"
Nope. She's obviously suffering from cerebral bulimia.
"I've taken a vow of silence when it comes to my brother's love life," I tell her. Or, I will, anyway, once he gets one. And ugh, does that thought give me the willies.
She's staring at the side of my face. "He's not gay, is he?"
Now I'm mad. "Just because he doesn't like you, doesn't mean he's gay. And don't you dare start a rumor about him, or I will eff. You. Up."
Her eyebrow arches. "SorRY. Geeze. I was just asking."
I arch my own eyebrow at her. "And I'm just sayin'," I growl back.
Why doesn't she change seats? Or disappear in a puff of smoke? Or get abducted by aliens?
"I'm going to the dance," Jasper tells her.
Tanya rolls her eyes. "Good for you, freak."
What a gross, sick-hog-pig-sow-cow she is. No wonder Edward won't kiss her again.
I finish another row of Mom's hair. It's taking forever. Not even half of her head is done, but what I've got looks really cool. The orange, yellow and brown make it look like her hair glistens.
"Who is that?" Tanya wants to know.
"Nonnuh-yer."
. . .
In Human Development class, we're watching a film on the effects of cigarette smoking. The images of smoke being inhaled down the throat and into the lungs keeps playing, and each time we see that happen, the lungs darken in color. And my stomach gets tighter. Until finally, the lungs are hard and black, as hard as my stomach feels now. Unable to hold it in any longer, I wretch.
Beside me, Rose straightens and touches my arm. "You okay?" she whispers.
I barely hear her. Before I can ask Mr. Molena for a hall pass, I'm up and running for the door. My throat is tight and full of saliva, and if I barf before I get to the restroom, I'm going to die.
I make it, but just barely. Everything I had for lunch pours out in technicolor, and then I'm crying. Again. I am so sick of all the crying I do now. I'm like the poster child for two-year-olds. Make a face at me funny, and I bawl. Stub my toe, and I bawl. Barf, and I bawl.
"You sound like you're dying," Rose says outside the stall door.
I growl-groan-spit. "That's because I am," I sob.
Now she sounds worried. "Are you really?"
"No," I wail. "Yes. No. I don't know."
"Do you want me to get the nurse?"
That sobers me up quick. "No, I'll live," I sigh.
"Guess you're never going to be a smoker, huh?"
My laughter sounds wet. Yuck.
"I want to go home," I say after I rinse my mouth out and splash my face. Unless I'm at art class, I just want to stuff my head under a pillow. "But I can't. Dad's at work."
"Go tell the nurse that you need to lie down for a while."
My face is red and splotchy, and I bet my breath reeks. When I check to make sure there's nothing between my teeth, my chapped lips sting from opening my mouth, and I'm hunching over because it feels like someone drove a fist into my stomach. All I need is a glass eye and a limp, and the picture will be complete.
"Will you bring my stuff? I can't go back to class."
"Sure."
As we step outside the restroom, Rose grabs my hand. "I'm sorry, Bella."
I shrink away. "There's nothing to be sorry for. I'm better now."
"That's not what I—"
"I have to go." And I take off in a jog. Which is a very bad idea because of my stomach, and I slow down as soon as I turn around the corner.
There's nothing for her to be sorry for. I just got sick is all. Everybody gets sick now and then.
. . .
It's contest night at Edward's fencing club, and Dad wants us to go watch him. Edward isn't happy about this, but Dad's insistent.
"Oh, come on. I want to see what my money is paying for," he says and hooks an arm around Edward's shoulders. "Wanna see how my boy's doing."
Edward rolls his eyes. "You're going to be bored out of your mind."
"No, we won't."
Yes, we will.
I saw Edward fencing about a year ago, and fell asleep sitting up. It's just a couple of kids coming together and then separating. Boring. Almost as bad as waiting for water to boil. But Dad wants to go, so we're going. After he gets a load of what it's all about, I'm guessing it will be the one and only time we go.
The club used to be an industrial factory that they renovated into a complex with training arenas for different sports. Edward ducks into a men's locker room as Dad and I head to the fencing room. It has garish white walls and fluorescent overhead lights, and I'm surprised that no one sitting on the bleachers is wearing sunglasses because it's—
"Wow, it's bright," Dad says and salutes me.
Other than that, it looks and smells like a regular gymnasium, with a long, skinny mats on the floor, and a drink concession stand in the hallway. The sound of shoes screeching on the floor fills my ears until I poke my Beats buds into them, and turn the music on. Then there are faceless people dressed all in white with black screen masks, shuffling back and forth to Taylor Swift's Shake It Off, which is what I do as I sit there. I shake it off, shake it off, woo-hoo-hoooo, shake it—
"Would you stop," Dad says and hands me back my left ear bud.
I leave one bud in and turn Taylor down, then look for Edward. If only they didn't wear those weird looking face-mask hood things, I could spot him right away because his wild, penny-colored mop is impossible to miss. He got Grandma Higginbotham's hair, which is gorgeous, he's so lucky, and there he is. He just raised his mask thingy to wave at us, so we know it's him. While he might have been rolling his eyes earlier, it's clear now that he's glad we're here. I sit up straight and wave back at him. I'll pay attention for as long as I'm able to . . .
And then I notice that he's wearing a diaper-looking thing over his crotch area. It's big and hangs a little. Before I know it, I'm giggling and collapsing against Dad.
"What's gotten into you, little girl?"
Then I guess a contest of sorts start because Edward and his opponent shake hands, then crouch and raise what Edward says are foils. They both hold their position until Edward does a leapfrog move at the other guy, who lunges back. And then it's a game of leapfrogging back-and-forth, until something happens and they break apart. I don't understand, but I guess the lunging move looks kind of cool.
"So much white," Dad says. "It's like a hospital."
Edward told me the reason for all the white once. "It's so they know immediately if someone gets stabbed. Blood," I say, and Dad flinches.
"Jesus," he whispers.
Forever later, Edward pushes the mask up to the top of his head and strolls over to where we're sitting. "Did you see that?" He's all smiles. "I won! He got the first touch, but I got every one after that."
"We saw," Dad assures him. We trade a quick look. Yep, we're both clueless, but happy for Edward. Something relaxes deep inside me at seeing his smile, because it seems like it's been gone for so long.
Afterwards, we go out for ice cream, and Dad grills Edward about how well his gear protects him.
It's a good night.
. . .
"So you were avoiding me," Edward says after I clomp down the basement stairs the next night.
"Yes. Sorry," I shrug and throw myself down the couch. I'm in sweats and slippers so I don't have to share the blanket.
He keeps looking at me, even though I'm staring at the TV, which he's paused on one of the Star Trek movies.
"You're okay now?"
"I'm fine," I say. "Play the movie."
"Where's Dad?"
"Watching football."
"Oh, so you wouldn't be down here if he was watching something you wanted to see?" His tone of voice is kind of crabby. "You know, Bella, I'm not going to lie about what I'm feeling just because you don't agree with me."
"I didn't ask you to," I huff.
"No, but you've ignored me for two weeks. I might as well be gone with Mom."
I study Spock's frozen expression on the TV and breathe. "I said I was sorry."
"Yeah? Well maybe that's not good enough."
Why is he giving me the stare he reserves for his worst enemies? Seeing him look at me that way sends my stomach right into my throat. I don't know what to say now, and even if I did, I probably couldn't talk anyway.
"You and Dad both want to believe that Mom's going to be fine. That everything's just going to go back to the way it was," he grits.
I can't deny it; it's my most fervent hope.
"Well, I don't, but I'm the only one feeling this way, and I hate it. Don't you think that I want her to come back as much as you guys do, that I want things to go back the way they used to be?" The words come out in staccato gasps because he's trying not to cry, and hearing him this way breaks me immediately.
"Edward," I gasp and scoot right up next to him. I try to wrap an arm around his shoulders, but he's stiff, resistant.
"Don't you think that I'm scared shitless, too?"
But I'm not used to seeing him fall apart, and for some reason, his torment is like a knife in my heart.
I'm sorry, I think as I press closer.
"What I feel matters, too. We're supposed to stick together, stick up for each other, just like always. Especially now. Don't you get it?"
"I'm trying," I say and lay my head against his shoulder. Gradually, his breathing calms and he relaxes.
"I don't like being ignored," he says. "You wouldn't like it if I ignored you right now."
"I know. I wouldn't."
"So stop."
"Okay."
I run my fingers through his hair and he lets his head fall against the couch with a sigh. We're okay. We're okay.
I nudge him gently. "The more you take of me, the more you end up leaving behind. What am I?"
"You make that one sound kind of sad," he says.
Eventually we fall asleep on the couch together, and Dad lets us stay there all night.
. . .
Mom comes home a few days later. She looks better than she has in a long time. Her skin glows, and her hair is shiny and loose over her shoulders. But she has trouble meeting our gaze, and she doesn't talk like the way she used to. It's like . . . she's not the parent anymore. Dad is the parent. And Edward and I are strangers.
"I missed you," I say to her when I find her alone in her and Dad's bedroom. She's just sitting there on the bed, looking lost and lonely.
Her smile is sad, and then she's crying.
"I forgive you," I say and put my arms around her. "I'm not mad. I'm so glad you're home. I love you."
It hurts that she doesn't say it back.
. . .
The answer to Bella's riddle for Edward: Footsteps.