Chapter Eight

. . . Sorry . . .

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Johns Cove is perfect, especially late at night when the moon is full and no one is around. I was nervous about sitting out here on the dock at first, because I've seen too many movies where there's a monster in the water just waiting to get you, but it's warm and peaceful and just what I need right now.

"Is anybody here?" I ask the moon's reflection, just in case.

The water ripples with the breeze, and the moon begins to sway gently back and forth. If there is a monster, he's giving me a free pass.

. . .

When Mom finds me on the balcony outside my room the next morning, she stares at my left cheek, which is just a pink mark now. "Your Dad called."

I swallow hard. "He did?"

"Yes, first thing this morning," she says wryly. "I don't think he'd even had breakfast yet. Anyway, he says he's coming this weekend to bring you home."

Panic is beating a tattoo on my heart. I nod stiffly. "I'm sorry, Mom."

She just stares at me.

"It's August," I say. "I'd be leaving soon anyway."

"You told him."

I drop my gaze to my feet. "I told Edward. We tell each other everything."

"Did you tell him that you don't love me anymore?"

My head snaps up. "W-W-What?" How could she say that? "I'll always love you. You're my mom."

She just shakes her head at me. "I told you I was sorry. I wasn't myself yesterday, I didn't mean it. You know that, right? I was just worried sick about you, that's all, and I lost my temper. Don't you believe me?"

My inhale is shaky, and I hope she doesn't notice. "I believe you. But I want to go home."

"This is your home, too."

It's Phil's home. "I'm sorry," I say.

"You're sorry? For what?" Her glare is back.

Am I supposed to tell her that I'm sorry for wanting to go home? Because I'm not. "I'm sorry that I disobeyed your rule about the boat," I say softly.

She sighs loudly, dramatically, and waves her hand as if to dismiss what I said. "Is this about Phil? Are you leaving because I'm with Phil now, and not your Dad? Because that's not fair, Isabella Marie. I'm entitled to live my life. And Phil's a good man. He takes care of me."

Dad took care of you, too.

"It's not about Phil," I say. "I just want to go back home, that's all, I promise." Am I not entitled to live my life?

Her face is pinched and pale with anger. "It's going to get better. I won't . . . I won't lose my temper like that again. It's inexcusable, I know. And I know I hurt and scared you."

And now she's in tears, with her hands pressing against the side of her head like she's trying to hold herself together, and I'm torn. Part of me wants to run far away, but a smaller part thinks I should try and comf—.

"Give me another chance, Bella!"

"Mom, I don't know what you want me to say," I choke out. "I miss Edward. I miss Dad. I miss my friends. I want to go home. Please don't punish me for that."

It's only when I dissolve into tears that she comes to me, like my breaking heart is the only thing she can understand.

"I'm sorry, baby. I never wanted it to be this way. Sometimes I don't even recognize myself anymore. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I don't know if I'm crying more about what's she said, or about how she just feels like a stranger to me now. "I know," I sniff, as her arms tighten around me.

What else is there left to say? How many times can we say I'm sorry until it just doesn't mean anything anymore?

. . .

Grandma Higginbotham used to watch me and Edward on Saturday nights when Mom and Dad went out. At bedtime, she'd have us kneel at the sides of the bed with our hands pressed together under our chins, and say a prayer. I say it now because it comforts me and reminds me of a better time.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

Not that I think I'm going to die or anything. I just like the idea of having God's ear right now.

"God, please help Mom get better. And I'm sorry about the all the swearing," I add and then I fall into an uneasy sleep.

Two more days until Dad comes.

. . .

Phil wants to take me out sailing, just me and him. Inside I'm turning cartwheels. Outwardly, I sigh like I don't care, and then shrug like I'm giving in.

"Where's Mom?" I wonder.

"Zumba class," he says. "I swear, that woman will try anything once."

Including leaving her family, I think sourly.

It's windy today and the boat glides like silk on glass. The wind sings as we go really fast, really smoothly. I'm definitely going to miss being out on the lake.

"So I guess you're going home early," Phil says later.

I stiffen. Not him, too.

"It's whatever it is, you know," he says when I don't answer. "I just don't want you to think you aren't welcome here."

"I don't. I like it here. It's really nice."

I just like home more.

He gives me a calculating kind of look, the kind that means he stares at me longer than I'd like, and I try not to squirm. "She's hurt that you're leaving, though, your mom. She feels things deeply. Doesn't always know how to react to things, you know?"

I scowl at the water. He is not standing there telling me about my own mother.

"She cried and cried last night in bed. I've never seen anything like it."

But she's always been highly emotional. How can he not know what she's like?

"Kinda worried me. Made me think that maybe you should stay through the end of next week, like what was agreed to in the first place."

"My Dad wants me home," I say.

"Yeah, I know. I guess I was just hoping that you could talk to him, maybe ask if you could stay a bit longer."

I look at him in surprise. Didn't Mom tell him that I was the one who wanted to go home now? Not that it matters. Nothing and no one is going to stop me from doing what I want this time.

"I think I should do what my Dad wants."

He scratches his jaw. "Yeah. Yeah. That's understandable. I just wish it wasn't causing her so much pain."

"She shouldn't have left us then," I say before I realize what I'm doing.

"Ah," he blinks at me. "Bella, I know—"

"No," I say and turn away from him. "You don't. But I don't want to talk about it."

The silence is heavy, and I can tell he's just itching to defend her, or whatever. Finally, he sighs. "I know it probably doesn't mean much to you right now, but I'm really sorry for everything."

There's that word again. Everyone is just so, so, so sorry, and its too bad sorry can't change anything. But he's right: his apology means less than nothing to me.

. . .

Edward's voice is light and playful. "We'll be there tomorrow. I'll get to see the lake and the boat that got you in trouble," he says.

"The boat didn't get me in trouble, I did," I laugh.

"No way, those rowboats have minds of their own."

"You're nuts."

"I feel nuts."

"I can't believe Dad is letting you come, too. I'm glad." I didn't think Dad had that kind of money. Maybe he planned to stuff Edward in the stow-away compartment?

"Yeah. Well, it was either that or lock me in a jail cell."

"No way."

"Way," he says. "I'm in like Flynn."

"Out like stout," I laugh.

"Hey. I have a face, but no eyes. I have hands, but no arms. What am I?"

"Oh," I squeal. "I know this one!"

. . .

Rose is the only one I level with, because I don't want to worry Dad and Edward any more than they already are. Plus, it seems like I'm always complaining to Edward. He probably needs a break.

"Phil is trying to talk me into staying, and Mom's avoiding me. She's always got something to do or some place to go. I've spent more time with Phil these last few days than I have with her in a week."

"But she's calmed down, though? She's not still being super weird?"

"I don't know. I only see her when she's coming or going. She seems fine then, though."

"Well, maybe she's just avoiding you so she won't burst into tears again."

I doubt it. I think it's more like she's pretending I'm already gone. "Maybe."

"Well, I'll see YOU day after tomorrow. Alice is planning a welcome home pool party."

I whine and laugh and the same time. "Who's coming?"

"The usual peeps. I think Seth, too."

"Really?" I'm excited.

"No, Bella. Not really. Geeze, what's wrong with you, girl?"

"You can't tease me about Seth," I say. "Has he found the perfect girl yet?"

"I don't think so. Well, we can ask him on Sunday when you're back."

"Deal."

. . .

I've got ants in my pants. Dad and Edward are supposed to be here any time now.

Mom's got ants in her pants, too. I'd like to think that she's excited about seeing Dad again, but I'm afraid to hope where she's concerned anymore. It's better just to think that she's being oddly happy again, and for no good reason.

We're in the kitchen making making lunch, because it's Kate's day off: parmesan-crusted chicken breasts, mashed potatoes, and grilled asparagus. She also wants us to make Grandma Higginbotham's peanut butter crunch cookies. Which doesn't make sense, or maybe it does, because Charlie doesn't care much for sweets, and Edward doesn't like peanut butter.

"They're going to love this chicken," she says as she shoves the baking dish into the oven. "I've made it for Phil before and he just raved. Even Kate was impressed."

Kate thought Mom didn't cook well at all. "That woman oughta be banned from the kitchen," she told me once. "She ruined a skillet and a sauce pan." And then she'd said something in Russian, and I don't think it was something good.

"I'll be right back. I gotta go get my iPad, it has the cookie recipe," Mom says.

Phil's coming in just as she's leaving. "Keep Bella company. We're making peanut butter crunch cookies."

His face lights up. "My favorite."

So that's why we're making the cookies.

I've peeled and cut all the potatoes into cubes when Phil tells me he's going after Mom. "That woman would forget her head if it wasn't attached," he tells me.

I'm covering the potatoes with water when I hear him yell her name in a blood-curdling way. It sends my heart right into overdrive. What's happening now?

I set the pan on the stove to boil and wonder if I should stay here, because I don't want to get in the way of their arguing. It's enough just to handle my own. And then Phil yells my name.

"Bellllllla! Bring the kitchen scissors! Now! Hurry! Now!"

Geeze. One now will do, I think as I pull the black-handled pair of scissors from the wooden knife block beside the refrigerator. As I pass through the foyer, the front bell sounds and my heart leaps. It's Dad! He's here!

"Belllllla! Hurry! Please hurry!"

Growling my anger and impatience, I run for the back office-slash-library where Phil's voice is coming from. He's awfully demanding. As I round the corner and come into the room, I see him with his arms around something hanging from one of the wooden rafters.

Its.

MOM.

His gaze snaps to me. "Set the chair up," he tells me in a staccato tone. "Climb up and cut the rope. Now. Hurry. Now!"

I can't move. Mom's still in her tiny jean shorts and red halter top. One of her shoes is missing, and her foot twitches, twitches.

"Now, Bella, before we lose her!" he roars.

I stumble as I race to the overturned chair, and everything loses color, and then I'm pushing the chair up and it's heavy and I'm weak.

"Get on the chair," he tells me. "Hurry, you can do it, hurry."

I climb onto the chair, and he's sweating because he's trying to hold Mom up so the rope doesn't cut into her throat—oh, God, her face is purple, don't look—but he wants me to cut the rope with the scissors. And I have to look, have to look, have to look, and her eyes and mouth are wide open, but she doesn't make a sound. She doesn't see me. She doesn't see Phil.

And I'm screaming because I'm not tall enough to reach! I'm not tall enough.

Phil shoves me off and I fall boneless to the floor, and he leaps onto the chair, but it tips over and I see his face contort in anguish as Mom's feet swing in front of us.

And Dad is there, and Edward, too, and it takes all three of them working together to cut her down.

. . .

Edward's riddle for Bella: a clock