Chapter 2: Caffeine Tears and Pangs of Love

I wake to the sound of sound of pouring water and the smell of fresh coffee. I sigh; coffee was a luxury long not afforded to me. It's been a long time since I've smelt its familiar aroma. With it brings flashes of my dream: the frames, my distorted vision, and the monochromatic world in which I was trapped. I find little more comfort in the world I find myself in now.

Charlie comes to sit opposite me, across the mountain of forgotten files; he's made a space for himself and his coffee. He says nothing, occasionally switching concentration between his coffee and some papers that lay scattered upon the mess. I break the silence.

'Morning, Charlie', I mumble; my voice is almost non-existent. He looks up and nods, but still says nothing. The days ahead will be quiet, and there will, without a doubt, be many more internal conversations to be had. I move to make myself some coffee and find myself disappointed; Charlie has used up all the boiled water. I consider boiling my own, but decide against the effort. I settle for tap water.

We sit in silence. I decide that my father still loves me, perhaps. The silence itself is indicative of it, that I have hurt him in some almost irreversible way, and how could one do that without the other being emotionally involved. They couldn't. I almost smile at the realisation. He still loves me. But then it could just be that the silence is a habit, a well-worn reminder that there has been no love in this house now for almost three years. This line of thought depresses me.

Charlie speaks. 'The party starts at six tonight', he says slowly, carefully, 'you need to pick up some stuff up from the store; I have to go in to the station for a couple hours'. He reaches for one of the papers atop his pile and hands it to me. It's the shopping list. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out some money, and hands that to me as well. 'Only what's on there, nothing else'. He adds almost begrudgingly, 'y'understand?'

I nod, and then he goes. I sip my water and pick my brain; a party? It was not his birthday and neither was it mine (though I doubt he would've taken notice if it had been). My father had once been the type that loved doing anything where a large amount of people were involved, but the years had changed that. After Renée left, that Charlie moved on.

Perhaps I had done him a favour. Maybe I had given him back his love for company. I decide that this is the preferable notion and that I will regard it as true, though, realistically, I know that no one with regular company keep their house in this sort of disarray. I decide to be stubborn.

I look at the clock on the oven. It's already past two; we had been exhausted last night. I am still in the clothes I had worn on the plane, and I struggle enormously with even the idea of leaving the house. I am sure that if I sit here until six, all the items my father has asked for will magically appear, or he might find them somewhere later on and he might say, how could I forget? I bought them all yesterday, sorry kiddo, and that would be the end of it. It's the latter thought that reminds me of the impossible.

I drag my things up the stairs and onto the landing. There is no reason to be afraid of your room, I say. I'm not, I reply, but I hear even that second voice in my head shake a little. This will not be the third reminder. I did not return to this room after it happened, this room is clean of taint. This room is the only one that doesn't know. This room is all I have left.

This will not be the third reminder. This will be the single reminder of the wrongness of all else I did.

I pull on the handle and push the door open; it creaks gently as it has always done, but all I hear is screaming. My room is the same, although much tidier than before and spotless compared to the rest of the house. It is obvious my father hasn't spent very much time in here. I line my bags up carefully against the foot of the bed; I try not to leave my stain on its perfect state.

The shower is bliss and so I take my time. It has been a long time since I showered like this, that I took the time to relax. I have brought into the bathroom with me some jeans and a shirt, which I change into after the shower.

When I leave the house it is well after four. I stuff the list and the money into a pocket and start walking. It's January and it's cold; I wear a coat. This is the month of death: the consistent and reliable death of most New Year's resolutions, the half-hearted mourning of the year just passed and all its could'ves and should'ves, and the reluctant burial of Christmas decoration and all that once brought joy.

The weather itself is no better; the grey clouds grow darker as I arrive at the grocery store. It's family run; the Yorkie's own it. I remember one of their sons, Eric, because we used to have class together. I wonder if he works there now. I wonder if I will see the same accusations in his eyes that I have seen in my fathers.

It's slightly warmer inside, but only slightly. There aren't as many people around as you might've thought for a Monday afternoon. I wander up and down the aisles, occasionally stopping to drop an item into my basket; the list isn't that long.

Nothing much happens 'till I get to aisle number seven.

I stop, appraising several bags of chips. I feel someone stop behind me, though I take no notice. I hear their footsteps as they come closer. He almost collides with me. I feel his breath against my neck. I have not realised in time.

His breath is there again, 'Bella?' he asks quietly, redundantly. I refuse to turn. His face will be the third reminder.

'Fuck off. Now' I growl so only he can hear.

His fingers meet my hips, 'Mm, my Bella, it is you. I didn't expect to see you so soon'. His nails scrape along my skin.

'You fucking heard me, Mike. Get your hands off me'

'That's not what you used to say', he teases. I turn and push his hands from me. I push him away, hard. Then again. And again. He is against the shelves opposite the chips now. He looks slightly winded.

'I don't care what I used to say. You know what I can do, Mike, and I will remind you if you don't stay the hell away from me'. He blinks. There had been fear in his eyes.

'Alright, B, jeez, calm down'

'Don't call me that', I am angry. 'I gave her up; they took her away from me, because of you'.

His smile is loud and confident. 'You'll always be her to me'. I turn away from him; my basket is on the floor, I must have dropped it.

'Yeah, and you'll always be an asshole'. I hear him chuckle slightly. He grabs my hand and pulls me back to him, then bows. I slap his hand away, and move to leave again.

'What happened to us, Bell? We used to have fun', his words stop me. His shirt is in my fists and I am pushing him against the metal shelves before I can even think.

'You know pretty damn well what happened seeing as you were the one that snitched!' I pull my face up to his, 'Did you pay for it? Did they make you bleed? I wish I could've been there to see them beat you into the ground. Tell me how they broke you, whisper it to me. I want to hear the pain in your voice when you remember; I want to see your eyes begging for it to end. I hope you got what you fucking deserved', then I spit in his face. I try to push away from him but realise his hands grip me just as tightly. He removes one to wipe his shirt over his face, then smiles.

He whispers in my ear. 'There she is'. I punch him then.

I shake my fist to dull the pain. The first bag of chips I see then is the one I grab, then I pay for the things and leave. I smile as I picture Mike bleeding in aisle seven; I have waited years to do that.

xx

I arrive back home with half an hour to spare. As I walk into the house, I am reminded of this morning – I recognise nothing. On the left, the living room is pristine; most furniture lines the walls leaving an emptiness that will surely be filled with celebration later. The kitchen is spotless, the beast that was once the table has been tamed and now seems to serve a variety of convenient dips and snacks.

I start to empty the shopping bags, when I hear someone behind me. 'I only bought what was on the list. Your change is on the side', I gesture to the counter. I expect a reply then, even if not words, some sound of approval. There is none. I hear no footsteps move towards the counter for his change. I feel a sudden chill. I turn.

A woman stands in the doorframe. She is only slightly taller than me, but much curvier. Her hair is the colour of honey; her brown eyes are black, dilated in fear. She holds a fist to her mouth, and slowly her features melt and a sigh escapes her.

'Oh, Bella'. I say nothing. I am frozen. 'Oh, my sweet girl', and tears drop. She weeps softly but makes no move towards me; there is still fear in her body. She laughs and wipes her eyes. 'I was just cleaning things up. Charlie asked me if I could help out a little before the party, and I know how he gets so, I said of course I would, but I never... expected...', her tears fall again, and I cannot speak.

I hear the keys in the front door; I hear it bang as my father throws it open carelessly. 'Es, I'm so sorry, I got held up. There was this call and Dave hadn't gotten in yet, I had to...' his voice goes as he realises what she stares at. Me. 'Fuck, Es, I meant to be back before she got here'.

She turns to hug him. 'You didn't tell me she was back', she faces me, and they both stare. I am like an endangered shark at an aquarium; their eyes are filled with fascination and fear. I do all I can think of.

I point to the counter where I put the change, 'I only bought what was on the list', I repeat. They sound like words from a script. He goes to pick up his change.

He looks to the ground before he mumbles, 'thanks, kiddo'. My heart swells, though I know his words are only for her benefit. 'You remember Esme, don't ya', he nods pointedly and I try to smile.

'Of course', is all I can say.

She moves toward my father, but comes no closer. 'I've missed you so much, sweetheart', she says to me. She puts her hands on his shoulders and kisses his cheek, 'I'll go pick Carlisle up from the hospital', and then she leaves.

'I'm going to clean up', he says, 'you should too', and then he leaves as well.

xx

Upstairs, I dig through my bags to find something nice. I settle for a simple blue dress; I assume it will not be an overly formal occasion. I sit on my bed and play with my hair. I think about Esme, and the fact that she will be downstairs. I think about her for a long time.

I've missed you so much, sweetheart, she said. Oh, my sweet girl, she said. I decide that if my father chooses not to love me, at least she does. I decide that, even though there was fear, even though she never came close to me, my mother (for all intents and purposes) still loves me. It makes me smile.

I decide to go downstairs.

There are much more people than I'd have expected; I suppose he made friends while I was gone. There are faces that I recognise, but they are vastly outnumbered by those I do not. It is loud; music plays quietly in the background while the noise of words are deafening. People spill from the living room to the garden, and the emptiness that it once was is no more.

I retreat to the kitchen. The clock reads 7:30. The snacks have been fully devoured, and only crumbs remain on the table. Because of this, the room is empty. I move towards the stove, I've decided to have the coffee I wasn't bothered to make this morning; it's been a long day.

As the water waits to boil I hear footsteps. I sit at the table now, and all I do is look up. A man stands in the doorway where Esme had stood; his eyes hold the same terror hers had done. This time, I don't understand. The man's eyes are wild as they desperately search the room for what is obviously not there; he hasn't had time to see me yet. If the terror does not exist for me, why does it exist?

I clear my throat; his eyes jump to me and focus. 'You okay?' I wait for the fear that belongs to me to appear. He stares at me, and it doesn't. There seems to be no fear that will push his out of its place. His hands clench and unclench as his eyes continue to stare; he is a million miles away.

The water is boiling now and so I stand. It breaks his focus. His eyes try to go back to searching but he closes them. I take the water off the stove and watch him. I try to keep the fear from my eyes. His hands grip either side of the doorframe now and he breathes rapidly.

I need to help. I drag a chair towards him, 'I, uh, think you need to sit down'. He does not say a word and does as he is told. We make no sound besides his heavy breathing.

If there is no fear in my eyes, there certainly is in my body. I am tense; my muscles, unsure. If this man was about to die, I couldn't understand why he chose to do so alone in my company, rather than in that of the dozens of people who, I am sure, would've had more of an idea of how to take care of him. Maybe he wanted to die. I remember the fear in his eyes and decide this is not the case.

Then, a thought. 'Stay here. I'm going to get Dr. Cullen, he can help you', I reassure. I go to leave but the man grabs my hand before I can. It's sweaty and warm; it tremors in my hand. He gasps.

When he speaks, there is almost no sound. 'Carlisle...Esme...I can't find them. Help me, please, help me find them', there are tears.

I nod and squeeze his hand. 'Yeah, I'll be right back'. He lets go of my hand.

I leave the kitchen. The crowds have frozen, and they stand in a maze. In the commotion I haven't noticed the silence of the party; there is only one man that speaks.

'And today, in honour of this fine man – one of Fork's greatest, we celebrate. Not only does he become one of the longest serving members of the Forks Police Department, his achievements over the years have established a new standard that we all hope to uphold. This man embodies everything we spend our lives fighting for, and he is a true hero. It gives me no greater joy than to congratulate you on the twentieth anniversary of your initiation to the force, and your promotion to the Head of the Cold Cases Division. I am thankful to have had the honour of working with you for the past twenty years, and look forward to the next. To Charlie'

A chorus rings, 'To Charlie!'. Glasses sing against each other and voices begin to rise again. I have made little progress through the maze in the time of the speech; I feel my own hands begin to sweat.

I see them bobbing – his brown curls – and I run. 'Charlie, there's a man', I am out of breath, 'in the kitchen, I think there's something wrong with him. Oh God, I don't know. Where's Carlisle? I told him I'd get Carlisle; he's been looking for him'.

'Carlisle?' If my father had been sober, he would not have been this slow.

'Yes, Carlisle, where's Carlisle?' My eyes continue to search while he stumbles through his stupor.

Suddenly, he throws his head back and bellows. 'Carly! Carly!' The room quietens slightly, 'paging doctor Carly!' My father beams when a disgruntled mop of blonde hair appears at the top of the stairs.

'What, you bloody drunk bastard?' He calls down. His eyes seem out of focus, but when they land on my father, he grins. They both laugh. I watch as Carlisle half walks, half falls down the stairs; I've never seen him drunk before. As he reaches the bottom, I see Esme come out from the bathroom. Carlisle does too. 'There you are!' He is stunned, 'I've been looking for you!'

She smiles slightly as she comes to stand with us. 'You were asleep on Charlie's bed, Carlisle', he looks at the ground.

Charlie gasps and his eyes widen, 'There's a problem! A m'energency!' He shouts drunkenly. Carlisle's head shoots up and he grabs Charlie's shoulders violently.

'I am a doctor!' Esme puts her face in her hands. She turns to me as the men stare at each other.

'Bella, what's wrong? What is it, darling?' Her voice is like honey and her words warm me. I stumble as I remember the man.

'There's a man in the kitchen, I think he's in trouble. He said he was looking for you and Dr. Cullen. He's all alone, I had to leave him to find you', I realise. The fear is in Esme's eyes again, but not because of me this time. She looks over to Carlisle and Charlie, who seem to be having some sort of no-blinking contest.

'Come on, love. If it's too much for me, we can call an ambulance', and people part to let her through to the kitchen. I follow closely behind her; people will make no parting for me. She stops at the door but I move closer to the man. He is in the same state: his breathing erratic, his hands in his hair.

'I got Esme, she's here, she can help you', his breathing is chaotic, 'do you think we need an ambulance?' I look at Esme. She stares at the man almost in the same way she stared at me earlier, but there is sadness in her eyes. She shakes her head slightly and goes to kneel in front of him.

'Edward, darling', she moves to hold his face. His breathing slows when her hands touch his skin, and his eyes spring open. He all but collapses into her arms; his tears are now rivers.

He holds her close to him, 'thank God, you're still alive, oh my God, oh my God'. His breathing hitches for a second and his eyes search behind her. He pulls back from her. 'Carlisle?'

'He's in the living room, Edward. He's fine', she wipes his tears. His breathing starts accelerating again, and Esme looks to me. 'Could you get Carlisle, Bella, please?'

I do, even though I don't understand. When Carlisle sees Edward he seems to sober up somewhat. He loses the buzz that overwhelms his body, and walks over to him calmly.

'I'm here, Edward. I'm fine. Look at me, I'm fine', he rubs Edward's back. I am extraneous; I need to leave. I turn to go but Esme reaches a hand for me. She kisses Edward's cheek and he releases her.

She stands for what seems like hours, and then she moves forwards. She hugs me. I am frozen once more. 'Thank you, for helping', she breathes. I say nothing. She does not kiss me on the cheek, but she rubs my arms and smiles. 'Oh, how I've missed you, my darling'.

Then she leaves. All three of them leave, and I am left not knowing.