Once
Chapter Three
"Every past used to be a future… once upon a time."
The Future
Five Years Later
BPOV
"Bella, the reporter from the Seattle Times is here to see you."
Mrs. Campbell, our school receptionist, popped her head into my office letting me know my visitor had arrived. "He's a handsome one," she whispered, laughing when I rolled my eyes at her. She had been trying to set me up on dates since I started working here five years ago. Over time, it became a continuing joke between the two of us. Most of the time her over-enthusiastic evaluations of my fellow male teachers or the men who came into the school office for one reason or another, did not match my assessment.
It wasn't that I didn't date, or didn't enjoy the occasional male companionship. I did; but I was picky, and very careful. With a fifteen-year-old son who towered over me by almost a foot and outweighed me by nearly fifty pounds, I seldom met anyone who found my company worth the discomfort of facing Riley's glowering scrutiny more than once when they arrived at our home to take me on a date. His over-protectiveness was endearing, but sometimes frustrating, and it led to many serious discussions between mother and son.
I was proud of Riley. Moving had been difficult and confusing for him. He had gone from the security of a familiar small town where he was surrounded by friends, two parents and grandparents, to living in a strange city with only his mother. He couldn't understand why his father and his grandparents were no longer interested or involved in his life. Although Karen had tried to stay in touch, calling him once a week and sending presents for birthdays and holidays, she never asked to see or visit him. Gradually, over the years, her calls become fewer and fewer until they were only on birthdays and Christmas.
Dealing with their rejection, his new surroundings, and the physical problems from his accident had left my son sullen and angry. He lashed out at me, blaming me for ruining his life and making his father leave. I tried to help him the best I could, answering his questions and giving him information I thought was appropriate for his age, but I knew we needed outside help. I found a family counseling center and we both began seeing a therapist.
It helped that I had a job waiting when we arrived in Seattle.
A year after Riley's birth, I returned to school, graduating a year later with a degree and a teaching certificate in secondary English and literature. I found a position in a nearby school district and began teaching that fall.
I loved my job. I found working with teenagers to be very rewarding, frustrating at times, yes, but always fulfilling. Interestingly enough, they seemed to like me, too. Maybe it was because I wasn't that much older than they were, or maybe because along with the classics, we read popular teen novels and mixed poetry with current music. Everything we studied and discussed was filtered through the pop culture of their lives.
We used social media, and examined its benefits and drawbacks. If Katniss and Juliet were friends on Facebook, what would their conversations sound like, what groups would they belong to, and what would they share? We compared Stephanie Meyer's vampires to Bram Stoker's Dracula and Annette Curtis Klause's The Silver Kiss. Reading Le Guin's Left Hand of Darkness, led to debates about LGBTQ issues. My students seemed to enjoy my classes, and so did I.
My classroom door was always open, and gradually, more and more of my students began dropping by to just chat or talk about their problems, or things that were bothering them. It soon became clear to me that they just needed someone to listen. Our school counselor was an over-worked, middle-aged man who spent the majority of his time completing paperwork for the state mandated testing programs, arranging class schedules and graduation requirements. He simply did not have time to spend with students who needed help with their personal problems.
Afraid that I would give the wrong advice or do the wrong thing, I began taking post-graduate classes in psychology and counseling. Those classes helped me realize just how much my life had been controlled and my choices limited, by the men in my life. Neither my father, nor Mike, nor Riley's father had truly cared for me. I was someone they could control and manipulate. Just because my cage was comfortable and safe, didn't make it any less confining.
I had just finished my course work for my Master's degree when Mike presented me with his divorce papers. Knowing the gossip was already rampant in our small hometown and would probably spread to the school district where I worked, I applied for a school counselor position at a newly opened high school in a Seattle suburb. With my graduate degree in hand, a good-paying position waiting for me, and the little boy I loved more than life itself, I left my past behind and never looked back.
—O—
"Thank you, Mrs. Campbell. Please send him in." I glanced quickly around my office, making sure everything that might contain any personal information about our students was filed safely away. As the lead guidance counselor, I took the privacy of my students very seriously.
The top of my desk was clean, neat, and held only my computer and a copy of my book, which was the subject of the upcoming interview with the reporter Mrs. Campbell had called handsome.
—O—
It was my therapist who suggested I start writing my thoughts and feelings in a journal. It was difficult at first; too many mixed emotions, too many regrets, too many self recriminations, and too much anger. I was surprised by that anger. When I finally released the tight control I kept on my subconscious, the anger came pouring out. My journal was filled with page after page of enraged, furious words scrawled in hard lines and vicious strokes.
I was my first target.
I hated my weakness, my vulnerability, my naiveté. I should have been smarter, stronger, bolder. I should have recognized what was happening to me; I should have reached out for help. I should have, should have, should have… the list was endless. My education and training had taught me that what-ifs were useless. It was easier to advise someone else to let go of the past, but much harder to apply that advice to your own life. Releasing those last bits of self-blame was difficult and accomplished only with the help of my therapist.
My father and my ex were the next targets of my ire, and then I turned it on Riley's father, Paul Lahote.
When Riley was almost two, I decided to try to find Paul. I knew he had ties to the local Quileute and Makah tribes, but I knew nothing else about him. He wasn't hard to find. Six months after he left, he was arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct during a bar fight in which a man was accidentally killed. When the police searched his motorcycle, they found an unregistered gun and a large enough quantity of marijuana to charge him with intent to sell. He was still serving a four year sentence. The fight did not bother me, neither did the gun or the marijuana, what did bother me was the fact that he was ten years older than me.
It was true that I was twenty when we started our short affair, certainly not an underaged teenager, but I was an inexperienced, naive young woman who still lived at home with her father. He was a thirty-year-old man, experienced and street wise. Like a predator who sensed an easy target, he had relentlessly pursued me and then taken advantage of my ignorance. I had to learn to quit blaming myself for everything that happened between us. Two people were involved and they were both to blame.
I saw Paul one more time when Riley was eight. We were in the local grocery store when I rounded a corner and bumped into another shopping cart. When I looked up to apologize to the other shopper, I realized with a start that it was Paul. He had changed a lot. His hair was short and professionally styled. A long-sleeved knit henley covered his inked arms and he had traded the ripped jeans and heavy boots for a pair of chinos and sneakers. Neither of us moved as we stared at each other in shock. Our moment was interrupted when Riley appeared beside me with two boxes of the cereal he had been searching for. Paul's eyes flickered between us and then widened in surprise as he studied Riley. I watched as realization and then panic spread across his face.
Before either of us could say anything, a young woman stepped up beside him. "I found the diapers, sweetheart. Can you think of anything else we might need?" she asked, dropping the large package into Paul's shopping cart. "Oh, hello," she continued, when she saw me standing there.
Her words startled us, and we both began apologizing at the same time, as we tried to maneuver our carts apart. I took a moment to study her before turning down the next aisle. She was very beautiful, tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed. She wore an infant carrier on her chest and I could see the top of a baby's head nestled against her body. Clearly, Paul had turned his life around. I silently wished him good luck as I walked away.
—O—
I can hear footsteps in the hallway outside my office door. Opening a desk drawer, I pull out another copy of my book and a pen to sign it with. I'm sure the reporter has already read it, but I always give a copy to the press, urging them to pass it along to the girls or women in their lives. I also take a moment to check my hair and makeup in a small mirror I keep there. My office door squeaks as it opens.
—O—
My journal morphed into an online blog. To protect my privacy, I wrote it as a fairy tale. The entries followed the journey of a lonely girl, longing for a Prince Charming to rescue her and take care of her; to a young princess-wife and mother, caught in the suffocating confines of an arranged marriage and society's expectations; and finally, to a grown woman, queen of her own life, responsible for her own decisions and happiness.
Each entry was followed by an interactive discussion. Readers were encouraged to give advice to the main character and comment on the other people in the story. Many times the conversations became heated, conflicting viewpoints clashing in free-for-all arguments that sometimes led to heart-breaking revelations and eye-opening dialogue. As the moderator and therapist, I sometimes intervened and pointed out issues I thought the readers had overlooked. Over and over, I reiterated the importance of consulting with a professional.
My readership grew. Almost overnight it seemed as if hundreds and then thousands of people were following and actively participating in my blog. People started mentioning it on their social media accounts, other bloggers discussed it on their sites. Suddenly there were articles in the press, and a few mentions on talk radio programs. So many readers, both men and women began sharing their stories, that I opened a link just for people to post their own narratives.
Then one day I received a phone call from a book editor. The result of our collaboration was the best-seller that sat on my desk. With the permission of each individual, we collected their anonymous accounts into a volume of tales that explored the lives of women everywhere. There were stories of abuse; verbal, physical, and sexual. There were stories that discussed the effects of neglect and indifference. Stories that explored the exact opposite, from the stifling effects of over-controlling parents, boyfriends and husbands. Stories of low expectations, of low self-esteem, of low possibilities. Their memoirs were filled with tragedy, determination, and ultimately hope as they struggled to change their narratives to one of fulfillment, happiness and success.
My story was there, too, tucked anonymously inside along with the others. I left nothing out. All the details, the good, the bad, the mistakes, the self-loathing, they were laid bare in the hope that girls and women, boys and men would learn from the mistakes Mike and I made.
Because we had fashioned each story into the form of a cautionary fairy tale, because we were encouraging the reader to move away from the storybook fantasies of the stereotypical Prince Charming, the controlling Alpha Billionaire or the romantic reformed Bad Boy, and because happy endings are still waiting for all of us, we picked Once as the title of the book. The first sentence, on the first page read "Once upon a time…. "
Within weeks of its publication, Once became a New York Times best seller. Perhaps it was its universal message, perhaps it was the rise of the "Me Too" movement, or perhaps the expanded national awareness of women's rights and issues. Whatever the cause, it found a receptive audience of women and men who were searching for direction and advice to help navigate the changing dynamics between male and female.
There were requests for interviews, television appearances, radio talk shows. A book tour was planned and speaking engagements scheduled. Some I did, some I didn't. My son and my students were still my top priorities, and when possible I tried to fill the publicity requests without leaving Seattle. Which is why I had agreed to the interview with the reporter from the Times who is currently entering my office.
Rising from my chair, I step around the edge of my desk, extending my hand in welcome to the man who is standing just inside the door. When I tilt my head up to greet him, I'm caught in the gaze of one of the most handsome men I have ever met. Mrs. Campbell's words about his appearance repeat in my muddled brain and all I can think is that she and I are finally in total agreement.
He takes my offered hand, but instead of shaking it, he holds it gently in his as he studies my face intently. I feel almost a sense of recognition, as if I've met him somewhere or sometime before. He must feel something too, because his grip tightens as he takes one step closer to me. For one fleeting moment, I'm almost persuaded to believe in Prince Charmings, in soul-mates, in karma, in happily-ever-afters.
"Hello," he begins, before swallowing nervously and clearing his throat. He glances down at our joined hands, a smile slowly spreading across his face as he raises his gaze to mine.
"Hello, I'm Edward Cullen."
.
.
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AN: Okay, I know you saw that coming! LOL Thank you, dear readers, for the wonderful reviews and for the enthusiasm you've shown for this little story. I have been completely blown away by your kind words. Please excuse any mistakes. They are all mine.