Author's Notes (December 15, 2010): Thanks to the usual culprits, duskwatcher2153, Aleeab4u and GreatChemistry. I'm very lucky to have them. :)
Chapter pic: bit(dot)ly/sotpm15-pic
Chapter music: bit(dot)ly/sotpm15-playlist (Music's sort of important in this chapter…)
"SINS OF THE PIANO MAN"
CHAPTER 15: THE ART OF SAYING GOODBYE
"Our history is an aggregate of last moments."
From "Gravity's Rainbow" by Thomas Pynchon
ISABELLA SWAN
It was just after five in the morning, and Charlie, Carlisle, Edward and I were headed west, bumping along winding, hilly back roads that needed repaving. Exhausted after working an extra shift the day before, I fought sleep against Edward's shoulder as we came up to the pointed toe of Boot Bay. It didn't matter that I was tired, though. I wouldn't miss this fishing trip with Charlie for anything.
No matter how I felt about fishing—for the record, it's boring and messy—I wanted this time with him. To love him, to right old wrongs from fishing trips of the past, where all I'd done was bitch and moan about slimy worms and the mosquitoes that seemed to find me, no matter the season or how much repellant I bathed myself in. Far too aware that this was probably the last fishing trip we'd take, I wouldn't be so immature this time. When you find yourself with a limited number of goodbyes, you don't waste them on pettiness.
With the old boat that Charlie usually kept in storage hitched to the back of the Cullens' Jeep, we made our way to Ozette Lake. It felt weird to go there for fishing, rather than down to La Push, but Charlie hadn't set foot on the reservation since Billy nonchalantly excused Jacob's change of heart in my senior year of high school. Charlie had gone fishing at Ozette Lake ever since, but I'd never been with him. It suited me just fine to go there, though; it probably suited Carlisle, too, given the strained relationship between the Cullens and the Quileutes. I'd never understand what was between them, but I didn't want to be a part of it, if possible.
The scenery surrounding Ozette Lake didn't look all that different to what was around the ponds Charlie used to take me to in La Push. But I was glad that I knew it was in fact a different place. When Charlie was…gone, I could freely come here without having to deal with anyone or anything else, to feel his ghost on the water, to see him smiling and at peace. The water, the woods, the earth—those were my father's simple pleasures, and I wanted to think that if there was a life after death, he'd be free to roam the land he so dearly loved. The only thing I wished differently was that he'd have more time in this life for that.
Life isn't fair, though, and—what was that other cliché?—time stands still for no man? It certainly didn't for my father. We had little time left. I could feel it in my bones, a dull, visceral ache.
We drove to a remote part of the bay, where frogs were still leaping in the dewy grass, their bodies occasionally popping up into sight…only to be grotesquely mowed down by the Jeep's massive, all-terrain tires. Clunk, clunk, clunk. It was a macabre way to start the morning.
Carlisle expertly backed the boat up to the water using only side mirrors. With its dented front and chipped, sea foam green paint, seeing Charlie's boat hitched to this extravagant monster of a vehicle was comical, but the display felt somehow fitting for our little misfit group.
As Carlisle and Edward prepared the boat, moving tackle boxes, fishing rods and two coolers—one large and bearing drinks, one small with live bait—I sat in the Jeep with Charlie. In the passenger side mirror, I could see his lips pursed in a straight line. He hated letting others do the heavy-lifting. Worse, watching as it was done was a slow torture. I understood his frustration all too well, having inherited a lot of that independence (and stubbornness), but I also knew he was in no shape to go lifting heavy objects by himself.
Even he knew that now. As if to prove this fact, he shivered and pulled his jacket closer, even though it was toasty warm in the Jeep. It was happening now. The reprieve, the burst of energy after he'd stopped chemo, was wearing off.
"Dad? I have a blanket for you back here." I reached for my backpack, which held an ugly, but very warm, green and red plaid blanket. He waved it off with a hand and gave me what I'd come to think of as the Manly Grunt, an all-purpose sound that I was fairly certain all men over the age of thirty spontaneously acquired.
I sighed and double-checked the items in the bag before tucking the blanket back into place. I'd filled the backpack with the blanket, cough syrup, pain medication, tissues, hand sanitizer and a satellite phone, in case of an emergency. After all, I figured there was no reception on the lake. I'd tried to think of everything when I packed, but I still feared I'd forgotten some item that might make a difference for my father—ease his pain or heal him. Not that I could heal him, no matter how much I wanted to. At least Carlisle was with us if something did go wrong…
My heart pounded as my mind spiraled through the possibilities. How and when he might die. Would it be very painful? Would I be there? Would it happen today? Tomorrow?
And most of all: Why him? Why my father?
There were no answers to these questions. There never were.
"Just need some fresh air is all," Charlie said at random. He pulled in a ragged breath that rattled through his chest, as if the fluid building up in and around his lungs was literally growling at its host. The sound was loud in the quiet confines of the Jeep, and it echoed in my head, joining nightmarish images of my father connected to machines and oxygen. Life support. But was that a life worth living? Was that life at all?
"Fresh air would be good," I agreed, my own voice distant. "I love you, Dad." There weren't enough times left for me to say that.
"Love you, too, Bells."
We were silent as we listened to Edward and Carlisle's muffled speech, catching no words through the monster truck's windows. Maybe they're bulletproof, I thought wryly. They looked it.
"You know, I like Edward," Charlie said.
"Oh. Uh…" I felt my face heat up. "Yeah, me too." I looked out the rear windshield, as if to check that no one else could hear this potentially embarrassing chat. The last father-daughter talk Charlie had with me concerning boyfriends had been a rather too-little-too-late sex talk. Thankfully, Edward and Carlisle seemed busy with their own conversation. "He's a really great guy," I added. "I love spending time with him."
"I've noticed." In the side mirror, Charlie's eyes met mine. "He treat you well?"
"Very," I murmured, afraid of where this conversation might be going.
He gave another grunt. "You, uh, thinking he's maybe the one, then?" His voice sounded oddly hopeful.
My blush deepened as I looked down at my lap with a small smile. "Maybe." I didn't exactly have wedding bells ringing in my head, but it'd be a lie to say I'd not secretly considered the tonal qualities of Isabella Marie Masen. Or Edward Anthony Swan. Or Swan-Masen. I was a modern woman, after all—or so I told myself.
Really, I hated that the idea even popped into my head, but it was there, nonetheless—laughing defiantly at my logical side and every cautionary tale Renée had ever told about serious relationships at my age.
"Maybe. Uh-huh." He sighed.
"What is it?"
"This isn't easy for me to say…"
I waited, and a knot coiled tightly in my stomach of its own accord.
"Look," he said finally, "I know I told you when you were younger to hold off on the serious stuff until you were—what'd I say?—thirty?"
That was the only thing he and Renée had clearly agreed on since their divorce, I thought, even if they'd never very openly argued after the papers were signed.
"I've got a bit more perspective on time since then, though," he continued. "Not sure that was the best advice, so much as the wishful thinking of your old man." He snorted. "Just, when it comes to the big decisions, whenever they come up, know your mind, okay? That's all that matters. Do what's right for you."
"I'll try, Dad," I whispered, hopelessly wishing he'd be with me for the journey.
Satisfied, he smiled. "Good." I watched him look down, but from the backseat, I could see his neck redden. His body language told me he was embarrassed. "No matter what you do, I'll always be proud of you, Bells."
I stood along the lake shoreline, breathing in misty, spruce and pine scented air. The sun had risen at some point, but you wouldn't know it in this part of the world unless you looked closely enough; the gray-white clouds above were lay low and heavy. We were bathed in faded light, and that was unlikely to change during this time of the year.
Sometimes I really missed the sun. Maybe I'd go somewhere warm and sunny…after.
"All right, Charlie, if you'll just grab Bella's backpack, I'll help you in," I heard Carlisle say. He stood in the boat, a friendly smile on his movie star face and a hand outstretched toward my father. I smiled at the scene. Carlisle was helping Charlie in such a polite way that it made it seem normal, not a matter of a doctor helping his cancer patient, whose coordination was affected by pain medication and muscle deterioration.
It was interesting to watch Carlisle at work—or to be in his care, considering I'd had substantial experience with that, too. He had the bedside manner of a saint. It probably didn't hurt that he was so easy on the eyes, either. Cullenitis, I liked to think of it. They were all so…pretty. Damn them.
And very much like Edward. I frowned, still confused by their many shared physical attributes—poor circulation, muscle stiffness, eye discoloration. How was it Edward shared so many features with the Cullens, a hodgepodge family of adoptees? The only thing I could figure was that they all suffered from the same disorder and, with the exception of Edward, had come together through that. Maybe that was how Carlisle and Esme had met—at some Annual Conference for the Stiff and Frigid—why they'd adopted the children they had. Perhaps Edward's likeness to them was pure coincidence.
Was it?
I still didn't have a clue what disease ailed them. Even as my relationship with the Cullens had grown since Charlie became sick, I didn't feel comfortable enough to ask them such a personal question, and Edward was keeping quiet about the whole matter. Unsurprisingly.
I looked away as Charlie struggled over the side of the boat, my backpack hooked over a scrawny arm. I wanted to stop him, say I could take my own things, but the determined smile on his face made it obvious that he was happy to be doing something—anything—that he perceived as useful. Charlie Swan liked to be of service. That's why he'd been a cop.
Looking down into the lake, I stared at my reflection. The mirror image rippled and rolled with the gentle lapping of the water, and was blemished by short, brown reeds. Even with the distortion, I could see I looked tired, though, a little sunken in. Like I'd gotten into a cat fight. With myself.
My wavy hair, made frizzy by the humidity, only made me look worse as it stuck up around the crown of my head like a crazed bird's nest. I rubbed my hands over it in a meager attempt to tame the beast. Well, you certainly don't suffer from Cullenitis, do you?
"Penny for your thoughts?" a voice whispered in my ear.
I jumped a little, a hand going to my heart. "God, what have I told you about sneaking up on me? You'll give me a heart attack."
"Your heart's fine." Chuckling, Edward wrapped an arm my waist. "Sorry. I didn't mean to surprise you—this time, at least." He squeezed my hip. "Are you all right?" His eyes flickered over to Charlie, who was already impaling bait on a hook, then back to me.
I shrugged. "I guess. I just know today is probably our last fishing trip."
"Ah."
"Yeah," I sighed.
I looked up at Edward's face, at the sharp, angular lines of his jaw and the Romanesque nose that reminded me of pictures of men from another time. Muted as it was, the outdoor light showcased his unruly hair in all its glory; strands of copper red, cinnamon brown and the occasional dusty blonde shifted across his forehead with the blustery wind.
"You need more time with your father," he said after a few moments of thought. He stared at me closely, studying me with that aggressive curiosity that sometimes made me blink and look away.
I looked away now. "Yeah, but there's nothing I can do about that."
"Maybe there is. We'll figure something out," he said, sounding confident. He kissed my hair. "Now, let's go while they're still biting. I think your father's getting antsy."
We spent the morning in relative silence, because what the hell else can you do when fishing? The fish get spooked if you're too loud or rock the boat too much. We did neither. Charlie, who was more serious about fishing than Simon Peter, made sure of that. I didn't mind the still silence so much, though. I was with the most important men in my life, and just being beside them was enough to make the day wonderful. I would always treasure this memory.
Unfortunately, despite our silence, the fish seemed to have gone on vacation. By noon, we'd only caught a few of what Charlie called pikeminnows. (To me, they just looked like typical bug-eyed fish.) Faring worse than we'd thought we would, we returned to shore to spread out a picnic blanket and have lunch—finger foods in the form of sandwiches, fruits and cheeses that Esme had packed in a cooler the size of Texas. She always did that—prepared too much food. I guessed it came from caring for so many kids over the years, even if it was just Carlisle, Alice and her now.
Carlisle and Edward decided to take a walk while they ate, so that left me alone with Charlie. We sat beside each other on the cool, damp ground, our backs against the rough bark of a pine tree. The green needles matched the garish plaid blanket that Charlie had finally allowed me to cover his outstretched legs with.
When he'd finished his sandwich and fruit—he was upset to find there were no potato chips—he ignored the napkins and dusted his hands off on his sweatshirt. "Don't think I'll make it to Christmas," he said casually.
I nearly choked on the ham I'd been chewing. "Dad?"
"Just giving you a heads up."
"Are you feeling worse?"
He shrugged a shoulder. "Not really. Tired as hell, though. Might be the pain meds, I guess, but I don't think so. This is just a hunch I have. Still, thought you should know."
Seeing my shocked expression, he tried to smooth things over. "Don't worry about it, Bells. I said it was just a hunch. Could be wrong—wouldn't be the first time." He smiled wryly. "You might be stuck with me for another year."
My skin was cold with dread and clammy from the humid air. I felt like one of the fish we'd put in the cooler. I was just as dumbstruck, too. How could he talk about his death like that? I'd resigned myself to the inevitable: my father was dying, would die soon. But did he have to talk about it so callously?
"I—" But my words died, because I had none to give.
Charlie changed the subject. "Have you talked to your mom lately?"
He didn't really expect me to just accept what he'd said and not thoroughly discuss it, did he? But then, what was there to say? Looking into his eyes, I knew he didn't want to talk about it—he had really just been giving me a heads up. Charlie hated uncomfortable conversations, particularly when it came to his health, and he'd avoid them if he could. He wanted to now.
I felt myself scowl, but decided to give in to his wishes, because talking about it wouldn't change the when or how of his death.
"She emailed the other day to say she'd call tonight. I haven't…spoken to her in a few weeks." I may have deleted a few voicemails, too. To be fair, they were about mundane things going on in Florida—like how she'd taken up a Pilates class that was apparently life changing.
"Don't be so hard on her," Charlie said, detecting my frustration.
I snorted.
"I mean it, Bells."
"Well, what do you want me to be with her?" I barked as I sat up straighter against the rough bark of the tree trunk. "She should be here, helping us—helping you. Especially if you think it-it's going to happen sooner than Carlisle said. We're her family, and she should be here."
Charlie shook his head. "No, she shouldn't. You're her family. I'm not. She has a whole different life on the other side of the country, and she pretty well has for going on twenty years. She's remarried. I'm not her responsibility, anymore than she's mine."
I grit my teeth. "I'm sure Renée would be happy to hear that. That's all she's ever wanted—a life free from responsibility." And if she could land it on my shoulders, all the better.
His face reddened. "Now, don't go flying off the handle and say bad things about your mom. You know she means well."
Why did he always defend her? Why did he still love her? How?
But then I knew, didn't I?
Swans were stubbornly constant creatures.
"No, she doesn't!" I argued. My words came out louder than I'd intended. Black birds—crows, maybe—flew off from a nearby tree, cackling madly as they went. "All she means is to not make any hard decisions. She never sticks to anything or anyone, because she's too immature. No one's ever made her be anything else."
Had he forgotten how easily she'd left when I was a baby? She'd robbed Charlie and me of nearly seventeen years together. How could he be so damned forgiving? Tears of anger burned my eyes.
"You could take a lesson from her, you know."
I sucked in a breath. "What?"
"You're living your life too much around"—he waved his hand—"this. Around me."
"That's not true," I said. I didn't regret the choices I'd made to help Charlie financially. It was the right thing to do.
"Isn't it?"
His eyes were hawkish, like he was investigating me, and I dug my fingers into the soft dirt at the base of the pine tree, discomfited by his stare. The brown irises that matched my own were all the darker seeming for the bluish shadows that were now ever-present beneath his eyes. This, coupled with his weight loss, which made bones stand out on his face, only heightened the bird-like qualities of his expression.
"Don't think I haven't noticed the mysteriously paid for or altogether absent bills, Bella. I was going through papers the other week and noticed a pattern." He raised a brow; it was lightly dusted with hair since he'd stopped chemo.
"That—"
"And don't try to pin it on the Cullens, either, 'cause I've already had a chat with Carlisle and Esme, so I know they're not behind it." He took a swig of his beer. "So what is it, Bells? Are you working more than you should be to help pay for things? That money should be going to your expenses and savings. I don't want your grades to take a hit on account of me, either."
I winced on the inside, because of course there weren't any classes I was attending for me to even begin to fail them! I swallowed hard. "I guess I am working a lot of hours," I said quietly. If I spoke any louder, I feared it'd be obvious that I was lying by omission. I'd gotten better at lying in the past few years, but I still wasn't great at it. My face could be an open book if I wasn't well prepared.
Charlie reached over and patted my knee. "Well, stop that. Be a bit more like Renée, Bells. Be young and selfish, for once. Live your life. You never know how much of it there is. If you can learn anything from all this, let it be that, I reckon."
Grabbing one of the orange prescription bottles I'd laid out with our food, he retrieved two yellow, oblong pills and took them with his beer. The instructions advised against using them with alcohol, of course, but good luck getting Charlie to follow that at this point.
He tilted his head back, gulping down the last few swallows. "Besides," he said, coming away from the bottle with a smack of his lips, "seems like you've got someone who wants to spend time with you. And you've got Lauren and Angela. Haven't heard you speak about them since your birthday."
I frowned and reluctantly nodded.
The truth was I'd hardly seen them between work, seeing Charlie and spending a few nights the past week at Edward's. We kept different schedules, what with their being in school and having part-time jobs of their own. Those things led to other friends and social circles; the world wasn't contained in the old, faded hallways of Forks High, after all. Circumstance was changing my friendship with them.
I did miss them, though, and I silently vowed to spend some time with them after work soon, if at all possible. If time and place could line up for us.
Sometimes it felt like there was never enough time for anything, much less anyone. One lifetime just wasn't enough—I glanced at my father—especially when it was cut short.
We were sitting ducks, waiting for the inevitable. Swans hate being ducks.
Carlisle and Edward returned and meandered to our pine tree, looking disheveled and windblown, like they'd been running. Their grins were wide, filled with life and fresh air.
I stifled a laugh as I looked at Edward's hair more closely. It was blown back from his forehead, almost flat against his head. As he knelt before me, I picked a leaf from the soft locks and rustled my fingers through it. It stuck up wildly in whorls and cowlicks.
"Have fun?" I asked. It was a completely unnecessary question.
He answered with boyish grin, and the tear in my heart was mended, even if only for the moment. "I did," he said. He jutted two closed fists out to me and nodded at them. "Pick one."
I rolled my eyes, while silently I loved when he was playful. "Really?"
"I wouldn't pick the right one, were I you," Carlisle said, pulling a twig from his shirt.
"Er, okay." I touched Edward's left hand. "This one."
Before Carlisle could get out "I meant your right," Edward had opened his hand, and a tiny, brown-speckled frog popped out onto my forearm—all wet and sticky—before rapidly hopping to the ground and beyond, fleeing to taller grasses. He was obviously trying to get as far away from Edward as possible, which was pretty understandable, considering.
I jumped up and rubbed at my arm. It was like a phantom frog was stuck on my skin. "Argh, that was disgusting! He was so cold!" I cried above the raucous guffaws of the three men sitting on the ground.
My hands went to my hips as I gave them my best glare. "It's just fucking hilarious, isn't it?" I growled.
Carlisle hissed air through his nose as more laughter rippled through him. Where was his damn saintly bedside manner now?
"You should've seen your face!" Charlie said between laughter and coughs.
My face was hot with embarrassment and a good deal of anger as I turned and walked away, fists at my sides. They called after me, but I didn't go back. I had to get away, even if just for a moment. My emotions were all over the place enough as it was; having a childish prank pulled on me was the last thing I'd needed.
It wasn't long before leaves and grass crunched beneath another set of shoes.
"Bella?"
"Leave me alone, Edward," I said, crossing my arms over my chest as I walked along the shore.
"I'm sorry," he said, but a breathy chuckle slipped past his lips.
I looked over my shoulder and scowled. "Clearly."
"I was just having some fun."
"Yeah, well, I was having a really difficult conversation with my father—several, actually. I wasn't in the mood for that."
He came up beside me. "Hey, I am sorry," he said softly. "I thought you could use a laugh, given the nature of today. Perhaps it was poorly planned… Carlisle tried to warn me."
"You should have listened to him," I said, but then I felt tension go out of my shoulders as I sighed. "Actually, no, I'm sorry. I'm just…"
"Stressed?"
"Yeah."
"Give me your hand," he said.
"What? No way. You can't expect me to fall for that again."
He rolled his eyes. "Some credit, please. I promise it's something good."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "If it's another frog…so help me." I shuddered, remembering clammy, amphibian skin.
He flashed a smirk. "Promise it's not. The first one was hard enough for me to catch, anyway. They don't exactly like me."
"I wonder why," I said dryly.
"Oh, I'm sure they dislike me for multiple reasons. Just give me your hand."
"Fine," I grumbled and held out my palm to him.
His hand closed over mine; what he left behind felt cool and round—and thankfully unanimated. He closed my fingers over the object; it was rough and grainy to the touch.
I opened my hand before me and found a flat, sand-colored rock that had dark brown veins. It was caked with mud along its edges and grooves and didn't even cover the whole of my palm. It was a fairly ordinary rock, but the randomness of nature had made it into something more. In its center was the shallow imprint of a dragonfly. It was a fossil.
"Edward!" I whispered in awe. I so should have picked this hand first!
"Rather lovely, isn't it?" he said, smiling.
"Yes." I ran my finger over the indentations, tracing the fine outline of what must have once been a shimmering wing and a knobby exoskeleton. "Aren't fossils really rare?" I asked, staring at it as we continued to walk aimlessly. Edward had grabbed hold of my elbow to guide me, and—I suspected—to catch me if I went tripping all over the place, given that I wasn't watching where I was going.
He shrugged. "They're more common near areas with mud," he said. "A lake's rather muddy territory."
"Wow. And of course you knew how to find this sort of thing."
"No." He looked sheepish. "Carlisle showed me."
"Oh."
"Mm. Dr. Cullen can be a real wealth of information," Edward said in a dry tone that seemed to suggest he and Carlisle had had at least one interesting conversation to date.
Oh to be a fly on that wall.
"It's beautiful," I said finally, smiling down at the fossil. A dragonfly is much better than a damn frog, I thought. "Thank you."
Pulling us to a stop, Edward leaned in and kissed my temple. "I thought it appropriate."
"How so?"
He ran a hand through his hair. "I know you're…afraid. That you'll forget him. It's a natural fear to have, but you won't forget."
Was I that obvious?
I swallowed hard and looked away, but Edward grabbed my chin and turned my head back, forcing me to look at him straight on. His golden eyes were soft, but there was a strength behind them that reminded me of a large cat's gaze—a lion's, maybe. I breathed in his sweet scent and felt myself relax, if only a little.
"Death leaves its mark, but so does life, Bella. You'll never forget him or his life, regardless of how many moments you have left with him."
"So you remember your parents well?"
He let go of me and breathed in deeply, his nostrils flaring. "No. No, I don't, but then my circumstances were very different to yours. I don't have many memories of my parents, but at the same time, they're still there—somewhere—I think. They aren't forgotten. I've learned that, flawed as I am, as much as I have gone against their teachings—given that I can't remember them well enough to follow them—I'm still evidence that they once existed. And you won't forget like I did."
Maybe it was because he told me so little about himself, but sometimes I forgot how similar Edward and I were, barring the outwardly obvious fact that he was classically beautiful, and I was a Plain Jane. He'd maybe not gone through what I was going through—not exactly—but he'd gone through something comparable. It was a strange, bittersweet comfort.
"You were really young when they died, weren't you?" I knew he'd been a child, but I didn't know how young he'd been.
He glanced down at his shoes. "I was much younger, yes."
Reaching up, I brushed my fingers through his silky hair. "I love you," I said, squeezing the fossil in my other hand.
A small smile tilted his lips. "And I you."
"They would be proud of you, you know—of your music, of who you are."
He snorted through his nose and took a step back. "No. I'm quite sure they wouldn't be."
I opened my mouth to argue, but he swiftly turned away and headed back to where Charlie and Carlisle sat beneath the pine tree. His shoulders were stiff as I trailed behind him, drawn to him once more.
We didn't go back out on the lake in the afternoon. Instead, we sat and talked or took small walks when Charlie felt he could handle the movement. Charlie taught Edward the art of fly fishing and about which bait you should choose for what occasion and species of fish—conversations I'd suffered through a hundred times, but somehow didn't mind hearing this time. Edward smiled and asked questions where Charlie obviously wanted him to.
By sunset, I was nearly in tears at the prospect of leaving our woodsy bubble, but Carlisle insisted we return before nightfall, when autumn coolness and humidity would descend like a dark cloak and cause Charlie discomfort. I didn't want to go, though, because leaving would be the end—a goodbye. Charlie wouldn't make a trip like this again; he'd be too tired and ill to sit in the cold dampness for hours on end, especially as winter came on.
Charlie mistook my silent depression for tiredness.
"You kids should head on back to Port Angeles when we get in," he said. Part of me knew he also didn't want me to be around to hover over him like a fly at a summer picnic. "Been a long day."
"But a good one, right?" I asked, reaching for his hand as we watched Carlisle and Edward hitch the boat back onto the Jeep. "Even if we didn't catch much?"
Charlie coughed against his shoulder. Straightening up, he looked over the calm water. The purplish afternoon light and long, swaying reeds reflected in his eyes. He was committing the scene to memory. "Today was one of the best, Bells," he said and squeezed my fingers.
Goodbye, I thought to the coolly indifferent lake as I sat beside Edward in the back of the Cullens' Jeep.
Though I maybe could have seen Angela and Lauren had we gone back to my place after seeing Charlie safely home, Edward and I decided on his place for the night. After showering and having dinner, we sat on the khaki sofa in his living room, an eclectic range of music playing through the stereo speakers.
I never knew what would come from Edward's playlist next—jazz or jigs, rock or reggae, baroque or big band. While some genres he clearly favored more than others, I knew he was a lover of all styles of music—whatever he thought to be "good," in terms of technicality, expression or lyricism. Despite the diverse array, there was a sort of consistency in it all—some link between all the sounds and songs. The link was Edward himself, I thought, and I found myself smiling, even when the music wasn't something I'd usually listen to.
Jeff Buckley's voice floated through the room now, all satin earnest.
Well, it's my time coming… I'm not afraid to die…
Did my father feel that way?
Sometimes I was angry and wanted him to fight harder, even if I knew it was a pointless fight in the grand scheme of things. A part of me raged. How dare he give up? Dylan Thomas' poetry floated up from memory…
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And Buckley answered in kind.
My time has come… It reminds me of the pain I might leave…leave behind.
It was funny how death was something we all experienced indirectly and directly—and yet no one really had one, true way of dealing with it. I sighed.
My feet were bare in Edward's lap as he massaged my instep with cool, skilled fingers. A look of concentration pulled his thick brows together, as if this was the most important task he'd had, er, fall onto his lap.
He took the little toe of my right foot between two of his fingers and jiggled it back and forth, as if testing it. "What happened here?"
"What?"
"It's slightly crooked. Still lovely, mind, but crooked."
"Oh." I laughed. "I broke it." And didn't know it was that noticeable. Thanks.
This should be good, I thought. Edward had taken to cataloguing every little scar on my body—and asking about them, as if by knowing their history he might prevent all further injury or at least worry the existing marks right off of me. It was endearing. And futile. I maybe wasn't as accident prone as I'd been when I first stepped foot in Washington, but it was only a matter of time. Bruises and broken bones were part of the Bella Swan package.
He sighed heavily, like a mother exhausted from dealing with a worrisome child. "You broke it more than once, I'm thinking."
"Three times." I almost sounded proud. You could be that way, when the bones had healed—even if crookedly. My own personal battle scar…after losing to doorframes and the corners of coffee tables.
"Christ, Bella," he breathed. He stretched an arm along the back of the sofa and brought his fingers to the side of my face, where he touched the scar there. I didn't move or look away anymore. While invasive, I knew he was just studying me. He did that. "Sometimes I want to clothe you in bubble wrap and stuff you in a fallout shelter," he said.
I snorted, not doubting him. "I'm sure I'd still find a way to get hurt." I turned my head and kissed his palm.
"Possibly." His lips pressed into a thin line and went back to massaging my feet, his fingers now particularly careful around my little toes.
I watched him at work, reveling in his touch. "I wish she'd just call already," I sighed, letting my head fall back against the armrest.
"Is that why you're so tense?" His thumb swept across my heel.
"Am I?"
Having brought one of the bottles of vodka that had been leftover from my birthday to Edward's in the past week, I'd started in on a drink as soon as we'd gotten in. I didn't feel particularly tense—at least physically. Introspective and floaty, perhaps, but not tense.
"Your muscles are stiff," Edward murmured.
Maybe I'm catching your disease, I thought, rolling my eyes.
I nudged his stomach with my foot. "Well, if I'm so tense, you have to be nice to me."
"And what is it I'm doing now—being cruel? Besides, I'm always nice to you." He waggled his brows suggestively, and I laughed loudly.
"Okay, then. Be nice and play me something?" I said with a grin, nodding to the concert grand in the corner of the room. Lucky was curled up beside the polished instrument on a fluffy, blue dog bed, his back legs kicking as he lost himself to canine dreams.
Smiling, Edward moved my feet onto the sofa and rose in his usual fluid grace. He kissed my forehead, turned off the stereo and strode to the piano on long, confident legs. He'd played for me a few times over the past week, and he always slid effortlessly into the role of self-assured musician, as if the piano was just another extension of himself—a limb of his body, rather than an acquired skill. Some people are born to do things, and Edward was born to communicate through music. I'd known that much since the first time I'd heard him in Seattle.
Would I ever be that good at anything? What would I be, who would I be, when my father was gone? Would I go back to school? Would I be an English teacher, like I'd once thought?
Edward always began with the same piece, "Sweet Hour of Prayer." It was a hymn I was familiar with from the few times I'd gone with my Gran to church; she'd been a moderately dedicated Presbyterian. Edward played the hymn with a weary smile, his body occasionally swaying with the sound. Though he'd not written this piece, I knew without asking that he thought of someone when he played it.
Who? Why?
I lay back on the sofa as one piece bled into another, blending like watercolors. While he tended to play classical works—I recognized Bach and Debussy—there were contemporary songs among his repertoire, too, masterfully transposed to suit solo piano.
With my eyes closed, I interrupted him at the start of a new piece. "Edward, do you take requests?"
He continued to play with his left hand, lightly tinkering with arpeggios as he gazed at me. "Of what nature? Musical or…" His eyes squinted in amused mischief.
"The musical kind. In this case." I laughed, feeling shy. For some reason, I always felt more timid when we were both fully dressed. There was something to be said for seeing Edward in less clothing. (Actually, a lot of things to be said.) It had a way of making me bolder than I usually was.
We were both clothed now, though, and I was far from being in the mood.
"What is it you'd like to hear?" he asked, smiling.
"Well, the thing is…" I hesitated, chewing at my lower lip.
Edward laughed. "Just spit it out, Bella. For my sanity."
"Would you compose something? By request?"
His fingers stopped moving along the keys, and the room fell silent, save for the natural noise of whistling wind as it passed the floor-to-ceiling windows of the house.
"People don't usually request the sort of compositions I create," Edward said, sounding grim. "But what do you have in mind?"
"Something for Charlie. You make such beautiful music, and I want something like that to remember him by. I know you say I won't forget anything, but…"
"I can certainly try," he said. "I will try." It was a vow.
I smiled, feeling some sort of immense relief steal over me. "Thank you. If you can't, I'll understand. I just—"
"I can," he interrupted. He wasn't being arrogant about it, merely stating fact. "My only reservation is that I may not do your father justice." He looked at the bookcase that held the black and mysterious, name-filled binders.
"Sometimes I wonder…" he trailed off, almost as if he'd forgotten I was in the room, though I knew that wasn't the case. "It's so difficult to capture the essence of a human being. Humans are made up of defining moments, moments that change them—us—many of which no one else is present for or takes notice of; trying to figure out what makes a man"—he glanced at me—"or woman tick is like trying to pick apart a riddle." He sighed. "One I'm never sure I adequately solve, at that."
"I'm not asking for it to be perfect," I said, though I highly doubted any music he created would be anything less than that.
"No, I suppose you aren't." He smiled, but his body was rigidly erect, and no joy lit his golden eyes.
I chewed on my lip for a minute, thinking. He stared at the piano keys, off in a world of thought. I knew better than to ask him to share those thoughts. He wouldn't.
"Would you play some of your music for me?"
He hesitated. I wasn't sure why, but he'd so far been unwilling to play his compositions for me. Not including the transposed contemporary music and the hauntingly beautiful lullaby he hummed to me each night, the last time I'd heard his work had in fact been in Seattle. I longed to hear his music again, no matter how heartbreaking some of the pieces might be.
Something in my face seemed to convince him. He nodded, and a look of concentration descended upon his brow as his lips bowed downward in a slight frown.
Just like the first time, I closed my eyes and let myself be swept away into the ghost-filled world Edward created. He played his music differently than when he played the classics or even the converted contemporary songs. Here, in the pieces he'd made, I saw him for who he was—a man who carried guilt, whether justified or not. These were songs of atonement, musical letters of apology that seemed incongruous with the more hopeful lilt of the lullaby I knew he'd also composed.
I wept as silently as I could as each piece conjured up familiar and unfamiliar faces all at once. He didn't stop playing; crying, I guessed, was probably a very common reaction to his music. And it wasn't painful, honestly. It was cathartic, a pure ache that was also release.
On the edge of all of this, words came to me. Some were familiar—lines from poems or songs long since written. Others were surprisingly new—all my own, possibly poetic phrases that, with enough nurturing, might take form. But they welled up too quickly, sped by before I could grasp them with my tired brain.
Edward moved into a minor key, and I felt the room grow colder and darker, as if by music alone he'd placed us in a vacuum and sucked out all available air.
In my mind's eye, I saw Charlie, his arms neatly beside him as he lay in the plush confines of a wooden box. He wore a suit, which was grossly out of character for a man I'd hardly ever seen dress up. Now his face was pale and lifeless, a fact which was poorly masked with makeup. Was it supposed to make him look more alive?
But all was still—deathly so.
I saw faceless men lower a casket into a wet bed of earth, into a dark place I wouldn't—couldn't—follow. Over the soft sprinkle of rain, Pastor Weber's rich baritone spoke words of peace; about an afterlife with loved ones and a benevolent god, where Charlie would never feel pain, would want for nothing. Shovels rhythmically tossed soil into the gaping hole where the casket lay; the chunks of dirt popped as they landed on the mahogany face of the box.
Minutes or maybe hours passed. Mourners left the cemetery, muttering well-meaning, but hollow condolences as they drifted past.
"So sorry for your loss."
"Your father was a good man."
"We sure will miss him."
"He's at peace now."
"Everything will be all right."
But it wasn't all right as I stood there, allowing darkness to descend and envelop me as the earth had swallowed my father. A poem I'd copied to my journal floated on the wind.
The hourglass speeds its final sands,
In splendor sinks the golden sun,
So men must yield to death's demands
When human life its course has run.
Night fell. The sun rose in the east. The skies cried rain in mist and flood. Still I stood. Spring and summer, fall and winter. Grass grew over the disturbed earth where Charlie lay, leaving only a small, stone marker. It was simple and terribly inadequate.
Charles William Swan
Beloved Father and Friend
1963 – 2008
Loved Always and Forever
Though I stood in one place, I was lost. Though people were around me, cradled in silent graves, I was alone. A solitary fixture in nature, like a scraggly tree. The world moved around me, but I stood by Charlie's grave, confused, detached and aimless.
Something cold and hard pressed into my hand; my fingers closed reflexively, gripping with the same instinctive awareness of a Venus Flytrap. I looked down at my palm, only to find the dragonfly fossil. I stared at it, taking comfort in it, and watched as the dragonfly imprint shook and shimmered, vibrated to life. And then a ghostly form sprang up from the rock—a green and blue dragonfly. It flew up into the atmosphere, into a star-freckled sky, free from its earthly constraint.
"Bella?"
I twitched and woke with a start.
"Edward?" My throat was dry, and I swallowed against soreness.
"I'm here." A cool-fingered hand rested against my chest, above my fluttering heart. It felt like he was holding it in, like removing his hand might mean it would jump out of me. His other hand gripped mine, echoing the weight of the fossil in my dream. Cold, maybe, but steady, stable. I held on tight.
"I fell asleep?" But it hadn't really felt like sleep. It'd been that twilight stage of rest, half awake and half asleep, trapped in a strange limbo where dreams feel more realistic with the aid of semi-cognizant thought.
"Yes, you were asleep." He kissed my forehead. "Your heart's racing," he whispered worriedly. "What can I do?"
I wanted to pull away from him, handle my grief on my own. It wasn't as if he didn't have enough of his own feelings always troubling him. But I was selfish and weak and couldn't do it.
"I feel so…lost," I admitted.
I didn't quite know how to explain it beyond that, and Edward, not fully understanding, didn't reply. He continued to hold my hand.
Have I always been this way? I wondered.
No, I knew I hadn't been. I'd never been one of those people to grip life by the horns and go for a ride, but there'd been purpose and stability in the past—the habitual nature of caring for my mother, the reliability of heat in Phoenix and rain in Forks, a simple love with a smiling boy who made me gifts from leather and wood. And then, even when I'd lost some of those things, I'd had Charlie and school. It wasn't perfect, but it'd been something to hold onto, dammit.
And now…
What now?
"It hurts so much to think about losing him," I said, feeling myself come unglued at the very notion of it. Like I was being flung from the earth, gravity be damned. "And…what do I become after all this?" After my father was gone. "I don't even know who I am anymore."
Edward stared at me with thoughtful eyes before giving me a smile. It was a soft, almost sad tilt of his mouth, one of those expressions he possessed that seemed to imply he'd seen a lot—probably too much—in his twenty years. I reached up and touched his face.
I stared back, waiting and wanting advice, because while I knew Edward Masen might be a little unpredictable and confusing, he was also canny and wise. But it wasn't advice he gave me, in the end. It was a promise.
"You're mine," he said, "and I won't ever let you get lost."
Closing Notes: The lyrics in this chapter were from Jeff Buckley's "Grace," which is a song about accepting death. Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" was also mentioned; it was written for his dying father, who he felt should fight an inevitable end. Finally, Alfred Castner King's "Dying Hymn" is also quoted. It suggests that, no matter one's feelings on death—rage or acceptance—we must all "yield to death's demands." We have little to no control over it.
In other news, thank you to everyone who voted for SotPM in The Sparkleteer's Rare Gem Awards. I didn't come away with anything (I came close for WTF moment, though!), but I feel all warm and fuzzy from the support! :) It really does mean a lot.