Author's Notes (December 31, 2010): Thanks to duskwatcher2153, Aleeab4u and GreatChemistry for polishing rough edges; I made major changes to this chapter, because of their feedback. It's a million times better for it. I should also thank afoolishmortal, jdbeaner and raizie for pimping me out on Twitter and elsewhere. I appreciate it, ladies!
Chapter pic: bit(dot)ly/sotpm16-pic
Chapter Music: bit(dot)ly/sotpm16-music
"SINS OF THE PIANO MAN"
CHAPTER 16: OUTSIDE THE LINES OF REASON
"There is no going back. Bend like the grass that you do not break."
From "Nectar in a Sieve" by Kamala Markandaya
ISABELLA SWAN
One time, when I was ten years old and still living in Phoenix with Renée, I woke in the middle of sleepwalking. I'd somehow ended up in the kitchen that was at the time decorated in a "country style"—chickens, roosters, red barns and all—which hardly fit in with the Arizonian scrub right outside the window. I didn't remember sleepwalking at all, or anything I might have said or done along the way. I went to sleep in my bed, beneath a quilt of sun, moon and stars, and woke in the kitchen, standing up, my hand on the refrigerator door, my feet cold and bare on old, faded blue linoleum. I remember the way my knuckles brushed against a smiling sunshine magnet that had come from a cereal box.
What had I been planning to do? Make breakfast? Get a drink? Climb in? It was a small thing, but I never could remember, and somehow, at twenty-one, it still bothered me that I'd never know, that the answer was buried in that foggy place of dreams you can never quite reach but know is there.
Three weeks had passed since the fishing trip on Ozette Lake, and in that time I'd become a sleepwalker again.
I wasn't so unaware of my surroundings that I didn't know how I made it from Point A to Point B, but one day blurred into the next in a bizarre, dreamlike fashion; I only had control over the little things. One action led to another, but I watched myself perform daily tasks from a distance, like I was seeing someone else portray me in an awkward high school play, on a stage with low-budget settings, stilted acting and orange cake makeup. The third and final act of the play had yet to be written, and it showed in the way the brown-haired girl floundered about, tripped to and fro, and stuttered her lines.
Excluding the obvious, what would happen in the third act? What would happen after the play? If I watched from this foggy distance long enough would I find out?
Each week Charlie worsened. Sometimes I prayed that he'd last until Christmas, feeling that the Halloween that had passed without fanfare and the upcoming Thanksgiving weren't enough. Other times I begged Death to work more swiftly, to be merciful, but Death lingered. He hovered in doorways like a shadowy, uninvited guest. I'd ignored him for a long time, thrown myself into work and hardened my heart, but now he blocked pathways, and there were no more defenses I could use against him.
"Bella, I hope you know we're here for you," Esme had said to me on the phone one day, sensing the dark change in my demeanor.
This sentiment was echoed by Angela and Lauren and Alice; even Judy, in her own brusque way, had told me she was "around" if I needed her. Carlisle had given me the names of grief counselors, whose numbers I didn't call. Edward was there, too, holding me up, loving me in spite of myself. His love was gentle and soothing at night, but love couldn't solve everything, especially when we were apart during the day. That was when I really tore at my seams.
Why wasn't I prepared for Charlie's death? I'd been watching it happen since July, but at times it hadn't felt real; now I knew it was, but there was nothing I could do about it. I felt I should be prepared. This wasn't the first death I'd experienced. My Gran had died when I was eleven, after a stroke, and I'd lost pets—a fat and irritable hamster I'd called Alf and likely enough fish to raise PETA's brows.
But losing Charlie wasn't like losing a pet or even like losing Gran. I was losing my father, the man who'd literally given me half of everything I was. If I wasn't lost when Edward wasn't around, I was something very close to it.
As the days grew darker and colder into November, I wondered how I'd make it through the winter in one piece.
"Sooo, I have some news," Lauren said.
Having eaten the college student's dinner of ramen noodles, we were sitting at the rickety kitchen table, trying to catch up with each other during one of the few times when we were all at the house.
Angela perked up from where she sat beside me, a big grin on her face. "I have news, too." She bounced in her seat a little, which was abnormally hyper for Angela, who was known for her placid personality. "You go first, though," she said to Lauren, polite as always.
Smoothing her hands across the width of the table, Lauren grinned widely and looked at both of us in turn, as if she was before a podium, addressing a small but attentive crowd. Lauren liked theatrics. "Okay. You know the paper I wrote about pubic hair in girl-on-girl pornography?" She looked to the side in thought. "Really, it's more the lack thereof…"
My mouth dropped open.
"Oh, you missed that one, probably," she said as an afterthought, disregarding my surprise. "You've been really…busy, I know. I wrote it a couple of months back."
"It was…interesting," Angela supplied. "I proofread it for her. Very enlightening. Lots of feminist theory. And the history of hair removal advertisements."
Lauren nodded and didn't try to make it educational now. "I'm not into shaving it all off myself, but, God, bushes were huge in the seventies. I see why they called it jungle fever." She shuddered.
Angela frowned. "You shouldn't joke about malaria."
"Malaria?"
"Yeah, jungle yellow fever—malaria—from mosquitoes that've been bitten monkeys. A mission group that visited Dad's church talked about it."
Lauren shrugged, never quite interested in the finer workings of the Weber's brand of Lutheranism.
Shaking my head to rid myself of the persistent images of hairy, malaria-stricken women with awkward O-faces, I asked, "So, this is news how?"
"Oh," Lauren said, "it's gotten me a scholarship to a women's college in New York!"
That was unexpected.
"Wow, that's great!" I exclaimed, and Angela eagerly nodded beside me, malarial faux-pas forgotten.
"I'm dropping out of Peninsula before exams," Lauren told us. "My degree's going to change, anyway, so there's no point in doing that crap if I'm not going to get anything for it. I'm going to move out early, so I can do some sightseeing in the Big Apple before I have to start back." She beamed with her announcement.
A nervous pit settled in my stomach with her growing excitement. "We'll have to find another roommate before you go," I said. There was no way Angela and I could manage rent without her.
Lauren waved a hand. "Don't worry about it. Some chick named Leah Clear-Clear—uh, you know how bad I am with names. I've got her number."
"Leah Clearwater?" I suggested in a squeak as blood drained from my face.
"Hey, that's it! Do you guys know her?" Lauren looked between Angela and me.
"I know her," I said numbly, thinking of a bitter and beautiful, brown-skinned girl who'd had her own La Push betrayal when her boyfriend Sam left her for her less pretty cousin, Emily. When Jacob and I had been dating, it was the juicy, soap-opera-worthy gossip on the rez. What was it with Quileute guys and breaking hearts?
"Leah's okay," I added, "but I don't think I want to be around the company she keeps."
Lauren arched a blonde brow. "Why?"
"She's Quileute. I'm not exactly on the best of terms with the people of La Push." How could I be, when they seemed to hate the Cullens?
And having Leah as a housemate would probably lead to having her younger brother Seth around, which might lead to other Quileute boys, like Jacob. In no universe could I imagine that not being awkward, even if I had Edward now. Sometimes the past needs to stay behind you.
"Wait, she's from La Push?" Angela asked, realization dawning.
I nodded grimly.
"Well, damn," Lauren muttered, catching on. "Small world, huh? I just grabbed her info from Craigslist. She was looking for a place near the college. So you won't be able to get along with her?"
I could have given a complicated answer to that, but instead I just sighed and said I didn't know. Knowing some of the shit Leah had suffered over the years, it didn't seem right to give her the shaft again, right when she was trying to break free from the reservation. If Lauren had told her she could move here, I probably shouldn't stand in her way.
"You really should have cleared her with us first," I said to Lauren, frowning. "This wouldn't have happened if you had. Now she probably thinks this place is all settled for her to move into when you leave."
Lauren opened her mouth to reply, but Angela interrupted with a groan.
"You're going to hate me, too, Bella," she said.
"Hey, she doesn't hate me," Lauren hissed, gently smacking Angela arm.
I tried my best to smile at Angela, but I think I only managed a less pronounced scowl. "Don't be silly."
Her shoulders slumped, and she nervously pulled at her braided hair. "I'm moving out, too." I must have looked upset, because she quickly raised her hands in defense. "Don't worry. I'm getting a roommate lined up. There's a girl I go to church with who will probably move to Port Angeles soon. Her boyfriend's here." She glanced at Lauren. "And my reason for moving isn't as pressing as Lauren's, but I can't stick around for long—only to January, maybe."
"What's going on?" I asked.
"Ben and I are getting married," she said, and a small, sweet smile lit her mouth and eyes.
"What? Congratulations!" I said, trying my best to sound happy as I pulled her into a quick hug. I was happy for her, but I also realized the precarious situation I was now in. The thought of dealing with anymore stressful changes over the next few months made me feel nauseated.
Lauren slapped the table with a hand. "You're getting married? No shit?"
"Yes," Angela laughed. "Or should that be 'no?'"
"Couldn't wait to have sex any longer?"
Angela grimaced. "Well…"
"Don't tell us you're pregnant." Lauren snorted a laugh.
Angela hesitated, and I looked at her in disbelief. "No… No way. You aren't. Are you?"
She nodded shyly and placed a hand over her still-flat abdomen. "But don't tell anyone yet, you guys. It's really early on."
I nodded mutely as I stared at her stomach. I didn't want or particularly like children, but I knew Angela did, and she was one of those girls that probably wanted to use her brilliance more toward motherhood than becoming a CEO. Reaching over, I squeezed her other hand. She smiled at me, her eyes shining with fear and excitement. Happiness was there, too—lots of happiness.
"I'll be damned," Lauren said. "I didn't know you had it in you, Ang." She rolled her eyes at herself. "Well, clearly you did. But what the hell? Why didn't you have Ben wear a raincoat? Our sex ed sucked in a bad way, but even it had bananas and condoms. You're about to be in your senior year. It seems like bad timing." She looked skeptical.
"We were only together once, and it wasn't planned," Angela said, as if this was a reasonable defense. "And it isn't bad timing. It's just…different." Clearly embarrassed, she stared at the wood grain of the table, seeking distraction.
Lauren laughed again. "Keep saying that for the next eighteen years."
"Lauren," I hissed, giving her a look to say she might be going a bit far.
She shrugged, unapologetic as always. "Congrats, Ang. I am happy for you, even if I don't understand you. Besides, we all knew you and Ben were going to tie the knot eventually." She smiled and leaned back, tilting her chair onto its hind legs. "You tell Papa Weber yet?" Suddenly leaning forward as she realized something, the chair slammed down on the floor loudly. "Oh my God, you're making him a granddad. I bet he lost his shit!"
Angela looked a little green at this, but I didn't think it was from morning sickness. "We haven't told him. And we don't plan to, so long as we can get married in a month or two."
A month or two. That was how much time I had to figure everything out. I forced a smile on my face and tried to be happy for my friends, who were bubbly in their excitement, talking about the vastness of New York and wedding invitations. Meanwhile, it felt like my troubles had multiplied.
The next day, a Tuesday, Edward and I made plans to go back to Forks. I'd switched shifts at Books & News with another girl so I could have the day off to see Charlie. He hadn't looked well on our latest Sunday visit, and his breathing was worsening—now a thick, gasping rattle from his chest. Alice and Esme made an effort to visit him at least once a day now, but I had a bad feeling that I knew wouldn't go away until I saw him again. It didn't matter if I was being cleverly intuitive or downright paranoid. I had to go.
While Edward showered, I went to his closet in search of my sneakers. Edward was a neat freak, almost to the point of obsession. No matter where I kicked my shoes off in his house, they were always carefully shelved in his closet the next morning, beside a pair of disgustingly muddy running shoes—the one thing he seemed unbothered about leaving dirty. I didn't even know when he put my shoes away, but they were always there, just to the right at the start of the walk-in closet, beneath a crisp, dark grey suit I frequently imagined him wearing. And stripping out of. I imagined that more often than was healthy, probably.
Going to this shelf each morning I stayed with him had become a ritual, but today, something was out of place. On a subconscious level, I maybe felt it as soon as I entered the closet. After all, it wouldn't be hard to see something out of place in this closet. It was color-coded—well, as color-coded as Edward's nearly-monochromatic collection of white and grey, blue, black and brown could be.
I retrieved my shoes, then stood up and looked down the length of the closet, my head tilted to one side as I studied the contents of hangers and shelves. Button-down shirts, sweaters, jeans, dress pants…
Then I saw it.
Gasping, I dropped one of the shoes I held. With a thick thud, it bounced on a rubber heel, narrowly missing my little toe.
My jacket—Charlie's old barn jacket—was in Edward's closet.
My initial reaction was one of happiness. I'd lost the jacket in September and had finally decided to let it go, thinking it gone forever, carelessly left in some public place. Edward had consoled me over its loss only two days earlier.
Happiness evolved into curiosity, then. Why was it in Edward's closet? Why hadn't he told me that he had it, when he'd known I was looking for it, known that it pained me to have lost it? I'd described it to him; it was kind of unmistakable, what with the torn inner lining. I stared, frozen where I stood, my toes digging into plush, white carpet.
Strangely, it looked like Edward had intended to hide it, what with its being hung at the back of the closet. A black coat was usually hanging in front of the space it occupied, I remembered. He'd perhaps taken that out for today. Now the orange-brown material of my jacket stood out glaringly among his more conservative colors. Had it been here all along, even before we talked about it on Sunday? If so, why?
One thing was for sure. Edward had not found it in the two days since he'd hugged me and reminded me that it was "just a jacket." We'd been together all day Sunday, and while I'd had work yesterday, I knew he'd been out himself, purchasing a new guitar and recording equipment. He'd definitely not been looking for this. So why the hell did he have it?
Glancing over my shoulder, I listened for the shower. Good, it was still going. I could hear the water spraying down on the tiles. Edward liked long, boiling hot showers that would leave me pink and raw. He'd be a while yet.
My heart drummed nervously as I crept to the back of the closet, one hand outstretched toward the jacket. Why does he have it? I asked myself again, grabbing hold of the piece of clothing. It was cool to the touch, the material soft and worn.
I had that sudden, confused feeling like I'd woken from sleepwalking; that the circumstances I found myself in weren't usual at all. What was I doing here? What was Edward doing here? What was I not seeing, because I'd been asleep?
Something was weird about this—something not normal.
Well, he's not normal, is he? I scrunched my nose up in distaste at the thought, but it was quickly followed by another. You think you know why, too.
I shook my head, wanting to disregard the idea, but knowing I couldn't. Signs were there—things I usually shielded myself from, thoughts I didn't want to entertain. Something wasn't right about Edward. Something wasn't right about finding this jacket here. Admitting that made all the questions I'd ignored tumble forward and flood me mercilessly.
Was he in Port Angeles just by chance, like he'd always said? How much of our relationship was coincidence? How much was conscious choice?
"Follow me," I said to Edward. "Or is that what you've already been doing?"
A talented musician, young and beautiful: he could have any girl. What was so fascinating about me? Nothing, so far as I could see, though I had asked him on occasion.
"For one, you taste amazing," he breathed against my neck, sending a delightful tingle down my spine. "Two, you always surprise me." He moved to lay his head on my breast, over my heart. It was a heavy, soothing weight. "Most of all, I simply love you. There's no logic involved."
Those were pretty, poetic words that made me weak in the knees, just at the memory, but were they true? It always felt like there were things he wasn't saying.
My heart raced. How well did I know Edward, compared to how well he knew me? He'd just popped up out of nowhere, and I'd let him. Even now, the idea of him not being in my life was much more terrifying than having him with me, covertly hidden sentimental items or not. From the very beginning, I'd felt drawn to what wasn't normal about him, to the part that seemed forbidden and maybe even dangerous. God, what did that say about me?
His fingers rested on the buttons of my shirt. "You must tell me if I hurt you."
He had secrets. He had hundreds of names in folders, people he said he'd "wronged." How had he wronged them? Had he actually done anything at all? What could he have done?
"How do you know I'm not a monster?" he asked.
No. I firmly pushed those thoughts aside.
Edward wasn't a bad person. I was horrible for even thinking he could be, simply because I found my jacket in his closet. I knew he was good. Nothing he'd done had suggested he was anything but good at heart. I'd placed my trust—and love—in him, and in the month we'd been together, he'd always been there for me.
But…
He did have secrets…and my jacket. And that felt very wrong somehow, enough so that the fine hairs on my arms and the back of my neck were raised in alarm.
For a long time, I stood there, mulling over all I knew about Edward Masen. The floodgates had burst open. I figured I might as well deal with all the debris that had come in with the water.
There were plenty of conclusions I could come to about Edward's strange behavior that didn't include anything too out of the ordinary. He could be a mentally troubled genius, as I'd often thought; that could lead to all sorts of odd behavior, maybe even covert jacket stealing. (Maybe this was just a case of kleptomania!) I'd seen the DSM-IV, the guide psychiatrists use to help them diagnose mental disorders. Nearing a thousand pages, it isn't a light read, to say the least. He could suffer from any number of those illnesses, just like anyone else.
I did have wilder theories, of course. With so little to go on, I couldn't help it; my imagination tried to fill in the blanks. Could he be a con artist? I'd noticed he was very good at reading people, even when he first met them. Maybe an ex-con? But he was only twenty and a pianist. Why would a successful musician be a con man? When would he have time to be?
All of these possibilities, logical and illogical alike, didn't sit well with me, though. Some should, maybe, but they didn't. One thought in particular kept trying to be heard, butting its head forward like a stubborn billy goat.
I tried to shove it away before it surfaced. It was juvenile, fanciful and completely unrealistic. And really fucking ridiculous. And so impossible. And I was twenty-one and not supposed to think this way! But the thought popped up, anyway.
He's not human…
I blew air past my lips in a loud, dubious huff. I've lost my mind.
If he wasn't human, just what the hell was he?
But for all my denial, other thoughts emerged. Thoughts of golden eyes turning black as he kissed me in bed, beneath the soft glow of lamplight; his eyes changed color whenever he felt strongly about something, I thought—the extreme ends of passion, anger or fear, and maybe other emotions. I'd seen it the first day we met in Seattle, and many times since, but I'd ignored it. Or not ignored it, maybe, but accepted it without much qualm, buried it for another day. A day like this one, apparently.
There was the cold skin that made me burn with want. The abnormal strength as he easily lifted me from the sofa I'd fallen asleep on and jogged me upstairs without becoming winded or breaking a sweat—no small feat for a man who was supposedly victim to muscle and circulatory problems.
His fast reflexes—the way he caught things I dropped, almost without looking, and caught me, often even before I had a chance to fall. The way he heard things in another room, when I couldn't. How, when we cooked together, he sniffed each ingredient, declaring whether it was "good" or not; he'd said he believed in his nose, not expiration dates.
He's not human…
None of this definitively proved anything, of course. Did it? People thought they saw spirits and Jesus in toast all the time. That didn't mean they existed. Of course, it didn't exactly mean they didn't exist, either, dammit.
I knew I couldn't ignore everything this time. The thought was out there now, ridiculous as it was, and I had this sudden and great desire to confront him on some level, yet without coming out and asking, "Are you the Boogie Man?" But how?
In the end, passive aggression seemed like the best option. Steeling myself as best I could, I pulled the jacket down from the coat hanger and slipped it on. It was too warm to wear in the house, but I was determined to have Edward see me in it as soon as possible. What would he say? Would he acknowledge it at all?
Sliding my hands into the large pockets, I found a tightly folded piece of cloth stuffed in the right one. I pulled it out and shook it free. A pillowcase? He's so fucking weird. And then I laughed at the simple thought—laughed until tears streamed down my face, into my mouth where they tasted of salt. I thought he was weird, while I was wondering if he was inhuman? I snorted another laugh, imagining him as Spiderman, then as an alien. Hysteria had definitely set in.
"What's so funny?" Edward's warm voice floated from the connecting bedroom, a dresser drawer snapping shut shortly after. I heard a towel drop, followed by the rustle of fabric.
My laughter cut off abruptly. I laid the pillowcase on a shelf, figuring Edward would know what to do with it, and slowly walked out of the closet, slipping into my sneakers along the way. I'd come out of that damn closet with a lot more than I'd ever intended.
Edward looked over at me. He was only wearing a pair of navy boxers, and his hair was dark and flat on his head; rivulets of water ran down the sides of his face and neck. As he took in what I was wearing, the smile on his face faded.
"I found my jacket," I said as my heart tried to pound its way through my chest.
He stared at me, a little wide-eyed, and then that smooth, neutral expression descended—the poker face of all poker faces. He smiled, somewhat thinly and very artificially, I thought. "Oh, good," he said. "I'd been meaning to give it to you, but kept forgetting."
"Just Sunday, we decided it was lost for good. Why was it hanging in your closet?" My tongue was dry, and my voice cracked.
"Oh, I found it in the trunk of the Audi yesterday, when I was loading in the equipment," he answered easily, his eyes unwaveringly on mine. It was a confident answer, one that almost made me falter, but then I noticed how rigid his posture was, how he stood abnormally still. He was lying—and well, too, but not well enough to fool me. Not this time.
"Oh," I said.
There would be no reason for him to find the jacket in the trunk of his car. I'd never ridden in his car with it on; even on our first date, I'd worn his jacket. The one I was wearing now had already gone missing then. Had Edward had it, even before our first date? What did that imply? And if he hadn't, why was he lying now?
I considered confronting him, laying everything out there, but the day was getting on, and I needed time to process all these ridiculous ideas. Did I really believe Edward could be something other than a human? It seemed insane to even consider that as a possibility. And, in the unlikely chance that he was—a what? an alien? a monster?—what would I do with that knowledge? What could I do with it? Did other people have experience with this? It seemed fucking unlikely.
Edward studied me with obvious caution. I watched as his forearm muscles rippled with some pent up energy, reminding me strangely of when a horse's withers twitch beneath flittering flies. His fingers clenched and unclenched beside his legs. Despite having a calm and neutral expression on his face, he also somehow managed to look like he was caught between a desire to bolt from the room or attack something.
His eyes, golden when I'd first entered the bedroom, were now coal black orbs that contrasted starkly with the whites of his eyes and the paleness of his skin. He was wild, a cornered beast, and I thought that maybe for the first time since we'd met at The Rosebud, we both knew it, to some degree, both saw it, both felt it. It was the elephant in the room, and it'd grown larger.
Not today. I couldn't do this with him today. I needed to see Charlie. I needed time to think, to figure out what this might mean and how I could possibly discuss it with him. Hi, honey, I think you're a different species could turn really awkward if I was wrong, like one of those things neither of us would ever mention but would also never forget.
"Bella?" Edward whispered, pulling me from my thoughts.
I looked at him warily.
The neutral mask melted away. He swallowed hard as his eyes searched my face. "I love you."
How many times in history had those words gotten men out of trouble? But it was obvious from the somewhat fearful expression now on his face that he wasn't merely using them against me.
My heart calmed a little, and I replied without hesitation. "I love you, too." That, at least, I knew for sure. Whether it was smart that I loved him remained to be seen, but then that's the risk you take when you fall in love, isn't it? I'd learned that much from being with Jacob. Although, I didn't think just anyone had the issue of potential inhumanity going against their relationship.
I glanced at the clock. 10:28 a.m. "We should get going," I said, my anxiety over Charlie suddenly escalating.
Realizing that I wasn't going to unleash the third degree just yet, Edward came to life again, his stiff posture relaxing, and he gave me a somewhat nervous version of one of his crooked smiles. He ran a hand through his hair, back and forth, to brush out excess water. One droplet made a loud splatas it met the face of a nearby mirror.
I moved across the room and stood before him. We stared at each for a moment, a current of tension buzzing between us, electric threads that seemed to whisper, He's been lying to you.
Slowly, hesitantly, I leaned up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. His skin was still warm from the shower, and unyielding as always. And his. Whatever he might or might not be.
"Everything's all right," I said, mostly to comfort myself.
Edward nodded and kissed my forehead before putting his hands between us. My knees were locked, my own body stiff as he zipped the barn jacket almost up to my chin. "Better zip up," he murmured. "It's cold out."
"Thanks for coming with me," I said in the car as we made our way to Forks.
Edward smiled softly and reached over to hold my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. His skin was cold. Was it really just a circulation problem?
"What do you think you're going to do about housing?" he asked.
In an attempt to make conversation, I'd told him about Lauren and Angela's big news and how it put me in an awkward position, particularly with the potential of Leah Clearwater becoming one of my new housemates. He'd seemed to take great offense over that one himself, and was eager for me to find a solution to the problem.
"I'm not sure what I'll do," I confessed. "I could live in Forks, but if I move too early, Charlie will know I'm not going to school. I can't risk that. But if I want to move, I should do it soon, so I can find someone to take my place in the house. We'll all have to see to it that the lease is changed and that there are no major penalties for all this."
"You'd have more time with Charlie if you lived with him." His eyes flickered over to me. "You'd have trouble going to your jobs in Port Angeles, though." The tight-lipped expression on his face seemed to suggest he didn't think that was necessarily a bad thing.
"I can't live with him, anyway," I said, sighing. "It would hurt too much, to be there all the time. I know that's awful of me, but it's true. And even if it wasn't like that, it would only be a matter of time before he'd find out what I've been doing and would feel guilty. I can't do that to him. Not at the end of his life. He'd blame himself, even though it was my choice to make. It won't matter to him that I can go back to school next year. He'll feel responsible that I didn't go this year." I sighed. "He's so damn stubborn."
Edward's mouth twitched. "Reminds me of someone I know."
I snorted and narrowly resisted flipping him off. Did he realize how stubborn he could be? It might be easier to lead a cow downstairs than get Edward Masen to do something he didn't want to do—like tell me the whole truth, for example.
"I can help you pay rent," Edward offered, his eyes—for once—steadily on the road ahead. "You could quit at the restaurant, too."
I pulled my hand from his. "No way," I said.
"Why?" His brows furrowed. "It wouldn't be a problem."
"It doesn't matter if you have the money, I said no."
"What other options do you have?" he asked, then pursed his lips.
I ducked my head in thought. My hair fell forward, encapsulating me in a brown cave as I stared at the charcoal-colored upholstery of Edward's Audi. The truth was my options were slim if I didn't want Charlie to find everything out, and I knew it.
"See?" Edward said, knowing I'd come to the conclusion he wanted. Frustration was evident in his tone. "You don't have another option. Let me help you."
I looked over and glared at him. "This isn't 1908, Edward. It's 2008. I don't want to be some kept woman." That would never be me.
He seemed to be grinding his teeth. Pale fingers tightened on the steering wheel, and I thought I heard the creak of tearing leather. Was he strong enough to break the steering wheel? Not that I wanted to find out, when we were flying down the highway at a hundred miles per hour.
"Kept implies ownership, as much as anything," he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. "If anyone in this car owns another, it's not me." He looked over at me, his eyes shifting over my features. "Do you understand?"
What on earth did he expect me to say to that?
I looked away from him, out my window, where the evergreen color of trees blurred together with brown trunks. "This is ridiculous." This whole fucking day was turning out to be, and it wasn't even lunchtime yet.
"It's not ridiculous that someone would want to help you have more time with your dying father," he argued, his aggravation palpable. "Particularly me, particularly when I'm able. Don't be stubborn about this." I looked back at him and watched as he pushed his foot down harder on the accelerator. We lurched forward down the 101. "Do you have any idea what I would give to have one more day with my father? It's within my power to give you and Charlie more time together. Let me."
"You and the Cullens seem to think it's your job to rescue me."
Sometimes Edward had a serious Superman complex. I pulled at the edge of my jacket distractedly. Or maybe he is Superman, I thought dryly. Am I Lois Lane? I didn't want to be.
"It's not that," he protested.
"I don't want to be rescued, and I don't need charity."
"Then live with me. Then you wouldn't have rent to worry with, at least."
"What?" Was he crazy? "No. That-that's the same exact thing."
"It's not! And you practically live at my place, as it is!" he said, his voice rising an octave.
Not to be outdone, I matched him, decibel for decibel. "Don't act like we don't stay at my place, too!"
We were both quiet for a moment. Edward was stiff and narrow-eyed. I was fidgety and breathing loudly enough for the both of us. My face felt hot with anger.
"I need to do this for myself," I said a while later, when I'd finally calmed down.
"Why? You asked Renée to come help. Why is she allowed, and I'm not?"
"Because she was his wife once, and he's my father, that's why. It should be our responsibility—no one else's—and since she's not going to do a damn thing, it's just my responsibility." The thought of Renée's nice, but generally dismissive attitude on the phone when I'd asked her to come help with Charlie was still a sore spot. She didn't want to make things awkward between Phil and her.
"He is your father," Edward agreed, "but that doesn't mean you have to do everything alone, especially if doing so comes at the expense of losing time with Charlie." He shook his head. "Sometimes I forget how young you are."
Blood has a way of heating up very quickly. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"That you're twenty-one," he said.
What a hypocrite! "And you're twenty!"
He snorted. "Yes, and both my parents have been six feet under for years now. I have wisdom here that you don't yet—plain and simple. Consider taking my advice this one time."
Folding my arms over my chest, I didn't reply. If he was so damn smart, he could read my mind and figure out what I wanted to say to him, expletives and all.
"Fine, be stubborn," he growled as he jerked us around a curve so hard that my seatbelt locked. "Do whatever you want."
Panic stole over me as I knocked on Charlie's door for the third time. I could hear the television going inside, but no other sound. I fumbled about for the house key that was hidden under the eaves by the door. My fingers were shaking as I brought the key to the lock.
Without saying anything—since we still seemed to not be on speaking terms—Edward took the key from me and unlocked the door before I could have a meltdown on the welcome mat.
I burst inside and rushed into the living room, not even bothering to remove my muddy sneakers. Charlie was there, lying back in his recliner. He was alive, too, breathing erratically—but breathing, just the same—and in a deep, deep sleep. I wanted nothing more than to crush him in a hug, but I didn't want to disturb him. Rest was good. Rest was painless. I contented myself with a kiss to his forehead.
Edward had come into the living room and stopped before the television, his eyes narrowed at the screen.
"A candlelight vigil was held last night in honor of the missing and dead of Seattle," a crisp female voice said on the midmorning news, her eyes gently shifting as she read from a teleprompter. "It coincided with a similar event in Portland, Oregon, which has also experienced numerous unsolved murders and missing persons cases over the past two months. Police say—"
"Mind if I turn that off?" I whispered, finally breaking the silence between us.
He glanced at me, shaking his head, and I hit the off button. I couldn't take hearing about killing or death or any of it. I wished the people of Seattle and Portland well, but their problems weren't my own right now.
My heart was still pounding when I went to the kitchen to wash my hands and get a glass of water. Or maybe beer was what I wanted. Yeah, some of Charlie's cheap beer that tasted awful, but had a way of calming me—that way being about five percent alcohol. I wished it was thirty percent.
"Are you all right?"
Beer can at my lips, I looked over at Edward, where he was leaning against the doorframe between the kitchen and living room. He regarded me with cautious, sympathetic eyes as the fingers of one hand tapped rhythmically against his thigh.
I swallowed the bitter liquid. "Could be better," I answered softly, thinking that the world wouldn't feel so off kilter if my boyfriend hadn't been lying to me—about something—for a month. "But I'm okay."
He nodded. "Charlie is, too."
"I hope so."
"He is for now," Edward insisted. "I'm sure he's just dreaming about walking in the woods with a friend. Good things, at least." He gave me a small smile. "He seems at peace."
Would Charlie walk with Harry Clearwater again in some tender afterlife? There was no way of knowing, but the idea that he might be dreaming of it now comforted me greatly.
I put the can down on the counter and looked at Edward, feeling a little wary of what I was about to say, unsure if bringing the subject up again was wise. "I'm sorry. About…before. In the car." There. First apology. That seemed mature for my age.
He shrugged. "It's all right, but promise me you'll give it some thought."
"What? I told you—"
Edward smirked. "Oh, I heard you, loud and clear. Did you hear me?"
I nodded.
"Good. I'm not trying to entrap you, Bella, by modern or ancient standards," he said in a wry tone. "But I do want you to have as much time with your father as possible, and if money is the only thing standing in the way of that…"
"I just don't want your pity."
For a split second, his eyes narrowed in what seemed like anger, but then his face smoothed out. "That's good," he said, "because you don't have it." He shrugged one shoulder. "Almost everyone has to watch a loved one die. What you're going through is tragically normal, if prolonged, I'm afraid. So, no, I'm not trying to help you out of pity, only out of love."
He smiled somewhat shyly and added, "Perhaps I want you to come live with me, anyhow. Did you ever think of that?"
Feeling thoroughly chastised, yet also warmly comforted, I said, "No promises, but I'll think about it." After I know whether you're human or not.
"That's all I ask," he said.
After going through the usual routine of cleaning the kitchen and bathroom, I decided I'd cook a late lunch. Charlie had already eaten whatever Alice or Esme had last brought, and he might be hungry when he woke. At least, I hoped he would be. Each time I saw him now, he looked less like my father, and more like some baby bird—all bones and gangly awkwardness. I wasn't sure he could even gain weight now.
"Would you go to the store for me?" I asked Edward, my head buried in the refrigerator as I cleaned the back of a shelf. It didn't really need cleaning, but cleaning it gave me something to do. Sitting still didn't seem like an option, what with my father wheezing in the other room and Edward hovering, looking more and more inhuman every time I looked at him.
"Sure," he said. "Just tell me what to get—in detail, mind." He walked past me, patting my bottom familiarly as he went. The fridge did nothing to cool the blush that came to my face. Whatever Edward might be, there was still quite a bit of man under it all. For better or worse.
Trying to describe to Edward the items needed for lasagna proved too difficult, so steak and potatoes it was. Charlie would be thrilled. Edward seemed less so, but said it would be fine.
"I'll be back soon," Edward said at the front door. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then he leaned forward and pressed cool lips to mine.
He'd intended for it to be a simple kiss, but I deepened it, overcome by too many emotions at once. For one, Edward was my anchor, the way I grounded myself around Charlie, and I always craved his solid vitality when I was faced with the terror of death. But more than that, I felt the need to test this—to test us. Would kissing him still feel right, in the face of wild theories and deception? Thankfully, it did. I'd almost expected to kiss him and have snakes grow out of his skull.
No, it was a normal kiss. A very good, completely normal meeting of mouths that I always seemed to want more of.
I pulled away when I began to feel dizzy and breathless. Skull snakes weren't a danger. Suffocating myself in a fit of passion seemed like a dumb way to die.
"What was that for?" Edward asked softly. He licked his lips. "I'll have to remember to do it again."
"Just you," I told him, realizing the truth of that.
A shadow fell across his face briefly, but he hid it by leaning forward and kissing my forehead. "I'll be back soon," he promised again before swiftly turning and walking out the door, into the constant rain of Forks.
Shortly after Edward left, a thunderstorm began in earnest. November was Forks' rainiest month, and it was prone not only to its usual drizzle, but also to occasional thunder, lightning and high winds. When I'd first moved to Washington, the weather in November had seemed very alien. All Phoenix was really known for was heat…and more heat. I still didn't like this weather—the cold, wet desolation of oncoming winter.
A loud crack sounded—thunder or maybe lightning striking a nearby tree—and Charlie woke with a start. "Hey, Dad," I said quickly, so as not to frighten him, "I'm here. I've come to visit."
In a daze, he brought his recliner up straight and stared around blearily, much longer than was normal, even for one who's just woken. He never said so, but I thought his eyesight might be weakened by several of the medications he was taking, many of which had "blurred vision" as a potential side effect.
"Bells?" he said, sometime later. His eyes seemed to stare off into some world that wasn't mine. I was very glad I was with him; today was not one of the good days.
"I'm here," I said again.
"I'm glad," he replied. He closed his distant eyes and cleared his throat. "I miss you when you're gone, kid."
The simple comment, one he'd never make when fully alert, tore at me so deeply that tears sprang to my eyes and spilled down my cheeks. I brushed at them hastily, thankful that he already seemed to be falling back asleep.
Hands trapped flat under my thighs, I sat on the old couch, listening to wheezing breath, bellowing winds and pattering rain. For a little while, the world drifted away into the depths of these sounds, until my breathing and the beating of my heart were just another set of sounds in an endless soundtrack of natural noise. I watched the trees bend to nature's will outside, their branching arms swaying, as if they were dancing to melodies only they could hear.
The simple inevitability of nature's power cleared my thoughts. Maybe things were simpler than I was making them out to be. I loved my father. I loved Edward. I loved the Cullens. Not much else mattered beyond that, did it? Maybe love didn't solve everything. Maybe it didn't have to. Maybe it was just enough to fix whatever lies and secrets lay between Edward and me. The wind whistled, and two leaves, caught on each other—one brown, one orange—flapped past the window. I found peace, at least in the moment.
Thunder rolled again, this time grumbling so that the walls of the house seemed to shake in protest. I felt the roar in my bones, so it didn't surprise me when Charlie jerked awake again, this time coughing. "Who's there?" he wheezed.
"It's just me," I said.
He didn't reply as he doubled over and let out another loud, rattling cough. I knew he sometimes woke with coughing fits, but after a couple of minutes, it was clear this one wasn't going to abate.
"Oh, shit. Where's your cough medicine?" I jumped up and ran to the kitchen in search of the bottle. There were no fewer than twenty prescription bottles scattered along the countertop, but only one bottle of liquid, and it wasn't the fast-acting cough syrup. "Shit, shit, shit," I murmured, banging around in cabinets to the sound of my father's agony.
"Bel-la," he called out in a strangled voice, "get me…upstairs."
I'm not sure how I did it, but my mind and body came together with acute focus. I could have done anything in that moment, and absolutely nothing less than what was required of me. Bending, I put one of Charlie's arms around my shoulders and, on the count of three, lifted him to his feet. He was still coughing into his hand, gasping for precious breath as I led him forward, carrying most of his weight.
At one point, we were at the bottom of the stairs, and it seemed like Everest stretched up before us, but in the next moment, we were at the top; adrenaline does such strange things. I led Charlie to the bathroom, where he promptly leaned over the sink and began to wretch. Specks of blood mingled with the fluid of his lungs in the sink, and my eyes burned with fresh tears. I could do nothing but watch and pat his back and whisper, over and over again, "It's okay." When I knew it wasn't.
I fumbled in my pocket for my cell phone. I'd seen Charlie do this before. In those suffering from lung cancer, this wasn't an emergency, apparently, but I still didn't want to be the only one here. I dialed the hospital first and told the lady at the front desk to tell Dr. Cullen that Charlie Swan wasn't well and that I'd appreciate it if he came to check on him. And then I texted Edward.
Come back ASAP.
The heaving eased a few minutes later, but the damage was done, and Charlie slid against the wall nearest the sink, down to the cold tile floor, where he wilted over his knobby knees, utterly spent. "Sorry," he whispered hoarsely, taking me by surprise.
I knelt in front of him and brushed his sweaty, fuzzy head with a damp washcloth. Despite illness, a light dusting of hair had grown back, and it rasped against the cotton. "Don't you dare be sorry," I scolded gently.
Amused, he huffed a little at this. He'd said those same words to me countless times, when I'd apologized for my various injuries over the years. He'd been right all along, I realized. It really was stupid to apologize for being human. Being human's an ugly business.
Unless you're not human at all, I thought, right as the front door opened with a bang. Just how fast had Edward driven?
"Bella?" Edward shouted.
"Up here!" I answered.
He was upstairs and at the bathroom doorway before I'd finished saying here. He looked down at me, eyes wild, then at Charlie. His shoulders relaxed, but only slightly. "You scared the hell out of me. I'm glad I was already on my way. I came as fast as I could."
"I see that," I said softly, accepting the unnaturalness of it with surprising ease.
"Hey there, Edward," Charlie said, not looking up.
"Hey, Charlie." Edward patted my father's shoulder as he said to me, "Why don't you go get started on the steak? The bags are still in the car." He handed me his keys.
I began to argue, but Edward gave me a pointed look, glancing at my father by means of explanation. Oh. Male pride and embarrassment. Right.
All the adrenaline had worn off now, and rather than getting the grocery bags from the car, I sat at the bottom of the stairs a minute later, playing with the keys to the Audi and listening as Charlie protested against being lifted off the floor. Edward's stubbornness won out, only by a hair, and I thought with detached amusement that it was amazing all three of us could be in the one house together without butting heads at every turn.
I looked back up the stairs in time to see Edward's shoulders as he walked down the hall with my father's tired form cradled in his arms. I swallowed hard against the painful lump in my throat. Yes, I loved those men. Even if one of them might not only be a man.
After a round of cough syrup—ironically found beside my father's recliner—and another pain pill, Charlie slept again. Knowing I needed this time, Edward stayed downstairs while I skipped lunch and sat quietly with Charlie, watching him sleep late into the afternoon when Carlisle arrived with apologies for not coming sooner. I couldn't exactly fault him. There were other emergencies he had to attend to, and unlike Charlie, his other patients often had a chance of surviving when everything was said and done.
Moving ghostlike, Carlisle examined Charlie's breathing and pulse as he slept. I watched from a chair in the corner of the bedroom, which was stuffy from central heating. Charlie had been chilled after his coughing fit, and as a result, I'd covered him in blankets and cranked up the heat. My hair lay flat along the sides of my face, damp with sweat. I'd noticed neither Edward nor Carlisle seemed bothered by the temperature, and they were in long-sleeved sweaters.
Carlisle placed a hand on my father's chest and closed his eyes, his head tilted to one side. His face was calm, but intent, as if he was listening to some sound deep in Charlie's body, or perhaps he was praying. I liked to think he might be doing both.
As I stared at his relaxed expression and the white-gold of his hair, I realized with a sudden jolt that if Edward wasn't human—and he shared so many traits with the Cullens—they might be something else, too. But how could they be? We'd maybe not been close until this year, but… How could I have missed it? Maybe I'd been sleepwalking for longer than I'd realized. Or maybe I really was losing my mind.
Carlisle's eyes opened, and he looked directly at me. His stare was warm and golden, like butterscotch, as he nodded toward the hallway. Wordlessly, I followed him, noting how every step I took made a sound, while his were quieter, lighter, like Edward's.
How had I never noticed?
The hairs on my arms raised again, but I wasn't afraid, only curious.
After shutting Charlie's door, Carlisle reached out and took my hands. They were large and cool, like Edward's, but somehow fatherly, like Charlie's. It was the same sort of parental feeling I felt from Esme, and it didn't make sense. They were only in their late twenties, not that much older than I was. I stared at our fingers—pale skin to pale skin, yet different somehow—and wondered… Would I ever know the whole truth? Did it matter if I didn't?
The calm expression was still on Carlisle's face when I looked up, but his eyes became sad. I felt my stomach drop. Not good news, then.
"Without doing more tests, which your father will likely refuse," Carlisle began, "I can't know for certain, but I believe the cancer has progressed more rapidly than I'd anticipated it would." He squeezed my fingers, sensing my panic. "That doesn't mean he won't live as long, only that he might need more care. I've always hesitated to give you an exact timeframe on his life, beyond saying he could make it to Christmas. Any number of things can happen between now and then, with any number of results." He smiled faintly. "I've been a doctor long enough to know that."
"What needs to be done?" Edward asked. I hadn't heard him come up the stairs to join us, but looked at him gratefully now, where he stood just behind me. He reached out and touched the small of my back.
"I think hospice should come in soon—this week or the next," Carlisle answered. "Until that's sorted, I'll have Esme or Alice stay with Charlie during the day. They'll be happy to, of course."
"Hospice," I whispered. "Already?"
Carlisle squeezed my fingers again and nodded. "It's only to keep him comfortable. We can't be here all the time. I know Charlie appreciates his independence. We'll start with the minimum amount of care. Nurses will check in on him once or twice a day, but that's all for now. We'll make changes as needed."
In my head, it didn't really matter that Charlie would start out with basic care. I'd read all the pamphlets. I knew there were different levels of hospice care, some more extreme than others, but they all meant the same thing, eventually: Charlie was going to die. Soon. Every time something confirmed this, it was a shock.
Edward pulled me into a gentle embrace, my back against his marble-like chest. He kissed my hair. "It'll be all right, Bella."
As I thought of Charlie and hospice care and death and hidden barn jackets, I wondered… Would everything be all right?
Closing Notes: The chapter title is part of a verse from Tool's song "Lateralus."
I'm still replying to old reviews, but I admit that I'm pretty bad at it. (Sorry!) Do know, though, that if you've asked a question, I'll get back to you!