Chapter summary: She held me ... while I cried. She held me.

I ate my breakfast. I finished eating the toad in the hole and drinking my tea. Rosalie watched me the whole time. She didn't look bored, but she didn't look fascinated either.

She looked patient.

But during the meal, she reached into the book bag and started "reading" a book in the super-fast way she does everything. Flip-flip-flip went the pages, but even faster than before.

Of course I looked at the cover as I ate and I received an unpleasant surprise for it. It was the American Sign Language book. Why would she be reading that now?

When I was done eating, Rosalie looked up from the book. "How was it?" she asked.

"Fine," I responded neutrally. I hadn't had coffee in a while, but I still missed the pick-me-up in the morning.

"Hm." Rosalie responded. "Well, would you take care of the dishes? I'd like to finish this, please." Her eyes looked down, indicating the book.

"Okay," I said. "Sure." I was happy to be helping now, even a little bit, instead of always adding to what Rosalie had to do.

I stood.

Rosalie looked up at me. "Do you have to go?" she asked.

"No, I'm fine," I said.

"Please let me know a half-hour or an hour before you need to, okay?"

I got excited at that. "We're going to walk today?"

"Yes," she answered.

I went to the sink. I guess it would be pretty pathetic if you thought about it: me, getting excited about going to the potty. But, in retrospect, it's always been an adventure when I tried to hoof it there, and maybe this time we could do a round trip without a near-death experience or without Rosalie having to carry me part of the way.

I washed my dish and utensils, as I was doing that, I heard the sound of ripping along with the sound of flipping pages. I looked over at Rosalie. She was tearing pages right out of the book!

"Rosalie," I asked shocked, "what are you doing?"

"Preparing your lesson for today," came the even answer. She didn't even look up as she continued breezing through the book. She turned back to the beginning and started going through the pages again, but this time more slowly. Sometimes she would pause and gesture to herself with her right hand held low, out of my sight. She seemed satisfied with what she was doing.

"Rosalie," I said, "you don't have to tear pages out of the book for me to see them. I can see them just fine in the book." Destroying a book like that? What had gotten into her?

Rosalie did look at me then. "Who said anything about you seeing these pages?"

Then she went to the stove, and before I could understand what I was seeing, she threw what she tore out right into the stove. She didn't even undampen the chimney, she just tossed in the pages, and slammed the lid back into place. A puff of smoke escaped with a lick of flame, but Rosalie was back in her seat before the smell of it, diffused in the air, reached my nostrils.

Can't have the woodsy smell of smoke in her perfect hair, I suppose.

"What did you ..." I stammered. "Rosalie, why did you do that? If you didn't want me to see something, you could have just told me not to read the book. I wouldn't have anyway without permission."

"And now you don't have the temptation," she responded coolly.

She was cool, but I was hot. "The temptation? The temptation of what!" I tried not to shout.

Rosalie glared at me from her chair.

I tried to calm down. "Rosalie, that's just ..." I shook my head. I thought this was a free country. I thought you could read whatever you wanted.

Rosalie was unmoved.

"Besides," I said, continuing along a different thread. "What's the whole deal with sign lan-..."

Then I gasped. The plate slipped through my fingers, clattering into the sink. It didn't break. Good thing, I suppose, because I would have probably grabbed for it and cut myself. We didn't need more distractions now.

I drew in a sharp breath, and turned, facing her full-on. "You're never going to speak to me again!" I accused.

"What?" Rosalie replied angrily.

"You're going to teach me sign language, and you'll never speak to me again, just like you said the day before yesterday!" I shot back just as angrily.

Just like her! I thought, furious. She starts speaking, and pretty much the first thing she says is that she'll never talk to me again! And now she's putting that plan into action. That meanie!

That meanie rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Oh, for goodness sake! I know you've got a brain in there; use your head for something other than to hang your hat!" she said disparagingly.

"What?" I asked confused. Besides, I didn't like wearing hats. You were supposed to wear them, but you were supposed to go to church on Sundays, too. I did neither.

I mean, Rosalie looked nice and all, wearing that nice hat that she wore, but I wasn't Rosalie.

But I don't think she was actually talking about hats, anyway.

"Why would I be teaching you sign language?" Rosalie demanded.

"I thought you didn't ask why-questions," I countered.

Rosalie closed her eyes for a second and blew out a sigh. She reopened her eyes, and brought her finger to her temple and tapped it while saying, "Think!"

Now it was my turn to be exasperated. "Does everything have to be a mind game?"

"Yes," she answered for once directly, but not to my liking: "everything has to be a mind game. Get used to playing it. So why would I be teaching you sign language?"

"Oh, come on, Rosalie! Why can't you just tell me? You know, cut me a break?" I demanded.

Rosalie paused and looked at me. Her tone changed. She was quiet. "I can tell you," she said. "I can cut you a break. But in so doing, am I really helping you? What do you learn when people tell you something? Nothing!"

She said the last word quietly, yet intensely.

"Rosalie ..." I said, trying to be reasonable. "That's how school works: they tell you stuff, and then you tell them back in the tests. That's how people learn stuff."

"No," Rosalie said, shaking her head. "That's how people are schooled, but what do they learn in school? Nothing. A person learns something when they answer questions themselves, when they find their own answers. And then, they start asking questions. Do you know what those people are called, the people who ask questions?"

I crossed my arms and waited for the lecture to be over. Rosalie glared at my posture, but pushed through anyway. She was going to make me hear this, apparently for my own good. Whether I wanted it or not.

"Those people are called revolutionaries, innovators, great thinkers. All Socrates ever did was to ask questions that nobody else would, and he is considered one of the greatest thinkers in the world!" She smiled slightly as she said this, and I could hear the fervor in her voice. She believed this.

Then she looked at me, sighed, and said sadly: "You could be that, a great thinker. You ask questions nobody else does, ... when you are brave enough to do it. All you have to do is push past your fears and misconceptions, you already know the questions to ask. You already know the answers."

I felt myself stiffening. It felt like she was scolding me with this praise, and I didn't like it one bit.

"So," she said gently, "let's start over. Why would I be teaching you sign language?"

I wanted to walk around the table and scream in her face. But instead I spat out the tense words through clenched teeth with all the control I could muster: "I ... don't ... know!"

I felt my fingernails trying to dig their way through my palms; that's how tightly my hands were balled into fists, and I was standing so rigidly, just vibrating with rage.

Rosalie closed the book, placing it on the table, and looked at me quietly.

"So much for starting over," she said regretfully.

She sighed quietly, then her face filled with determination. She got up from her chair and walked over to angry, fuming me.

I glared at her coming toward me. I was angry at her; she couldn't scare me.

"Rosalie, what are you ..." I began.

She reached out and pulled me into her. She placed her hand on my head and gently forced it into her shoulder, nestling it there, her other arm encircled my back, drawing me completely into a solid, gentle, irresistible hug.

I tried to resist at first. I tried to push away. I couldn't. This wasn't me in my dream last night; I didn't have that kind of strength to equal hers. She just held me, and the two of us stood by the sink, her, holding me into her.

I wanted to be angry at her. I am angry at her. I ha-... that is, I'm so angry with her.

She just said nothing, holding me. She didn't try to console me with words; she didn't rock me gently. She just held me.

No. I won't cry. I won't!

I gasped in a breath of rose-scented air. The gasp turned into a quiet sob.

So much for not crying. I felt my tears staining her shirt, and I felt the strength of her as she held me, her honeysuckle and rose scent comforting me as much as her embrace, and I gave myself over to her and cried.

...

"Did you wish to sit down?" Rosalie asked me quietly.

Do you know how when you're pressed against somebody you can feel their voice vibrating in their chest? I felt almost nothing in her when she spoke. And the way she breathed? It sounded like a wind in a great distance going through a tunnel, like she were a mountain, and she had been hollowed out inside.

I nodded my head in a yes against her cool, smooth shoulder. My tears had eventually stopped, and my sobs had returned to gasps and then to regular breathing, but I still didn't trust my voice.

"All right," she said evenly, "but you need to let go of me to do that."

I don't know how my hands had wrapped around her back.

I let her go.

Rosalie sat me down at the table and fixed me a cup of tea. It was as if this were the most normal thing in the world: me crying, and Rosalie fixing me a cup of tea.

I guess, actually, it kind of was.

Rosalie passed me another hanky, and I wiped my eyes and blew my nose. I put it down on the seat beside me, underneath the table, out of sight. I couldn't hide my emotions, but it'd be nice to hide the aftermath from the nice cup of tea Rosalie gave me.

"I'm sorry," I whispered down into my tea.

"What are you sorry for?" Rosalie asked from the other side of the table.

Of course, she couldn't let it go at that, and she always turned off her mind-reading at the most convenient times. 'Most convenient,' like when she wanted me to look embarrassed trying to explain myself to her.

"I'm sorry for crying," I said. I watched the steam from the tea as it made an interesting pattern, and I noticed I was growing to like the smell of Earl Grey.

After a moment Rosalie cleared her throat quietly. I forced my eyes up to look into hers.

"I never disobeyed my parents in anything," Rosalie said, and she looked away from me.

I looked at her. I felt a sadness coming from her that I couldn't understand.

"I always did everything they told me. I tried to make them ... pleased with me, because I knew I could never make them proud of me," she continued quietly. "That just wasn't possible with them."

"But I wish ..." she said. "I wish just in one thing that I could have disobeyed them. My mother told me it wasn't proper for a young lady to cry, and, after she told me that, I never did. But ..."

Rosalie looked down at her hands.

"But I wish I hadn't listened to her. I wish I hadn't obeyed her in this. For if I had cried, maybe ... maybe I wouldn't have been so ... maybe I wouldn't have become ..."

She stopped, and then she looked right at me.

"I may not understand your tears at times," she said quietly, "but I do understand that they are a part of you, and a part of your goodness." Then she said firmly: "You don't need to apologize for crying."

Then she looked away again.

After a moment of silence, she commanded: "Drink your tea."

I realized I had been just sitting here, looking at her. I don't even know if I were breathing. I took a sip of tea. It had cooled a little bit.

I cleared my own throat.

"You know ..." I began.

"No," Rosalie responded quietly, looking back at me. "I don't know."

I sighed. She could be so ... like this. So Rosalie. She would open up her heart and let me see the person inside, and then she would just shut me out and be so proper and correct and distant. It was like both were her. It was like they weren't different things about her, but the same thing.

But I saw that she was always working so hard when I felt the real her was trying to speak to me, and I saw how easily she could be cold and angry.

Maybe you had to work really hard to peel back that standoffish layer to see the real person inside.

I wonder if anybody had ever worked that hard. Ever.

I tried again.

"Well," I said, "I never cried this much before now. I wasn't like this at all. In fact, I thought I was reasonable. That things made sense ... you know?" I grimaced. I guess I wasn't supposed to say 'you know,' but I pushed forward anyway.

"Then you and the Cullens came, and ..." I paused, thinking. How to say it? "And, well, things didn't make any sense anymore, and I wasn't this reasonable person anymore, able to deal with everything, and ..."

I shrugged. I guess there was nothing to say after the 'and.'

"Were you alive before we came and interrupted your cozy routine?"

Rosalie asked this quietly and sincerely. It didn't sound like she was mocking me. It sounded like she was curious.

"What do you mean?" I asked back.

I had no idea what she was asking. Maybe she would explain it so I could answer something that made sense to her.

"A couple of things," she answered. "The 'things that don't make sense' is us." She pointed at herself and smiled a small smile. "But feeling in control? Perhaps you felt that way because your life was on autopilot? Perhaps you weren't living your life, but simply moving from one thing to the next, an automaton, mindlessly doing what it knows. When we came along, didn't you feel yourself break away from monotony and start to explore, and to discover, to learn, and to ... live? What I saw of you then, I think I saw that in you."

I thought about what she asked for a second.

"A couple of things back at you, Rosalie," I said.

She nodded.

"So it takes you," I waved at her, "to get somebody just going through the motions to live?"

"Not at all!" she looked affronted. "People can choose to experience their life without something so jarring as us. In fact, many people in your 'Big Sky' state do, and have made their mark."

I thought about that for a second, too.

"Okay," I said. "But, so I was 'cozy' before. I don't know about that, but I sure as shooting know how I'm feeling now. And this confusion? Me crying all the time, and ..." here I waved back toward the bed and triptych, "and making a mess of myself? And all that? Is that 'living'?"

Rosalie looked away. "Maybe," she said. Then she looked at me again. "I don't know, because I don't know what it feels like to be alive anymore. No feelings came to me from my human life — except agony — so now all I know of feeling is this." She touched her cheek that looked like it was from a sculpture of Venus. "But maybe you are experiencing all this, because learning is painful. Discovering who you are is painful. A butterfly has to break its way through the chrysalis to be able to spread its wings. Transitioning from quiescence to vibrancy requires effort, oftentimes all the effort you have, and that can be painful."

I snorted. "That's me, the beautiful butterfly."

Rosalie smiled at me faintly. "Perhaps."

I just shook my head.

"So, your choice," her voice became business-like. "What shall we do first? Shall we do the sign language lesson first, or shall we see the beautiful butterfly first?" she asked me with a straight face. I could hear a tinge of humor coloring her voice, however.

Hm. 'Seeing the beautiful butterfly' sounded suspiciously like mirror time.

"How about sign language first?" I said quickly.

Rosalie smiled.

Well, I didn't know any sign language, so she could smile all she wanted to, but maybe the sign language lesson would eat up the mirror time. She thought she was being all clever with the "which one first" questions, trying to hide her scheme from me that she'll try to get me to do both, but I know teachers: they always take too long on the first thing, and never get to anything else. Schoolmarm Rosalie may be smart and all, but I didn't come with empty saddlebags, either.

"Okay," Rosalie said easily. "Today you're going to be learning the four most important signs for you, then we can build your vocabulary, as it were, gradually. So let's begin."

And that's what we did: we began.

Chapter end notes:

Of course, Rosalie's very anti-schooling position didn't stop her from getting multiple doctoral degrees, now did it? (Canonical that Rosalie has at least an M.D. and see my story "Rose by a Lemon Tree," ch 3: "Memories and Sight: Edward.")

According to Signing Time, teaching children, including hearing children, sign language gives them a method of expression that can help them communicate their needs better than, e.g., throwing tantrums, alleviating some of the terribleness of the "terrible twos." Signing, the claim continues, contribute to higher IQ scores, quicker adjustment/socialisation, and faster reading comprehension.

Wow!

Anecdotal evidence from my own children supports the facility of sign language in improved communication. And the other claims? Well, proud papa and all that. No need to brag here, please, eh?

So, dear reader, your guesses: Rosalie teaches which "four" signs to her captive student?