There Goes My Life

Chapter Eight

...

"There's no drinking in here, Sir," Kenneth explained as he sat down next to Edward.

Edward eyed the funeral director, level-headedly. He was older; his moss-colored eyes were warm with understanding. He was a sensitive soul, who had seen more than his fair share and yet he still seemed to ooze comfort and quiet companionship. He had certainly mastered his profession, Edward mused.

He held up more than a few hundred-dollar bills in a silent offer for him to look the other way. He took another sip from his flask as Kenneth shook his head sadly and pushed the bills away, "so long as you don't make a scene," he relented, Edward agreed with a simple nod of his head.

"I'm not going to get plastered," Edward reassured him quietly, turning his eyes back to Elizabeth, "privacy, please." he requested, loosening his tie.

"Of course. I'll call a cab when you're ready." Kenneth stood, he slid the door closed and hung a privacy sign on the door.

Edward stared at his mother and took another swig. The liquid felt thick and heavy against his tongue as it burned through him, loosening his tongue.

"I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to say," he murmured, staring at the drink in his hand. He snorted bitterly, "it's not like you can hear me, is it?" He deadpanned.

His lips curled up, and for the first time in days, he let himself feel the bitterness that ate at him whenever he let himself think of Elizabeth. "Guess, I should start with, this bourbon is absolute shit," he grunted in distaste, "shouldn't be surprised, since I found it in your cupboard."

He rolled his shoulders and let out a deep breath. "You were an awful mother," he spat coldly, "and yet, it took me years to reach the point where I didn't care that you never tried to contact me," he chuckled a bit darkly. "And truthfully, I haven't thought of you in over a decade. Well, that's not entirely true; it's funny how the bad memories stick around, far longer than the good, eh?"

He shuddered, "I remember more than I'll ever admit," he revealed, swirling the drink in his hand. "My Mom, she's proud of me, you know, but if she could see inside of me right now, it'd scare her to death," he ran a hand over his well-trimmed beard.

He stared at her casket quietly. "You should know, I've forgiven you. I came to understand your position, the reasons you made the horrible choices you did. The drugs, the prostitution," he sighed. "I realized you probably did love me and that you were trying to do the best you could, with what little you had," he took another small sip, "but for repeating the cycle, for that, I'm not sure I can forgive you," he admitted.

"And that's got me all sorts of messed up. I feel guilty ... like I did something wrong," he clenched his jaw and forced himself to breathe. "Like, I damned those children because I never tried to contact you. Trust me, had I known, I would've watched out for him, had CPS all over your case, keeping you in line, making sure you were providing a good home."

He took another deep breath to try and soothe the deep ache inside his chest. "I had a good... no correction; I have a great life, which I know you were aware of. I found Esme's letters," his eyes watered, "good Lord, she likes to gush," he chuckled sadly, tucking the letters into her casket along with the flask and a few pictures of his siblings.

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, "I'm so fucking mixed up," he confessed raggedly. "I hate you, I hate the choices you made, I hate how the drugs stole your potential." His lips tightened, "as fucked up as it is, I still love you, after everything," he admitted sourly, "and I don't owe you a damn thing, but I'll raise them. For them."

He brushed a tear away, reached forward and gripped the side of her casket, "later alligator," he murmured as the blood started to roar in his ears. He tried to focus and force himself to breathe as his heartbeat accelerated. He shook his head roughly as his vision clouded, and he pushed away from her casket. He needed to get away; he stumbled backward until his back was pressed against the closed door.

He clutched his phone tightly, unable to dial, his chest continued to heave as if he had just finished the San Francisco Marathon. He rubbed at his heart as he fought against his tears. Pain flared through his veins as chest tightened, and bile rose up his throat.

He scrambled out of the viewing room and made his way down to the bathroom.

"Shh... whoa now, steady," Kenneth helped Edward back to his feet and over to a soft chair that sat in the corner of the restroom, "sip this, eat that," he passed him water and a small chocolate bar.

"Sorry," he croaked, his voice weak and cracked. He felt raw and exposed.

Kenneth nodded thoughtfully, "no need to apologize," he waved him off, "it happens. Don't go thinking you're the first person who's been in that chair."

At Edward's silence, Kenneth continued, "grief takes a toll on all of us, especially when one tries to restrain their emotions. I suspect, your relationship with your mother was a complicated one, possibly past abuse, maybe estrangement. Those issues, coupled with grief, can turn you inside out, young man."

"Could you please call me a cab?" Edward requested, pulling his eyes away from the floor as embarrassment flared through him.

Kenneth nodded, "of course," leaving Edward to gather himself. He stood slowly and moved over to the sink where he splashed his face with cool water and rinsed out his mouth before placing a chunk of the chocolate bar onto his tongue.

He ran his hand through his hair and fixed it, glanced at himself in the mirror and straightened his tie. Abuse, he scoffed at the word that rang in his ears. What did the funeral director know? Nothing! He was no one's victim. So, what if his childhood had been shoddy before the Cullens took him in, plenty of people had crappy upbringings. He was one of the lucky ones.

He was educated, wealthy, and he had parents that adored him. No one could hurt him. The past was just that, the past. There certainly wasn't any point to dwell on it.

He didn't recall the cab ride or leaving the funeral home as he made his way up to his father's hotel room, "Edward, are you all right?"

He shook his head, his innocent question raked across him like hot coals against nerves that already felt bloody and raw.

"Does Isabella know where you are?" Carlisle inquired as he shut the door.

Edward sat on the edge of his father's bed, "Yeah, they're all napping," he murmured distantly.

Carlisle nodded, Edward watched as he turned off the television and started the coffee pot, he turned back to his son, studying him before speaking, "and how are you?"

"Fine," Edward gritted out as he turned his gaze to the window and the city below.

His head snapped around as Carlisle snorted, he lifted a challenging eyebrow, "fine?" He paused, giving his child a disbelieving look, "you don't look..."

Edward cut him off, "I just need a minute," he requested, letting out a slow breath, and the anger that seemed to burn through him at his father's questions.

"No," Carlisle said, surprising him. "I'm not going to give you a moment to reassemble that thick armor you've built around yourself. We're going to talk," he said calmly, sitting in the computer chair across from him.

"I said I'm fine," but the last word came out heavy, filled with anger.

"You're obviously not," Carlisle stated, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "And, I'm your dad, I'm not going to let you push me away, you know this. So please, get whatever is eating at you out, scream, yell, toss a fit if you need to. I'd leave you be, but that's not why you came here."

Edward's shoulders hunched, "I don't want to talk about it," he muttered bitterly as he refused to look at him, causing him to miss his father's smirk.

"All right then," Carlisle agreed easily, making Edward look up in surprise, "I certainly can't make you."

Edward's eyebrow quirked upwards suspiciously, "Dad?"

Carlisle shrugged and sipped his coffee, looking over the rim at him, "you've had a panic attack recently, I'm not going to push, but I'm here."

He frowned at his father's words, a surge of frustration burst forth, "I'm not a fucking victim," the words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them or take them back.

"A victim?"

"Yes, I'm not some sad, pitiful abuse victim who's going to crack," he spat out, moving to his feet, anger surging through him, "I'm not."

Carlisle nodded in agreement, "of course not. You're a survivor."

He stilled, his father's words reaching him, "you're a strong man, Edward, you've faced your demons and moved passed them. Yes, their back, but only temporarily; being here, dealing with all of this, of course, it came roaring back. None of this is your fault, Ed. None of it. You were the child."

The anger plummeted out of him as a strangled sob rose to his throat, his father squeezed his shoulder gently, "let it out, gently this time," he spoke softly.

His shoulders shook as he cried for the loss he felt, the memories this town evoked. The confusion that swirled inside of him. "But Ash…" he spoke as calmed.

"It's not your fault, Edward," Carlisle repeated, squeezing his shoulders once more, "you are not responsible for Elizabeth's actions, son." He released him, "better?" Carlisle asked.

"Yeah," he admitted tiredly, he was calmer but exhausted.

"There now," he smiled a little as his father handed him a cool rag to wash his face with.

"Why didn't she ever contact me?" He asked, voicing the question that had plagued him most of his adolescent years. "If she loved me, why didn't she?" He mused, twisting the cool rag in his hands.

Carlisle shook his head, unsure, "maybe she thought she was doing the right thing, letting you live your life undisturbed without her chaos. Maybe she wanted too but didn't know how. We'll never know, Bud."

Edward chewed over his words thoughtfully, "yeah," he agreed with his logic.

"And I know you're hurting, maybe when you get home, you can call, Dr. Branson. Make a few appointments and work through this," Carlisle suggested.

"I don't know," Edward grunted, nose curling up at the thought. "I don't really want to talk about this, drag up those memories; most of it was so long ago. None of it really matters anymore, does it?"

Carlisle shook his head, "it does. Otherwise, it wouldn't hurt this badly. It'll be good for you. You don't need these stirred up emotions and memories poisoning you, you'll need a steady head to raise those adorable siblings of yours."

Edward sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, "fine," he agreed tiredly.

"Lay back, I'll go up and help Isabella with the kids. We'll manage until you wake. Rest, you'll feel like a new man," he instructed his voice firm and leaving Edward with little choice but to do as he said.

...

"Hey," Edward said quietly, stepping into the suite.

Bella grinned, looking up from the game she was playing with Asher on her tablet while feeding one of the twins, "we packed up most of the room for tomorrow, Ash was a big help."

"Great, thanks, Ash," he ruffled the young boy's hair as he grinned up at him proudly. He glanced over at his dad who was feeding the other twin, and he gave him a nod in thanks.

He smiled softly as Mia rushed him, pink pacifier firmly in place. He scooped her up, "Hey, pretty girl."

She plucked at her dress and looked up at him expectantly, he chuckled, "that's a very cute dress," he complimented on demand.

"We have tizzas," she grinned at him from behind her pacifier as she pointed to the boxes on the table.

"Looks yummy," he agreed, placing her back on her feet as she wiggled to be put down.

Bella chuckled, as she read into his fake enthusiasm, she passed him Braxton, "don't worry, we ordered you a grilled, chicken caesar salad," she told him quietly, handing him a white Styrofoam container.

Edward grinned a little, "Thanks," he murmured, "you spoil me."

"Damn straight," she teased him. He enjoyed how her sweet brown eyes sparkled with warmth. He forced himself to turn away from her and move to the table. Nanny, she's your nanny, Edward. You're not falling into that terrible cliché either.

"So?" His father asked him. He didn't have to think about what he was asking; he knew.

"I spoke with Branson for thirty minutes, we're going to meet for lunch when I get back," he said, pulling his plastic fork from its wrapper.

"Good, I'm proud of you," Carlisle said, placing Holden into his bassinet.

As if sensing his discomfort, Bella spoke, looking up from her phone "have you guys seen Alice's new Facebook profile picture?"

"No," they spoke in unison.

"Oh," she said, giving them a sheepish smile, "never mind," she smirked to herself as both men dug into their pockets for their phones.

A big Thank you to Sunflower Fran for beta'ing.

I hope everyone is doing great, enjoying their Summer. I am. Between the pool, the sunshine, pregnant naps and my children's never ending need to be fed make getting chapters out a bit slower.

This chapter was brought to you by Captain Underpants, two rainy days, sweet and sour snacks and my headphones. :P

I hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a Review!

Much Love, Hugs,

- Emily