July 2011
Twenty-One / Twenty-Four
Isabella was crying like a wounded animal and Edward couldn't bear it. She would only cry like that three times in his presence: once because of her father, once because of her mother, and once because of Edward himself.
"Whaz-o-een- pu-public - oon?"
Isabella was the strongest person Edward had ever met. He knew every word that came out of her mouth was the product of years of dedicated effort. The lovely cadence of her voice was fruit of decades of speech therapy. Her speech impediment had come back with a vengeance, and the CP was acting up. It was sign enough that the conversation should have been over. It was a sign that her so-called father was hurting her.
Edward felt so protective of her, especially when he was the one to hurt her – like she was his whole heart, living outside his body. He wouldn't feel as protective over another human being until Isabella had children.
He knew it was time to stop.
Prying the phone out of her hand, Edward turned it off.
Isabella let out a sob, with a huff of air sucker-punches from her gut, and struggled to suck air into her lungs. For several beats, she made a choking, guttural sound and it shattered his heart completely. Her honeyed doe eyes were flashing with a mixture of panic and pain. Sometimes, it killed him to think about why her eyes were so expressive, why she loved words – about how hard she had fought to speak.
One of the most poignant, endearing things about Isabella was that she valued the ability to express herself because she couldn't take it for granted. "There's a line in a Harry Potter book – that words are our most inexhaustible source of magic," she had mused once. "It's my favorite line in the entire series." Edward had found the sentiment beautiful. Despite everything, he was Carlisle and Elizabeth's son. He loved Isabella because her soul was beautiful, and she was lovely to the marrow of her bones.
"Bee, baby?" Edward asked, with anxiety gnawing at his gut. He understood the basics of working a person through a panic attack, but there was something about Isabella's fragility that made him panic. His hand hovered near her, and all he thought to do was to stroke her hair.
"Bee?" he repeated softly.
Isabella's shoulders shook with silent sobs, with tremors that ran through her entire frame – the palsy converging with pain. Every breath of hers hitched into strangled gasps. Her tears glistened, turning into salt tracks on porcelain skin and blurring the vibrancy of her eyes. She grew snotty, wiping at her cheeks with her sleeves and leaving a trace of goo on the back of her palm.
Rattling himself with pain, anxiety, and hate, Edward stood. Walking around the room in a panic, he clawed at a box of tissues and took them to her. With painstaking tenderness, holding her hand like she was precious – because she was – he wiped her wrists and her cheeks. Knowing that she wouldn't muster the coordination to do it herself – the pinching motion was too difficult -, Edward covered her nose with tissue and squeezed gently. Noisily, she blew her nose into the tissue.
"I loh – o—ve-ve ee—oooh" Isabella said sniffily. It meant the world to hear her say it, because it took great effort. I love you.
It had been years since she had been so badly affected by strong emotions that the dysarthria – the technical term for her speech impediments – acted up like this. S sounds were always a little harder for her, even when she worked so hard to articulate that she sounded almost perfect. Edward had looked into dysarthria because it wasn't that uncommon a symptom of central nervous system disorders. Plosives – popping consonants - and fricatives – hissing consonants – were harder.
She was fucking amazing. He'd forgotten how much effort it took for her to speak and articulate sounds correctly.
"I love you, too," he murmured gently, his eyes stinging with tears, because he couldn't stomach her pain. "I love you more than anything."
With his knuckles, he brushed her cheek. She was still trembling and sobbing, struggling to breathe. He stroked her hair, wanting to hold her. Pointedly, he spread out his arms. He was filled with relief when she nodded once. Gently, he pulled her closer so that she was sitting across his lap. Despite the heat, he liked being close. There was something that soothed him about being so close that the rhythm of their breathing would converge. Being with her made him feel home – a sensation he thought was lost forever when his mother died.
"He ha—ss uh – "
"I can wait, sweetheart," Edward interrupted her quickly. He didn't want to push her. "You don't have to tell me right now."
The irritation in her doe eyes was so plain that Edward almost wanted to smile. A grumpy frown took over her face, and her nose wrinkled. Bella wanted to share what had happened that very instant.
She repeated the phrase. "Hee ha—ah-sss – thh uh -sss-oh-n."
It took Edward a minute to understand.
He was rusty, in no small measure because Isabella had become very articulate through years of dedication. "He has a …" Edward's brow wrinkled in concentration. Thephrase could just as easily have been he is an asshole, Edward thought, and that was more likely.
"Darling, can you – can you repeat that for me?" he asked very gently, warmly. He was rusty, but he didn't want to make her self-conscious.
Her crying had calmed, but she was still trembling like an old-fashioned timer ringing an alarm. Every tremor shattered his heart.
"He ha-ah-sss uh l-ee-tuh-luh boy. Aah – ss-oh-nuh. I haa-fff a bay-bee buh-ruff-er."
"You have a baby brother?" Edward repeated.
"Did that – eh - " Edward fought hard to stay polite. "Did that other lady give birth?"
A fat tear fell down her cheek as she nodded, and Edward could have killed.
"Buh-ohrr- doo-reen-guh the – maw-ree-ash. My duh-uh-duh ch—ee-tuh-ed." Sometimes when she struggled with dysarthria, she repeated the sound once or twice to get it right.
Borr doo-ring the maw-rash. My dud cheated. The agony in her expression was enough confirmation of her words.
Edward didn't know how or when, but he vowed that kind of betrayal wouldn't go unpunished. He cuddled her closer, at a loss, wordless with anger. He wanted to avenge her. Isabella was right all along: something had taken root in Edward, and he was not able to fully destroy it, not at that moment.
When he finally spoke, there was ice in his veins. "How old, love?" he asked softly, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.
She lifted a hand and tried to make a symbol with her fingers, and he loved her.
Isabella lifted a trembling palm, but the tremors were so bad that she couldn't make the shape she wanted with her hands. Edward decided to help her. Cradling her hand gently, he kissed it, then steadied it.
"Teenager?"
Isabella shook her head, and Edward was reminded of the Little Mermaid, not least because she was just as beautiful.
"Tween?" She shook her head.
"Grade school?" Another shake.
"Tuh-odd- luh-rr," she said, and her breathing was evening it. Sometimes, when she made the rrr sound, Edward's heart burst with tenderness, because it sounded like a little growl.
"Th ree." She had worked so hard at that word in when they were little. Three. Edward thought the sign that he was insanely in love was that he was insanely proud of that accomplishment.
The cadence of her voice was slow and stilted because she was fighting to get the sounds just right.
"I wa-ah-sss suh-m kuh-ay-nuh-duh o-fff duh-eel zuh-tuh duh-ey may-duh." That was so painful for her to say that she gasped for breath after saying, like the words had knotted her throat. She gave a shuddering breath. "Noe bud ee wan – ted me uh-nuh-tee-luh muh-eee muh-ah-muh." Nobody wanted m until my mom.
While unsurprised, Edward was livid. Icy rage was coursing through his veins.
"Bee," Edward said earnestly, with the greatest gentleness even though he could have murdered. "I want you. You're a gift, love. You're a gift to me, to this family, and to your …Dad."
Fuck if it didn't hurt to say that. Any respect Edward had for Charles Swan – for protecting Isabella from Edward himself – had gone down the drain like diarrhea. As angry as he was at his aunt, despite all the resentments he harbored, he loved her.
"You're wonderful," he said, and he meant every word. "You're funny, and kind, and imaginative, and intelligent, and you're the best thing those two ever did. You're the best thing in my life. They're not acting like it right now, but it's true."
Bella smiled, and Edward felt like he had won a prize. She had a smile that reminded him of sunshine. He would never stop thinking that, even when infatuation faded.
"And you just mentioned it yourself," Edward continued, kissing the tip of her nose. It was so lovely, and he was obsessed with her nose, with how perfect it was, dainty and upturned at the tip. "Esme wanted you. Esme."
It was the wrong thing to say. As quickly as it had come, her smile faltered. Her features crumbled with remorse. "I-fff bee-nuh so un-grrr-eyy-tuh-ffluh," she mumbled, garbled and slurred. I've been so ungrateful.
"No," Edward said sharply. "No, you haven't. They were – are - adults. Esme chose to be your mother as a grown-ass woman."
Such was his sense of protectiveness that he hated his own aunt, and both of Isabella's biological parents, with a passion. To his great shame, Edward had called Esme a bitch and a psychopath more than he cared to admit. Esme always forgave him – without demanding an apology and unconditionally.
Edward knew that, if push came to shove, Esme would have perjured, stolen, and killed for her sister's son. He had no doubt the same would be true for Bella, but it made him furious that she had to pay a price. It always came at a price. It made Edward furious that Isabella was not granted the same privileges: Isabella refused to wear a ribbon, and Esme threw a tantrum. Isabella called Esme something mild – like "cruel and silly," and Esme abandoned her.
That was what worried him most. Esme had abandoned her and was icing her out. Her fucking father was putting her in a messy situation. No wonder she was falling to pieces.
"Part of being a good parent is letting your kids grow. You don't owe her anything."
His words rang true because he knew what good parenting was. He had it in spades, from his father and his mother. For a split second, the wound of his mother's loss was torn open, and he missed his mother as sharply as he had those first months.
"Ah-knee-way," she said, stilted, sounding like she did at age twelve. She was still trembling badly. "I th—eeen – k I knee- duh tah – go – hoe – muh." I think I need to go home. Her voice broke on the last syllable, and she shuddered through a sob, a tear rolling down her cheek. "Da bee-tuh-sss uh-n-duh pee-zzz-uhs leh-ff-tuh of eet, ah-knee-way." The bits and pieces left of it, anyway.
Edward's heart constricted. "You're already home. Your home is with me," he said, and he felt achingly vulnerable in his earnestness.
"Our home is with each other," he added softly, pushing back every instinct for self-protection, wanting her to know it was mutual. "You make me feel like I'm home."
Bella looked at him so tenderly that she glowed with love. It meant the world – her honeyed doe eyes full of trust and something akin to devotion. It made him feel worthy of her.
"Ay-ee cah-n-tuh ee-m-puh-ose on yah-rrr Da-ah-ad."
"You're not imposing," he spat, almost angrily. "You don't have to go anywhere unless that's what you want," he said. Being with her made him feel exposed, like he was just an idiotic and sweet boy in love with his best friend. "And if you do decide to go somewhere, I hope I can come, too."
Hand trembling, she touched his cheek, and he closed his eyes. No woman had ever touch – would ever touch - him like that: reverently, lovingly, gently. Edward wasn't an idiot: Jane was a gold-digging elitist. Edward had noticed it from the very first interaction. Jane had turned down the other medical student Edward was with, at that pub, because he was studying at a lesser-known university.
Isabella loved him.
"Ay-ee ah-m," she retorted sharply. "Ay knee-duh tuh fee-goo-rrrr ow-tuh wah-tuh duh-oo."
I am. I need to figure out what to do.
Edward did not want to be separated again, not if he had any say. That made his heart spiral with dread. Isabella had been raised by Esme, who thought imposing was so tacky it bordered on rude. For the Masens, that kind of tackiness was tantamount to murder or theft. "Ah- uhn-duh nah-tuh juh-sss-tuh ray- nuh-oh," she managed, and her eyes filled with tears.
"I'll always take care of you. Always."
For the rest of his life, Edward kept to his word. He turned that statement into a promise, into a vow. He was forced to stay away from her, forced to watch her love another man – and love him deeply. Despite that, he always took care of her. He never stopped protecting her with every resource at his disposal, not even when it made his other relationships wilt on the stem.
Isabella would always have these incredibly expressive, huge doe eyes that looked like honey, and Edward could see she was
"You need to rest," he said, and it was true. "You don't have to make any decisions right now. OK? My Dad loves you, Bee. You're welcome to stay here. You know that, right, love?"
Uncertainly, she nodded.
"I loh-ff you. Sss-uh muh-ssh."
"Not as much as I love you," Edward murmured. His entire expression was light and tender – even though every word was true. Edward was irrevocably in love with every bit of her, with her entire soul – but Edward knew the reverse wasn't entirely true. He didn't mind. Isabella was the only girl who knew and loved him. Edward the person. Edward in all his brokenness and dorkiness and humanity. However, she didn't love Edward Anthony Masen Cullen. Edward Cullen III. It wouldn't be a problem until it was.
Edward left her sleeping after giving her a tall glass of water and some Tylenol. He felt like there was a void in his stomach and a physical ache in his chest where his heart was.
Without knocking, he barged into his father's study, pushing one of the double doors open. He didn't particularly care if his father was busy. "Hey, Dad," he said loudly, in a voice that demanded attention.
His father looked irritated, and he was busy. He was in the middle of a conference call, with a phone on speaker. Glowering pointedly at his son, he crouched around the speaker on his phone. "Sorry, Dr. Pinto. Please carry on," he said, in his cucumber-cool professional voice.
Remorselessly, and rather insolently, Edward walked in. Taking a seat on one of the upholstered leather chairs, Edward lifted his long legs and placed them squarely on his father's mahogany desk. Carlisle glared and made neurotic gestures with his hands – indicating Edward had to move his feet off the table. Dr. Pinto explained they had found an immature teratoma on a patient's ovary through MRI scanning on a patient, with solid and cystic masses. Edward's father suggested a course of chemotherapy after surgical removal.
Bella would be gagging, Edward thought. Even as a child, Edward didn't find many things disgusting, but his mother did. "Carlisle, I'm eating," his mother would say frequently. The memory was embedded into Edward's memory, indelibly.
When the conference call was over, his father glowered at him cantankerously.
"What do you need, son?" Carlisle grumbled, standing after the call to stretch. "You should knock, Edward. And get your feet off the table, son, for God's sake."
"Bella thinks I have dermatitis from swimming," Edward said casually.
"That was her diagnosis? Dermatitis?" Carlisle asked, sounding impressed.
"No," Edward half-whistled. Her exact words had been 'I think the skin here looks flakey.' In two weeks, she had noticed more about Edward's health than Jane had in two years: that he was squinting a lot, that his skin was turning flakey and red, that he needed a little more sleep.
"She said that bit of skin looks weird and I need to get it checked. She's usually right about that kind of thing, though. She said yesterday that I need to get my eyesight checked. I went this morning and the optometrist said I've been farsighted for years."
Carlisle's expression relaxed into an amused grin. "Two for two," he said fondly. "She's always taken good care of you. I'm very grateful to her for it."
"She's perfect," Edward said simply, but his father knew the extent of the intensity. Rather embarrassingly, Edward had waxed poetic – honest, candid, desperate confessions of love – attempting to convince his father that he would never hurt Isabella again.
Edward got right down to business. "Did you know Charles Swan has a son?"
"I had no clue," Carlisle said flatly. "I heard your Aunt say she had proof, but I never imagined..."
"He does," Edward said cleanly, jaw clenched, voice icy. "A three-year-old."
Carlisle winced.
"His whore is pregnant with a second baby," Edward continued darkly, filled with disgust. "And he wants Bella to go to the wedding."
"Don't get into the habit of referring to that woman that way," Carlisle cautioned, eyes flashing sternly. "If not to refer to all people with respect, then at least for Isabella's sake. The woman is going to be her new stepmother."
"Whatever," Edward said dismissively. "I don't think she should go even if it makes that rat bastard shit a brick. She needs to stay here. With me."
Carlisle slapped his hand against his face like he wanted to tear the skin off. "I understand why you're so furious," he snapped sternly, "You need to cool off. If not for your sake, then for hers."
Carlisle took a deep, calming breath, steepling his fingers. He seemed to be deep in thought, and not entirely comfortable. Edward had come into his father's study expecting reassurance. It wasn't coming, and Edward's temper was lit like a match touching gas.
"You think she should go to that wedding?" Edward hissed furiously. "She should stay here with me until she returns to school."
Carlisle rubbed his forehead thoughtfully, clearly stressed. "There's lots to take into consideration, Edward, including the downsides of – "
"Why aren't you taking care of her?" Edward thundered, so loudly his father's temper was lit back. "All you've ever said about loving her is bullshit."
To Edward's enormous shock, Carlisle stood in a flash, and towered over Edward. "I would pay her college tuition if it came down to it!" he roared. "But for once in your life, you should think through your temper!"
Edward shut up out of shock.
"For one thing, and I said this before, Edward Anthony," Carlisle seethed. "There's an element of duty of care at play. I refuse to leave a very young woman in the vulnerable position of being entirely dependent on her boyfriend, no matter how much he may love her. And I – I have to say, Edward, I'm still uncomfortable with the idea of leaving you to your own devices as you pursue… couple's intimacy." This last thing he said delicately, cringing.
Edward groaned frustratedly. "Stop being such a fucking prude."
"You want me to be blunt?" Carlisle roared. "I'll be blunt, son! I don't want to leave Isabella completely alone with my playboy son! You got called into a principal's office for receiving oral sex in a public museum, for Christ's sake, Edward! I have no doubt you have a decade of experience over her!"
Edward was deeply hurt by his father's lack of trust. "I love her more than anything," Edward repeated, seething and cold. Unlike in his last conversation, his tone was neither earnest nor sweet. He was angry. "I won't ever hurt her ever again, and I don't ever want to be away from her."
Carlisle closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, falling deflatedly back into his chair. "Can't you see why it's a breach of duty of care, to put her in that kind of position? Where she's burned bridges with both her parents, no matter how incompetent they are at parenting? Where's she's completely alone with a man with far more experience? As a parent, I can't just turn a blind eye or facilitate that. It's not what I would want for a daughter, and she's the closest I'll ever get to having one."
All of Edward's anger deflated. He was glad Isabella had his father in the complete absence of competent parenting in her life. "I get it. I do. I'm glad she has you, Dad. Honestly."
"I do care for Isabella very much," Carlisle said softly, the spat over. "I'm very fond of her. I love her dearly. Your mother loved her. Your mother was crazy about her. Actually..."
Edward's dad pulled a drawer open. Gingerly, almost reverently, he held an old photograph. It was a faded Polaroid with sun-bleached yellow edges.
The picture, clearly from a bygone era, captured a moment of pure joy, and Edward felt his heart squeeze.
On the corner of the frame, there was a bright pink pediatric wheelchair, adorned with a cartoon unicorn decal. The chair itself, a relic of the 90s, had a supportive headrest, tall handles for parents, and a special cushion on the seat to prevent abduction. Edward saw the features on the wheelchair with a more clinical eye now. Inspired by Isabella, Edward had interacted with dozens of children with cerebral palsy during his senior year of college at Boston's Children. While the experience had been poignant to the point of pain, he had decided to stay away from pediatrics. There was nothing as heartbreaking or annoying as a screaming kid, and Edward wasn't a fucking martyr.
On the center of the frame, sat the two people Edward loved most in the world. Edward would come into millions and become richer than his father ever was – and the money would come at a price. That picture would remain his most valuable possession.
His mother was hugging Isabella, with her face alight with laughter. His mother wore ugly nineties clothes - a floral patterned sundress and a denim jacket tied casually around her waist. In her arms, nestled close, was a little girl. At eight years old, Isabella radiated an infectious grin. Her big brown eyes were sparkling. All of those features that Edward loved – a delicately-bridged nose and thick eyelashes – made her look like a fairy.
Edward wasn't embarrassed that a tear had slipped down his cheek. His gratitude was caught in his throat.
"You can keep it," Carlisle said kindly.
"Thanks, Dad."
There was a pause, while the father waited for the son to dry his tears.
"I don't remember this," Edward said.
"You only saw Esme and Bella half a dozen times," Carlisle said. "Your mother and Esme had a difficult relationship. You weren't on your best behaviour any of those times."
"I was such a little shit."
Carlisle chuckled. "Yeah, you were."
Another pause.
"It's precisely because I care about Isabella that this situation needs to be managed very carefully."
"I have been thinking about it. How it's going to work next year, at least, while she's still in school," Edward said quietly. "Would you let us stay here, every now and then?"
Carlisle sighed, defeatedly, rubbing his forehead.
"Remember what you said, when I started going to parties with alcohol? How you said you'd rather I call you drunk than drive off by myself?" Edward said pointedly. "Same principle. It's going to happen whether you agree to it or not."
"I suppose you're right," Carlisle said grudgingly, looking at his son with deep irritation.
Carlisle sighed. "I'm going to make it clear to Isabella that she's welcome to stay here for as long as she needs, and that all of our resources are entirely at her disposal," he said firmly. "If she stays here, I'm going to ask Mrs. Maynard to chaperone – "
"Christ, Dad," Edward yelped.
"What I mean," Carlisle snapped, unfazed but slightly sheepishly, "is that I will ask Mrs. Maynard to check in on the two of you periodically and to – help Isabella if she needs it."
"Fine."
"I'm also happy to cover …any expenses. The thing is, Edward, I think she wouldn't take that support if her life depended on it, and I don't want to discourage her from reaching out to her parents. I know better than anyone how hard it is to deal with a parent who cheated, but my advice stands. Charles Swan didn't cheat on Isabella, he cheated on Esme, and that marriage has always been…"
Carlisle had hit on the topic Edward was most interested in, and he inched forward eagerly.
"Was there some kind of deal? Between my Aunt and Isabella's father?"
The look on Carlisle's expression told Edward everything he needed to know.
According to Edward's grandmother, one of his father's weaknesses was that he was too transparent and too good. Edward agreed. That was why his father, Edward believed, was terrible at handling his business portfolio.
Edward knew it because he had come into some stock from his grandfather's shipping company at age 21. "To get your feet wet," his grandmother had explained. "The Cullens have been doing it for generations. Preparing heirs to succeed before they do." Edward had sat as an observer on board meetings every quarter, and his father was embarrassingly transparent, even on the phone.
His father's breath hitched, and he sighed. "I… Your mother had opinions, Edward. I never really… got into the messy details. I heard your mother's take and I agreed with her, but I don't completely understand the specifics."
"The specifics?" Edward asked, arching an eyebrow, keeping his face nonchalant. He was bursting at the seams to know.
"Information can hurt, Edward, and it can be valuable. You need to promise you'll be careful about how you handle this. And for the love of God, don't fall out with your Aunt over this, is that clear? That was enough of a problem between your mother and her sister."
If Edward had been any younger, or any less jaded, his mouth would have popped open in utter shock. Slyly, he kept cool. "Why?" he asked, his voice emanating collected calmness.
Carlisle took a deep, steadying breath. He squinted at Edward hesitantly, unsure of how to proceed. Edward let his mask slip for two seconds, trying to convey with his eyes how much he loved Isabella. "I swear I won't ever share anything that will hurt Bella," he said fiercely.
"And your Aunt, Edward," Carlisle said, with matching heat. "You shouldn't hold it over her head, no matter how deplorable. What is done is done."