Part IV
April 2014
Twenty-Four / Twenty-Six
Miles and years away from that moment in Santa Fe, a tabby called Pancake meowed. Pancake, the most spoiled resident of a Boston apartment, elongated his long forelegs and lifted his rump into the air. Languidly, Pancake stretched.
With a chirp, Pancake strutted towards his owner and rubbed his head around her ankles.
"Hiya," Isabella Swan cooed at the cat, bending at the waist to scratch between his ears. "Hi, Pan. You have your water fountain. You have your tower. You have your kibble. What's wrong, mister?"
Pancake, as expressive as his owner, howled his discontent.
Dressed for work, Isabella wore skinny blue trousers, coupled with a crisp white button-up blouse and a gray V-neck sweater. Light touches of black kohl mascara accentuated her eyelashes. Her ears were adorned with two small pear earrings that had once belonged to Grace Masen. Long and dark, her hair was pulled into a twist and her face was framed by strands of hair.
The coffee machine beeped, and Isabella poured black liquid from a black carafe into a chipped mug. The hand-painted ceramic mug still read: Loading…, and it always made her smile. Placing the mug on her lap, she spun her wheelchair around, towards the master bedroom. Pancake had beat her to the bedroom and curled into a loaf-like position between Edward's legs.
Edward took his coffee black.
Bella woke Edward with a kiss to his temple. "Edward," she murmured smilingly. She ran a single hand through his hair, where grey hairs had started to sprout prematurely. "I'm heading to work. Good luck today, sweetheart."
Underneath her kiss, Edward stirred. "You want me to drive you?" Edward mumbled sleepily.
Bella shook her head and fought back an eye roll. "I'll be fine. I promise," she said sweetly, and pecked him once on the lips.
"Good luck with Sub Surgery I," she added wryly, smirking. She kissed his forehead again, then rolled away.
"Bee?" he called out, as she spun past the threshold. "I love you. So much."
"I love you, too," she called back softly, eyes lit up.
One of the things that endeared her most about Edward was that he never let her go without telling her he loved her. It was as poignant as it was sweet – the byproduct, she supposed, of losing his mother abruptly.
In the living room, to the background noise of Pancake howling, Bella picked up her keys. She stored them in a backpack she took to work. The backpack held lunch-laden Tupperware and a book. She slipped on a puffer jacket, hung the backpack to her wheelchair, and rolled out of the apartment.
Their doorman, Claude - a Haitian immigrant with dreams of opening a bakery - greeted her in the foyer. In bad French, Bella said goodbye to Claude.
Once outside, Isabella was hit by a puff of crisp, cold air. Contentedly, Bella took in a deep breath, relishing the air. Then she began wheeling towards the bus stop, a two-block travail she loved.
The bus stop had become a comfortingly familiar tableau: a worn bench, an impatient shuffle of feet, and a mass of cherry blossoms in bloom. The bus pulled up five minutes after she did. Miguel, the bus conductor, was already at the door. His face was warm with friendliness, a welcoming contrast to the morning's chill.
"Morning, Bell," he greeted, with a booming enthusiasm that Bella found adorable every day.
"Hey, Mikey," she sang back. With a hint of goofiness, she grinned at Miguel with her loveliest smile.
Like he did every day – in an almost yearlong routine – Miguel lowered the ramp. Its metal grated against the concrete a jarring counterpoint to the morning's quiet. He stepped away from his seat while Isabella guided her wheelchair onto the bus.
There was a familiar hum of impatience, rising with tension. Some fellow passengers hated the inconvenience she represented. Bella had heard a handful of hurtful comments since she had joined that bus route. "Why can't people like that stay home?" had stung bitterly. Most days, the staring and the irritation was a low, bothersome hum that never broke past the thresholds imposed by polite civility.
Miguel moved to secure her chair. From a compartment above, he pulled out two thick, webbed straps with sturdy metal hooks at each end. Miguel attached one hook to a designated anchor point on the bus floor, just in front of Isabella's wheelchair. The other end of the strap he routed around the wheelchair's sturdy frame, ensuring it passed securely through the metal bars at the back. The second strap was secured similarly, creating a diagonal cross over the wheelchair.
Miguel checked the tightness of the straps, pulling on them to ensure they were secure but not overly taut. With a final nod, he stepped back. "All set, Bella," he said, his voice a steady anchor in the storm.
Nodding, Bella mouthed a quick thanks and offered Miguel another smile. The bus lurched forward, and it made her body spasm. The spasm settled quickly, and Bella retrieved The Warmth of Other Suns from her backpack.
Two years had passed since Edward had proposed.
Isabella had since graduated college. The ceremony itself faded into a nightmarish blur. Esme and Charlie had sat on opposite ends of the same row in the auditorium. Their crescendoing divorce battle had dwarfed the auditorium. Sue Swan, with both babies in tow, had worn a gaudy set of five bejeweled rings. Isabella had been lightly disgusted at what she could only describe as Sue's shameless flirting at Edward and Carlisle.
Despite much hemming and hawing, Isabella had decided to invite her mother, not Renée Dwyer.
"You're not angry at that woman?" Rosalie had asked, stupefied, when Bella informed her of her graduation guest list.
"You mean at my mother?" Bella had retorted sharply. "Esme?"
Rosalie nodded, and there was almost something pitying in her expression. "Your mother," Rosalie clarified, and uncertainty looked strange on her.
Isabella said, with surefire certainty, though the statement wouldn't be true for years. "My mother did what was best for me."
"She did what was best," Rosalie repeated dryly, enunciating each word carefully.
"I thought about it," Bella told Rosalie crisply, and earnestly. "There's nothing to forgive. Renée Dwyer was putting up a front. I don't know what it would have been like if I'd gone to live with her. I don't know what my life would have turned out like with her. I don't know what she was like when I was a kid. I don't really know her. What I do know is that my mom took really good care of me all my life."
Slowly, Rose nodded her agreement. "I can't argue with that," she sighed, and she reached across the table to squeeze Bella's hand.
Renée Dwyer sought Isabella out after their pivotal lunch in mid-March: effervescent and bubbly, she'd sent dozens of poorly written e-mails. Bella had been hesitant to reply, and Renée's emails were often left stewing in her email inbox as if it were spam.
The month Isabella graduated college, Renée received an e-mail of clipped sentences and a photo attachment in full-graduate grab.
Immediately after graduating college, Isabella moved into Edward's apartment. Within a few weeks, Emmett chivalrously offered to move out. "You two are so lovey-dovey it's givin' me diabetes," Em had said humorously, a sparkle in his eye. "I gotta stop third-wheeling, and you two need space."
"You're not third wheeling," Bella had objected immediately, crestfallen and earnest. Her honeyed doe-eyes were huge with sincerity. Her point was belied by her worn Adler Planetarium hoodie. She was sitting across Edward's lap with her knees bent, able to nestle her head into the crook of his neck. Edward was rubbing her back.
"I am, button," Em said good-naturedly. "S'been fun for a while, but we all need space."
Around that time, Edward had taught her to drive with hand controls. It had not been easy for her – her hand-eye coordination was too jumbled. After a crash against an oak in Wharton Bay, Bella and Edward had been spooked beyond attempting a driving license.
"We can pay for some kind of… chauffeur service."
"You could pay, but we won't," she huffed grumpily. "I'm not made of glass."
"I've lost a lot of things," Edward finally snapped, shoulders hunched defeatedly in a voice that creaked like shattered glass crunching. "I've lost a lot of things, but I can't lose you."
The bus lurched forward and headed away from their apartment, inching closer to Isabella's office. The office – the dully-named but fast-paced Children's Policy Lab – sat on the third floor of an old red-brick building. Bravely, Bella took a ride up a rickety old elevator to enter her office. It was an open floor space with rows of desks and three corner offices. Three people waved as she passed them – Reem, from Finances; Leonard, their resources manager, and Evie, their communications and quietly, Bella smiled back at that handful of her colleagues.
Humming, Bella stored her Tupperware lunch inside the office fridge, at the very edge of a kitchenette. A tattered printed A4 outlined the rules for communal fridge space, but Bella rarely feared for her lunch fare. She poured steaming hot water from a kettle into a thermos and then dropped a bag of Twinning's green tea to steam. Satisfied, she wheeled towards her favorite desktop – facing a majestic walnut tree. She inputted her credentials into the screen and began perusing her inbox.
Eighteen months after graduating, Isabella found a job at the Children's Policy Lab, working as a policy analyst. Throughout that year, Isabella had become the "world's leading expert on Pre-K in Massachusetts," per her supervisor. Tongue-in-cheek, Bella admitted her job "could sound incredibly dull but is incredibly important."
Essentially, Bella evaluated how the state of Massachusetts funded and supported toddlers – especially lower-income toddlers – through its budget and policy. "The Lab," as it was fondly called, also supported local community centers in designing and evaluating their services. Bella's closest office girlfriend – Angela Webber – worked as an advocate for a Head Start center in Massachusetts.
Isabella had come up with and developed figures that she could quote in her sleep. She knew exactly how much the Commonwealth of Massachusetts spent per child in every county. She could quote statistics about state-wide standardized testing, and she knew what the state was doing to improve those outcomes. She knew were underserved kids lived, and supported her boss in crafting recommendations to serve them better.
It was a job she loved.
To her left, her colleague Noah Ramirez set a mug of coffee down. "Hi, Bella!" Noah beamed. He gave her a puppyish grin that overflowed with enthusiasm.
"Oh," Bella said, offering a matching but hesitant smile. "Hey, Noah."
That asshat has a crush on you, Edward declared grouchily after Isabella took him as a date to the Lab's holiday party. Instantly, Bella had laughed to the point of snorting. "Yeah, right," she had sputtered through amused giggles, sounding almost hysterical.
Lately, she wasn't so sure. Sometimes, she caught Noah staring with an intensity that made her squeamish. The shoe had dropped months earlier, when he commented on the scent of her hair.
"So, uh, how was your weekend?" Noah asked, his voice cracking slightly.
Isabella chuckled, and it was a soft sound that filled the quiet office. "It was lovely, thank you. Just a quiet one at home with my boyfriend." She emphasized the last part with less subtlety than before.
Noah's face flushed a deep crimson. He stammered, "Oh, right, yeah, of course. That's, uh, that's great." His eyes darted around the room, avoiding her gaze.
Isabella felt a surge of compassion because Noah was struggling. "How was yours?" she asked sweetly, offering a reassuring smile.
Isabella had spent nearly eighteen months looking for a job. Despite excellent grades and glowing letters of recommendation, it had taken Isabella nearly a year to find an internship, let alone a job. Bella had spent longer on the job market than most of her graduating class. The problem was rarely the cover letters – she wrote well and compellingly. Most of her CVs and all her cover letters were double-checked by Edward and Rose. She landed three interviews to every rejection, but invariably failed.
The problem was the interviews, of which there had been many. In retrospect, the clues were everywhere. Time after time, recruiters' faces twisted with dawning realization and their eyes clenched with mild discomfort. Interviews became strings of soft questions that transformed into pity-filled conversation. Her trembling and her gait made her self-conscious, making her speech impediment flare because of raging nerves. Subsequent interviews had gone better, if only because Isabella gradually became better at taming her nerves.
Edward had skipped class to drive her to her first interview. He waited outside. Isabella was brave until she reached the confines of Edward's car. Her lips had twisted into a bitter smile, and she shrugged her trembling shoulders. Wordlessly, she had told Edward what he needed to know. "I'm sure you'll find something," Edward would murmur comfortingly into her hair, interview after interview. "I'm absolutely fucking sure. You're brilliant, and hardworking, and –"
"And I look retarded at first glance," Bella had spit cuttingly, filled with corrosive bitterness. Years of a futile campaign to get everyone to abandon that word – retarded – melted into air.
Edward had flinched. "Bella," he croaked. "Baby, that's…"
Instantly, Isabella's eyes watered and tears slipped down the curve of her cheek. "At least be honest about it," Bella pleaded, with a dangerously mordant edge to her voice. "You've never sugarcoated the CP to me. Don't start now."
"Bella, I'm being honest. Sweetheart, yes - you do sound different at first, but you don't sound... You don't sound less intelligent than anybody else."
"That's such bullshit, Edward."
After three more months of atrocious interviews, Isabella had given up. Without any declaration to announce it, Bella had decided to curl into the couch and spend days watching bad daytime TV. For weeks, Bella had lived in an encampment between their couch and their television, well-stocked with a supply of Rollos. In tandem, she and Edward stopped making love – mostly because Isabella wasn't in the mood to have Edward touch her.
The first semester of her post-college life had come and gone with a whimper.
Seven months post-graduation went by. Spring reared its head, through ill-fated flower buds and shy sunbeams. Edward had tried to rouse her. "Bella?" Edward had asked with trepidation-filled enthusiasm, a tone befitting a father talking to his angsty middle-schooler. "Bee, love?"
Bella had peeked up at him from the arm of the couch. She felt so exhausted. "Mmh?"
"Do you want to go eat out? They opened a new Vietnamese restaurant near Tufts."
Despite everything, Bella had smiled at him with half-hearted sweetness. "Can't we just stay in?"
"It's sunny out," he countered, so lovingly that his counterargument sounded coaxing.
Grumpy, sluggish, and slow-moving, Bella had showered – for the first time in three days. Showered, she had put on jeans and a cardigan. Underneath, she noticed how her midsection had grown. Outside, the light had hit her hard, and she had demanded Edward's sunglasses to shield her from the sun. She had yelped a second later, realizing the lenses were custom-made prescription and fitted to an Armani frame.
"I told you," Edward had chuckled.
Over steaming bowls of pho, Edward had made a tentative suggestion. "Baby? I know it's been… I know it's been hard," Edward had begun reticently, and his neck pinkened lightly. As if overcome with shyness, slurped his soup, and there was something so cartoonish about the gesture that it made Bella genuinely smile. "Wouldn't it, eh, be a good, uh, idea to volunteer?"
"To volunteer?" Bella had volleyed back, smacking her lips as if sampling an appetizer. "Where would I…? Where would I volunteer?"
Edward had grabbed onto her rhetorical question as if theatrically catching a football. There had been something irksomely condescending about Edward's cascade of suggestions – from an animal shelter to the local library. Bella felt a spark of irritation that lasted less than two seconds because Edward was just being sweet.
That night, she initiated sex, and she could feel Edward's relief in the hungry way he dotted kisses on her skin.
Pancake was the product of that volunteering effort. Not two weeks after volunteering at the local animal shelter – manning the reception and overseeing filing – Isabella had come across a small, six-month-old kitten. Week after week, though kittens were adopted like hot cakes on a discount, the kitten stayed behind. Bella named him Pancake for good luck.
"Why won't they take Pancake?"
"He has feline leukemia," one of the vets explained. "It's an immunodeficiency."
That day, Isabella had gone home with a spark of enthusiasm she hadn't felt in days. "Can't we adopt him?" she asked Edward pleadingly, bright-eyed.
Edward had begrudgingly purchased Pancake everything from a litter box, to squeak toys, to special kibble. Everyday store-bought kibble made Pancake ill.
"Charming is insane about you," Rose commented softly. She visited in August 2013 – a year after they graduated.
"What makes you say that?"
"He cleans your cat's litter box, Swan."
That cold night in April of 2014, two years after graduating, Isabella returned from her job at 6:30. As she did religiously, she put on music and cooked them both dinner.
Outside, night had fallen. Harvest Moon played low on the speakers. Contentedly, Bella fought through slicing peppers into thick julienne-style slices. She struggled with chopping onions and peppers, not because the onion's pungency made her tear up, but because her intention tremors made it harder. In a pan, chunkily diced onion sizzled. Once she was done with the onions, she plucked some cilantro from a terracotta pot. Isabella grew potted herbs on their windowsill.
The door opened, Pancake meowed, and Edward dropped his backpack by the doorway. He groaned. Like he did every day, he would leave a trail – his shoes, his socks, and his work scrubs – from the threshold to the kitchen table. "Bella?" he called out. "Babe?"
From over the kitchen island, Bella smiled at him from ear to ear. Even in the dim light of the den, he could see him smile back – and it was a smile that was all hers, because it was carefree and even a little goofy in its joy.
"I'm going to shower," Edward called with a half-holler, and Bella yelped back her agreement.
Isabella was plating up a chicken stir-fry when she felt Edward behind her. Edward grunted, lifting her ponytail to kiss the back of her neck. Bella hummed, shivering at the feel of his lips. He smelled woodsy and fresh, and she loved him. "Want me to get that?"
Edward set the plates on the kitchen table, and Isabella wheeled into the spot left open for her chair.
"Long day?" Bella asked lazily, a smile playing on his lips.
"I spent the day suturing pig intestines," he grumbled. "Take a guess."
Bella squealed out a disgusted, nervous laugh. "Edward, I'm eating."
"That shit I told you yesterday, about draining the Jackson-Pratt drains? That was gross, Bell. I drained an abscess of pus. Twice."
Bella squealed loudly, over Norah Jones crooning a rendition of Unchained Melody. "Again," she repeated teasingly. "I'm eating."
Isabella's appetite had gradually become sturdier in the face of the more disgusting details of Edward's profession. Now in his third year of medical school, Edward had started courses on the surgery track, colloquially known as Sub-Surgery I. Edward came home every day to vent about some disgusting surgical technique, and Bella had so worried he was regretting the track that she had called Carlisle for advice. Carlisle had reassured her that everything was fine, and Bella had worked hard to keep up with the details of his education.
"Can I ask you a question?" Bella asked, wrinkling her nose, eyes sparkling playfully. "It's a stupid question."
"You don't ask stupid questions," Edward said gently.
"You're supposed to say there are no stupid questions."
"People ask stupid questions all the time," Edward deadpanned grumpily, and it made her giggle. "What is it?"
Bella pinkened but persisted, feeling genuinely curious. "Where do they get the pig intestines?"
Edward laughed, and it was a rusty sound that still made her light up a little. "I don't fucking know, darling. Probably a slaughterhouse."
"But don't people eat pig intestines?"
"In Scotland, maybe. But not here."
"I think you mean haggis, but that's made from sheep intestine."
"Same fucking difference. No one's eating intestine in this country."
Once they finished eating, Edward got the dishes while Isabella showered. Like clockwork, despite his own tiredness and lingering stress, Edward caught her eye pointedly. He wore a stern, oddly clinical expression. "You look like you want to torture me," Bella said jokingly.
Tenderly, Edward caressed her delicate cheekbone. "I know it's late," Edward said, a hint of apology.
"And I know it's important," Bella said, and she flopped down to the bed with the enthusiasm of an eager, high-achieving student. "But you're gonna have to make it up to me when we're done."
Like he had every single day since they had moved in together, six hundred consecutive times, Edward started on her exercises.
"Ready for our torture session?" he asked, his voice teasing yet laced with concern.
Isabella grinned. "As ready as I'll ever be."
Gently, Edward took her left foot in his warm hands. He began with small circles at the ankle, feeling for any resistance. Isabella winced as he slowly increased the range of motion, her ataxia causing her leg to tremor slightly.
"Breathe, sweetheart," he murmured soothingly.
With her leg flat on the bed, Edward cradled the ball of her foot, his touch firm yet gentle. He slowly pushed her toes back towards her shin, the stretch a familiar burn that Isabella met with gritted teeth. He held for a count, then massaged the tight muscle belly with his thumbs, feeling a slight yielding beneath his ministrations. Five times on each leg.
She focused on his calming presence, inhaling deeply as he pushed the stretch further, feeling the pull in her calf muscle. He held it for a sustained count of ten, then slowly released, his touch lingering for a comforting moment.
He repeated the process on her right ankle, then moved up to her knees. Here, the stretches became more complex. Edward positioned himself behind her, one hand cupping her knee while the other held her foot just above the ankle. He gently pulled her leg back, stretching the quadriceps muscle. The tightness was intense, sending a jolt up her spine.
"Tell me to stop if it's too much," he cautioned, his voice firm but kind.
Edward continued with the hamstrings, the tightest culprits. Years of experience allowed Edward to locate the precise spot just behind her knee. He cupped the back of her knee gently and placed a steady hold on her ankle. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted her leg, keeping it perfectly straight. Isabella's breath hitched as the stretch pulled at the taut muscle, a silent acknowledgment of the familiar ache.
"Slow breaths, love," Edward murmured, his voice steady. He knew the drill – hold the stretch for a count of ten, feel the resistance build, then ease off slightly before pushing a little further with each subsequent hold. It was a delicate dance, a constant negotiation between pushing for progress and respecting her limitations. After three repetitions on one leg, Edward switched sides with practiced efficiency.
Edward eased off slightly, gauging her tolerance. The tremor in her raised leg intensified, a counterpoint to the held stretch. He lowered her leg gently, feeling the slight give in the muscle.
Next came the hip flexors. He positioned himself in front of her, one knee on the floor. He cradled her other leg just above the knee, then slowly pulled it towards her chest. Isabella's back arched slightly, a reflex against the unfamiliar pull. Isabella's breath hitched as the stretch pulled at the back of her thigh. He held it for a count of ten, his voice a soothing murmur counting each second. He could feel the resistance, the muscle screaming its protest.
"Easy, easy," he soothed, keeping the stretch gentle. He held it for another ten seconds, feeling the tension ease a fraction. He released slowly, allowing her leg to extend.
The routine continued. Inner thigh stretches, with Isabella leaning forward over a pillow, Edward guiding her leg across her body. Piriformis stretches, him applying gentle pressure to her buttocks with one hand while stabilizing her leg with the other.
With each stretch, Isabella's breathing became more even, the grimace fading into a look of tired concentration. The tremors subsided, replaced by a quiet acceptance of the routine.
Finally, Edward helped her lower herself back onto the bed. He pulled the covers over them, the familiar warmth a comfort. Isabella turned her head towards him, a flicker of a smile gracing her lips.
"Thank you, Dr. Cullen," she whispered, the ataxia making the words slur slightly.
Edward kissed her. "Always," he said simply.
Isabella didn't know it, but there was an engagement ring hidden in his sock drawer, to cement that promise soon.
That engagement ring would puncture the bubble she lived in.
Two years earlier, one night in Santa Fe, Edward had made a promise. "Marry me, Bee. I mean, not right this second, or even this year. Or even the year after that. Fuck, I'm not I'm not asking you to run off to Vegas right now. Just...Someday."
The declaration had hit her with a devastatingly beautiful smash. She felt like she'd won the lottery and received it as a truckful of pennies: inconvenient, burdensome brilliant luck. "Rrrr—eel—ee?"
Edward's blush darkened and spread. "I mean…One day, right?" he said, smiling sheepishly.
Her doe eyes were wide with half-terrified fascination. "Wah-n duh-ey," she echoed, and each of the syllables was stilted. One day.
The reminders of that promise came unexpectedly but frequently. Once in a blue moon, Edward dropped the phrase "when we get married" with casual thoughtlessness. He spoke about that eventuality with casual certainty, the kind befitting upcoming holidays and seasons. It won't be a problem when we get married, he would say. It was a lighthouse in their murky futures, the one certainty. When we get married.
To that, she'd reply with a wistful: "One day."