Chapter 11 - In The Field

What was I even leaving for?

I keep goin' back and forth

I think now I'm about to see

Didn't know how sad it'd be

- Weird Goodbyes (feat. Bon Iver), The National

BPOV

It was all going well until it wasn't.

The ceasefire terms were shaky, and I was set to be pulled from the field later that day. I was with the International Committee of the Red Cross group in Gaza, taking photos of the conditions of the hospital. Then the sirens started. And kept going. And going. And going.

Person after person was brought in. After eight weeks of relative quiet, the ceasefire was broken and the hospital was overwhelmed. Supplies dwindled quickly, and cries and yells filled every corner. In the initial wave, I did what I could to help. With broken English and Arabic, I was able to communicate with the medical staff there, and I found myself applying pressure to wounds and rushing to supply closets and back. Blood coated my arms and clothes, and I ended up in scrubs for several days. I was with a few other photographers, and they were a bit more wary to dive into the mess, but I eventually convinced them to help. And by convinced, I mean I cussed them out colorfully until they gave in.

The flow of people was almost constant over the next few days, and the NYT team worked with multiple government agencies to get me safely out of there. This wasn't the first time I had been stuck in a war zone, but aside from satellite, I didn't have a way to get in touch with anyone, namely Jacob or Edward or even David. I'm sure they were worried sick, and all I could do was send messages to the team to let them know we were alive and physically well. I even sent what pics I could of the devastation, sometimes wandering with groups outside of the little community we were in to survey building damage. Sometimes we even found ourselves in the immediate area of recent bombings, helping unbury broken bodies of loved ones from the dirt.

Every night during this time ended the same - sobbing myself to sleep, clutching a pillow and trying not to picture the faces of children crying out in pain, of parents sobbing. In times like these, I missed Edward violently, with an ache that was physical. It was the desire for a partner to hold you as you broke down from seeing firsthand some of life's cruelties, as you processed feelings. The feeling of comfort without judgement, of sharing that pain so it didn't bury you in the ground. Recovery or not, James David or not, time and distance and money and fame - it's all obsolete in the face of this pain. With everything stripped back, I just crave Edward. And the tears that come with this realization don't hurt the same way as the others.

CENTCOM eventually sent a team to help extract myself and those few others from the field. As we're flying, Marcus, a fellow photographer, sits beside me.

"Bella, you were… amazing this week. I've never seen someone throw themselves into the field like you did." I look at him and nod, forcing a small smile. I didn't tell him that there was no other option for me but to help people. I don't share how it hurts me to photograph people's pain and suffering in times like these; that this coverage, while bringing awareness, pays my bills and that can really bug me when I think about it.

He recognizes it might be hard for me to talk right now, and nods. "I'm sorry to bug you. I just wanted to give you a heads up… I had gotten a few photos of you while you jumped in, before we joined you. And, well - the photos tell a really intense story about what happened while we were there. I'm giving you a heads up because I think my editor might use them in our publication. He might've already, I'm not sure."

As weird as it feels to have the focus on me - I can see the "white savior" comments already - I think of the alternative. Photos of pain. Photos of faces covered in dirt thrown up from military trucks or debris, tear tracks obvious.

I smile and nod reassuringly. "That's fine. Thanks for letting me know."

Our flights are long and exhausting. I sleep when I can, and think ahead. I don't know how to move forward from this moment. Luckily I don't have many assignments lined up. Perhaps it was time I took a sabbatical to figure out my life - Edward and work and figuring out who I was outside of both of those.

We land at a smaller airport in New York, and I see reporters from a few publications there waiting on the tarmac alongside the government agencies who have been helping with the arrangements for this expedition. But as I step down onto the tarmac, when I see bronze hair and ray-bans, I still - and then run.

Straight into Edward Masen's arms.

A/N: surprise!