A Constant in The Darkness

Chapter Thirty-Two - Maybe I'll Go to Rome

Darlings,

Thank you for taking the time to listen to Alice. As one lovely reader pointed out, this point of view is often neglected: the observer, the family member that has to watch as their loved ones destroy themselves and as much as those directly involved are afllicted, so are those that love them.

n7of9 is my hero and she fixes things up real nice like. Thank you bb, I love you big time.

Disclaimer: I don't own it.

...

EPOV

Ring…ring…

Please let it be Carlisle.

"Hello?" A soft voice answered and I almost hung up. I was silent for what seemed like an eternity, trying to force myself to speak.

"Hello?" Another long pause as she waited and I could almost see her face scrunching with frustrated confusion. "Edward?"

"Yeah, it's me," I mumbled into the receiver, humiliation now replacing my fear as I came to terms with what I was about to tell her. She didn't deserve this. She had offered me her family, trusted me, comforted and loved me, and I had betrayed every good she bestowed upon me. Oh God, this was going to kill her.

"Edward! Where are you? Nevermind. It doesn't matter. Come home, please." It wasn't a request and I would have gladly obliged if I weren't currently being held at the county police station on suspicion of driving while intoxicated.

"Esme, can I talk to Carlisle?" I pleaded through a splitting headache. I pinched at my temples, trying to abate the maddening pound of intoxication, all to no avail.

"Edward, where are you?" she asked tersely. Her relief was beginning to fade into panic, and then anger would set in accompanied by a side of disappointment. I didn't want to have to say the words, not to her. I could tell Carlisle anything, but I never wanted to be this in front of my aunt. It just seemed so disrespectful.

"Edward, answer me right now. Edward?" I couldn't form the words, my throat dry and clogged with remorse.

I heard a sigh on the other end of the receiver. "Carlisle's not here, he's at the hospital," Esme conceded.

Shit! Maybe I should stay in jail. This was the consequence of my idiotic behavior, maybe I deserved to be left to fester in this pile of cinderblocks and disgust.

"Edward, please. Your sister is beside herself." She knew how I could be persuaded, she knew I'd do anything for my sister.

"I'm at the police station. I…I had an accident," I said reluctantly. I was trying to make it pretty by calling it an accident, but accidents don't really exist. It's all just cause and effect, one event set it motion by the previous and triggering the start of the next. Like dominoes. There was nothing accidental about it. I had carefully set the tiles in place, forced them into decorative patterns and intriguing displays, and I had knocked them all down, making one fucking colossal mess.

"An accident? Are you okay? Why are you at the police station?" Esme's voice rang with concern and I clenched my eyes shut. Just tell her, asshole, it's not like she won't find out eventually.

"Yeah, a car accident. Um, I think they're going to arrest me, or maybe I've been arrested, I don't know. But I'm going to have to stay here in jail unless Carlisle or someone comes to bail me out," I rambled, just trying to get the thoughts from my brain to my mouth and out across the phone connection.

"Edward, what the hell is going on?" Esme cursed in a low voice as her panic melted into fear.

"I'm sorry, Esme. I just really need to talk to Carlisle," I responded, my inhale sharp as the pain in my side throbbed. No broken ribs, just cuts and bruises, that's what the paramedic had said anyway. It didn't really matter, I deserved this pain.

"I'll call him at work. Are you sure you're okay?" My exhaustion began to set in, drowsiness a sure side effect of the alcohol.

"I'm fine," I muttered as my vision blurred. I told her where I was and I hung up before I could further embarrass myself.

I was booked for drunk driving and had my license suspended, and my now completely destroyed car was impounded. I was forced to surrender all my possessions, including the folded paper and the ring in my pocket both belonging to Bella, before they dumped me in the holding tank with three far scarier looking dudes than I. I will never forget that night, huddling into myself and trying not to think of the horrendous cesspool of bacteria surrounding the toilet I was puking into. I just waited for Carlisle, a little unsure if he would actually come to get me this time. I really wouldn't blame him if he didn't. I had already caused them so much stress and they didn't need any more of my shit.

In the end he did just that; Carlisle left me in that cell all night and I didn't sleep the entire time I was there. I was so fucking tired too, the alcohol in my system making my eyelids unbelievably heavy, but I managed to hold exhaustion at bay with images I had forced myself to ignore for the past two months. I thought of Bella. She was in Jacksonville, with that woman, and the mere thought caused another wave of nausea that sent me hurling to that obscene steel bowl. Trying to abate the conglomeration of pure hell I felt pounding through my head, I imagined her on the beach in Florida, her hair swirling around her face, her eyes hidden behind large dark sunglasses, her lips pulled into her snarky grin, and I imagined her happy. I really, really hoped she was happy.

Eventually, her lovely face faded and I was left to simmer in my cloudy, incoherent thoughts. I couldn't help but feel that if I had been given the damn drugs that fucking doctor was supposed to give me, all this wouldn't be happening. I would have been sheltered and wrapped in the comfortable veil of chemicals and I wouldn't have panicked when I saw those envelopes, when I heard her name.

Was I just overreacting? Could I have been overreacting this whole fucking time? I couldn't imagine a stress any worse than losing Bella, but according to the psychologist I showed no symptoms of schizophrenia. Was I just depressed and going through a "bad break-up", as he had referred to it?

How could there be no bomb when I felt like I was going to explode? How could this even be possible? For the past four years it was all I had been waiting for, all I had to look forward to, but I realized I hadn't been merely waiting, I had been counting on it. I had been so sure my father's fate would be mine that I had planned my life around it. It was a comfort knowing that I would inevitably become unaware and detached. I spent my time trying to make amends for my future psychosis, trying to take care of my family as much as I could now so that when it was time for them to take care of me, I wouldn't feel so damn guilty.

This disease was who I was, it defined me. It defined my past, my present, and my future. I had witnessed my father's psychosis, felt the sting of his palm against my face and his fingers grip the back of my neck. I had seen him destroy as I have destroyed, watched him cry out in fear and pain and self-loathing as I have, and in all that time I perceived it as normal. My coping mechanisms mirrored his, but could it be possible that my mental health did not?

And then it dawned on me. I had no excuse. I was just a hot-tempered asshole, quick to blame my behavior on an impending psychosis that I had trusted would develop but that I was just beginning to realize might never come.

The entire concept was a whole new level of betrayal.

I might never become schizophrenic, now seeing the likelihood only as prevalent as the improbability. I had no idea how to deal with this shit like a normal person, take responsibility for my actions without blaming my behavior on possible mental illness. I had used it as a crutch, almost as if I looked forward to the onset of the disease because it would at least bring about the end of the pain I had gone through over losing my parents.

I didn't know how to handle this and I felt a foreign emptiness settle in my chest. I felt abandoned. The attachment to my maybe mental illness had served as an attachment to my parents, it linked me to my father, the only link I really ever had to him, and now it was gone.

And I was alone.

The power of this thought resonated off the cold cinderblock wall at my back and for the first time tonight, I felt frightened. I wasn't scared of this place or of those scary looking fuckers sharing my cell. I wasn't scared of what my family was going to say when I got home. I was worried about how I was going to do all this shit on my own. How was I going to get over Bella? How was I going to move on and live a normal life? How could I get past all this shit?

Could I get past all this shit? Could I do any of this, breathing, moving, living, all without her?

I truly didn't know. And it scared the fuck out of me.

Carlisle came alone to pick me up the next day. He waited patiently while they returned my things, his eyes watching as I folded the letter and placed it back in my pocket and widening slightly as he recognized my mother's ring, which also resumed its former position. He hardly spoke and I waited until we were in the car before I began my apologies.

"Um…Carlisle," I started, unsure how I was going to get this out. "I'm sorry, for everything," I said.

Carlisle just glanced at me for a second, the big black Mercedes gliding along the long stretch of highway. He didn't respond.

"And thank you, for coming to get me. For everything," I continued, still waiting for him to say something, anything. I almost wished he would yell at me or some shit because this passive aggressive silent treatment was really causing my skin to crawl.

"I'll pay you back," I bargained, trying to evoke some kind of emotion now. "I'll make it up to you, to Esme. To everyone. I'll do whatever it takes for you guys to trust me again."

Carlisle looked sharply at me now, his blues eyes spinning with disappointment. I had let them all down. They had trusted me and I had lied, I had stolen, and I had failed them all. This was all on me. The alliance I had forged with mental illness so long ago was now severed. I had no one to blame but myself. It was all on me, my choices, my behavior, and now my repercussions.

"Edward, I appreciate your apology and your thanks, but this is your life. This is permanent, and you will have to deal with the consequences," Carlisle said in a quiet authoritative voice. "I'm not going to pretend that this is all okay. Drinking and driving is a serious offense and you're so, so lucky nobody else was hurt by what you did."

I nodded, staring at my hands as he spoke.

"But, Edward, you don't owe us anything. We will love you no matter what, and when you make mistakes, we will help you pick up the pieces. But you owe it to yourself to do what's best for your future. You're an adult now and you have to ask yourself if this is what you want your life to be. Do you find pride and happiness in this haze you've been walking around in?"

I thought he was being rhetorical but he waited for my response, so I thought about his question. What did I want my life to be? I knew the answer to that two months ago but now none of that mattered. I just didn't care about pride or happiness, I didn't want to think about trying to move on or what my new life could look like. I wanted my old life back, where everything stemmed from her, I wanted it all back. I wanted her back.

But that wasn't an option. I dared not say that shit to Carlisle, it would just make me sound pathetic and pouty, like a four-year-old throwing a fit with foot stomping and arm crossing and complete with a sour expression. I haven't felt proud or happy in months. Even cooking brought me little enjoyment. No, I was definitely not content in this haze.

"I'm not happy like this, Carlisle, no. I just…I don't know…" I mumbled.

"You're really not supposed to know yet. You're nineteen, you have time to figure all this out. The culinary academy will always be there. Lots of kids take a year off to find themselves, you have options, Edward." Carlisle was trying to make me feel okay about being a completely unmotivated tool. It wasn't working.

I knew the options, I just didn't want them. Maybe I was stubbornly holding out for a life that would never happen. Maybe I was just delusional and thought she might come back. I wasn't still in Forks in case she came back, I was afraid to leave because I might forget. I might forget that I had once been the most fulfilled person on the planet. I might forget the way I felt when I was with her, like I could do anything, like for once I could be completely comfortable, like I belonged. I didn't want to forget that and I feared that if I left, if I moved on, it would fade like a dream, the details becoming muddled and all of it blurring together into a general idea of what had been.

I couldn't let that happen to us. Us, that's what we were, Bella and I, the only us that made sense. As long as I breathe there would be a hope for us. I don't care if it's foolish or unrealistic or pathetic. This is what I want my life to be.

We rode the rest of the way home in silence. I had been given a court date for my arraignment and there would probably be a trial after which I could face more jail time, but right now I just wanted to sleep. My mind and body both exhausted and bruised, I fell into my bed immediately upon arriving at Carlisle's. It wasn't really my room anymore, I had taken most of my clothes when I had left, but it was a place I knew I could always rest.

…

The next morning I awoke to the smell of bacon wafting through the vents. Maple bacon. Even on the third floor the aroma was potent and caused my stomach to grumble with hunger.

I showered, trying to wash away the filth of that disgusting holding cell and the grime from the pitiful bar. I stood under the scalding water and let the spray burn my skin until my fingers were wrinkled and the water ran cold. I thought about my night in the cell and about how my life was now my own, no longer under the direction of impending schizophrenia, and I had no idea what to do with myself. What did this mean for my future? Where do I go from here? Do I move on, go forward? It seemed impossible to me to even make an attempt.

I walked into to the kitchen to find Esme at the stove attempting to make crepes. She held the spatula in her hand as she gently scraped the thin circle in the pan, the room a mixture of delicious smells from the maple syrup, eggs and vanilla, and my heart clenched as I was reminded of the night Bella slept on the couch. I staggered at the doorway and clutched the wall to maintain my balance. I didn't know if I could do this.

"Edward! I'm so glad you're up! Do you think you could help me out here? These crepes keep sticking to the pan and tearing. I've already eaten the half dozen that I've ruined," Esme said sheepishly, and I gave her a small smile. She was trying to get me to cook, a distraction, something to get my mind off previous events. And I had to admit, I was a bit thankful for it. Yes, cooking had been my coping mechanism as well, a positive way to deal with the stress of everyday life.

"You need more oil in the pan," I said quietly, and I tried to take the spatula from her hand but she pulled it back. Her soft eyes blazed into mine with a look of pure determination and fierceness, a mama lion scolding her cub.

"Don't you ever do that to me again. Do you understand me, young man? Ever!" She pointed the spatula at me to emphasize her words, and I nodded, unable to keep her intent gaze.

"Good." She kissed my cheek, her pleasant demeanor returning as she pulled the plates from the cabinet. Oil sizzled in the pan as I poured a thin layer of batter into the hot skillet.

"Rosalie and Emmett are bringing the baby over this morning for breakfast," she hummed as she set out the silverware and glasses.

Great. The whole fucking family will play witness to my humiliation. I hadn't seen my sister yet and I didn't feel like dealing with the interaction today. Small bubbles popped on the surface of the batter and I flipped the round batter once before dumping it onto the plate which housed the rest of the torn crepes.

"Everything's ready if you can't wait to eat. I'm sure they would understand," Esme murmured before taking the place settings into the dining area. She was giving me an out and I would gratefully take it. The thought of an entire meal with Emmett, Rosalie and my sister seriously caused my stomach to churn.

I finished crafting the crepes before taking a plate upstairs to my room, passing Alice on the stairs. She looked right at me and said nothing. She was pissed alright. Fuck, this was going to be worse than I had anticipated.

Alice ignored me for an entire week before we hashed it out. I stayed at Carlisle and Esme's for a few days but I missed the comfort of that musty old couch. I couldn't stop thinking about my father, my newfound realizations spinning around in my head. I was eating a bowl of cereal at the kitchen table at Rosalie and Emmett's when she brought over a large box filled with the rest of my stuff.

"I'm taking the third floor room so here's the rest of your shit. Oh, and you owe me money for all the weed you stole from me." She dropped the box on the table with a thud and I paused mid chew as she turned and left, her hair bouncing as she huffed from the room and out the front door. I took another bite, assuming she had already left, when I heard the front door slam again.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" she yelled, marching back into the kitchen with her hands on her hips and her green eyes furious and determined. "Do you realize what a selfish asshole you are being? You could have killed someone. You could have killed yourself and you don't even fucking care. How the hell can you sit there and be so fucking calm about this?" My sister paced in the kitchen, her black Docs squeaking against the hardwood flooring.

"Alice, I'm sorry, I...you don't have to worry about me," I tried to get out. I understood her anger completely. For so long I had used schizophrenia as a scapegoat, as a way to excuse my destructive patterns of behavior, but Alice had never fully accepted my excuses. She hadn't accepted the marred fate for herself either, even though our blood flows with the same genetic material. She had accepted responsibility for her own actions long ago, choosing to be fully aware and engaged in her choices rather than sitting back and waiting for the blade to drop. And she had dealt with her fair share of injuries as well, but that is where the difference laid, she had dealt with them, whereas I had just covered them up and waited for them to bleed out. Not anymore. It was time to stitch this shit up.

"What do you mean, I don't have to worry about you? You're all I have to worry about! You drove your car into a fucking tree! Every time you leave the house I think it's the last time I'm going to see you. I just can't...I can't lose anyone else, Edward." Big fat tears rolled down her cheeks, her dark lashes blinking quickly in fruitless abatement.

"I know, I know. I'm a fucking idiot. I'm so sorry, Alice." I stood and wrapped my arms around her but she hesitated in hugging me back. Instead, she pushed me away and flopped down in the chair at the table.

"Look, I'm gonna try to be better, okay? I'm..." She narrowed her eyes at me, her warning clear, do not fucking lie to me again. I sighed and resumed my seat at the table. "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to be...okay. I don't know how to deal with this shit. How did you do it? How is everything so easy for you? They were your parents too, I mean, you lived this shit too. And you're not completely fucked up," I asked her.

She ran a hand through her hair, her natural copper color appearing in chunks. "I don't know. I cut myself off, I guess."

"Cut yourself off, what does that mean?" I asked confused.

"I chose not to think about it, especially the bad stuff. I forced myself to forget. Every time I thought of them, I'd read my cards or something, trying to focus on right now instead of back then. It's like, I refused to let myself remember anything before that day, like that was another life, and the person I was with all my fears and anxieties, it all died that day with them. Does that make sense?" Her lips quivered as she wiped at her face with the back of her hand. "You know, I can't really remember what she looked like."

"Who, mom?" I asked, shock jolting through me at her statement. Alice nodded, her face crumbling as fresh tears spilled across her cheeks. "Do you want to remember?"

Alice nodded again, her body shaking with grief. I stood and dug through the box she had put on the table. I pulled out the old, heavy book, the pages yellowed and torn and the familiar faces in the pictures now faded with age.

It was our mother's photo album, one of the items I had smuggled from Chicago. I had kept it in my nightstand drawer and had rarely taken it out. Just knowing it was there had given me a sense of security, a connection to my past and what I thought to be a prediction for my future.

My sister's eyes widened as she opened the book. With her hand pressed against her lips, she wept silently with each turn of the page. There were pictures of our parents from high school, our father and Carlisle standing with arms around shoulders, our parents' wedding photo, and then our baby pictures, myself as an infant in my father's arms, my sister in her carrier as I hovered over her. The two of us at birthday parties, holidays, family outings, the snapshots masking the turmoil hidden within.

"Oh God, I remember that day," she said in a hushed whisper as she touched our mother's face on the page. It was the three of us standing in front of the pink miniature rose bush that our mom had planted the year before. She was so proud of those damn roses that she made our dad take our picture in front of them. My sister and I stood side by side with our mother's arms draped over our shoulders, and I could almost smell her earthy cedarwood and lilac, and I remembered what it felt like to be held against her soft body.

"It wasn't all bad, you know?" I said as tears stung my eyes, and Alice nodded, her finger tracing the outline of the photo.

"I miss her," my sister mumbled, and I wrapped my arms around her again. This time she returned the favor, her arms around my waist as she blubbered into my shirt. "I miss him too, I miss how it felt to be a family."

I knew how she felt. Even though our lives had been miserable, it hadn't always been bad. Our father had good days, we all had good days and the photos were proof of that. Even if it was just for a split second, we had been loved. He didn't have a choice any more than I had. When I was in that jail cell, feeling every bite of betrayal and the abandonment and fear of not knowing what my future held, I realized that I had always accepted my father's fate as my own, but I had never accepted him as a man. I had never accepted the fact that my father was just a man, burdened by an illness that tortured the people he loved. And he did love us. He just wasn't able to always show it. The tears burned in my eyes as I accepted my father for what he was, that same acceptance that had been offered to me time and time again. I accepted my father, and I forgave my mother for loving him.

For the first time, I apologized for my choices and not for my DNA. I apologized because I had been reckless and inconsiderate and for the first time, I accepted my behavior as my own.

"I miss them too," I said, wiping the snot from my nose. "Fuck, Alice, I'm so sorry for everything."

"Forget it, it's done. Consider it repayment for having to take care of me all those years," Alice said. "Thank you. I'm really lucky to have you as my brother, Edward."

I kissed the top of her head before sitting back down in my chair. "Your hair looks nice."

She ran her fingers through the chin-length bob at the mention. "Thanks, I'm trying out something new."

"Don't you mean something old?" I smirked, remembering the long copper hair she had cut and dyed when we moved to Forks.

"Something like that," she smiled back.

"So, are you really moving into my bedroom or was this just a ploy to come over here and bitch me out?" I asked her, taking my cereal bowl to the sink and dumping the soggy flakes down the drain.

"Why, are planning on coming back?" she asked as she continued to look through the photo album.

"No, I just figured why make the effort to move bedrooms if you guys are planning on leaving soon?" I shrugged.

"Well, Esme wants a room for Charlie but she doesn't want to put him on the third floor, and Jasper's not leaving yet. He gave up the lease on the apartment. He doesn't think this is a good time to leave. He's going to wait until I graduate." She closed the book, picking at the corner of the worn canvas.

"He doesn't think it's a good time to leave? Why? What-" Realization quickly made its way into my brain and I snapped my mouth shut. Me. He didn't want to leave Alice here because of me, in case something happened. He was staying to protect her. From me.

"He just wants to be close in case something happens. I mean, you did smash your car into a tree, Edward," she tried to explain.

"No, I get it. I understand. You don't need me anymore," I muttered. That used to be my job, to protect her and take care of her, but now she didn't need me. It seemed to be the running theme around here.

"I don't need either one of you, I can take care of myself. But I like having you as my brother and my friend. And I kinda like Jasper too." Alice smiled and I returned the favor because I didn't want to upset her, but I was having a hard time gripping this reality. I added it to the monumental list of shit I had to learn to deal with.

The weeks passed quickly and soon I was standing in front of a judge. At the arraignment I was declared a hazard to society, a social miscreant, a troubled youth, and Carlisle's lawyer assured me a not guilty plea was necessary. Thanks to due process, the trial date came quickly and the evidence against me stretched to the fucking ceiling. It was the beginning of September by the time all this shit was resolved, my first-time offense offering some leeway on my behalf.

I served another forty-eight hours in jail. I tried to run recipes through my head in an attempt to pass the time, but I couldn't think about food without thinking about Bella. Eventually, my thoughts turned to my parents and what Alice had said about how she had blocked it all out. There had to be some way to remember them without feeling remorse and pain, so I tried to focus on all the good things I had experienced with them. I thought about my mother's minestrone soup and her miniature roses. I thought about my father sneaking into my room late at night after long hours at the firm to kiss my cheek and run his fingers through my hair. I remembered pretending to fall asleep in the car so he would carry me into the house, just eager to feel close to him in any way possible. I'm sure he knew I was awake, but he'd carry me in anyway. I wondered if this meant he was eager for the closeness too. I was satisfied with thinking that it did.

In addition to the jail time, I had to pay just over a thousand dollars in fines, and my license was suspended for an entire year. All because of that fucking Joni Mitchell song.

I was now officially living with Rosalie and little Charlie and I kept my shit in the downstairs coat closet. Emmett had gone back to Pullman and Alice had started school. Jasper continued to work at the store but he didn't really need to. He had plenty of cash now and with all the money he'd saved as well as their portion of Bella's charitable donation, he and Alice were sitting pretty before starting school in January.

I was still staring at a forty thousand dollar check signed by her. I didn't want it. I had thought about flying to Jacksonville to give it back to her but she had asked me not to find her. It was still hard to exist without her, and without the drugs and alcohol I felt every sting, but I welcomed it all. It reminded me that I was still alive, that I was still here, with a brain that functioned and a heart that thumped in my chest, even though it now thumped for no one. But I was still here. For now.

And yet, despite all the shit I'd been barely surviving through for the past four months, I still loved her. I still wanted her, my very soul craving her touch and her lips and her scent every second of every day. I wanted to know her thoughts, to lose myself in her long, wavy hair. I just wanted to talk to her, hear her funny quips and sarcastic teasing. I missed her. As much as I mourned my lost future and my lost past, I really just missed my lost friend.

...

"Edward! Get up!" Rosalie was shaking my arm and I opened my eyes. I had been lying on the couch for the past two hours, unable to go back to sleep, and now, now that I was finally able to drift off, Rosalie had gone and fucking ruined it.

"I need you to watch Charlie today. Esme has to meet a client this morning and she can't cancel," she said. I threw the afghan off my legs and sat up, scratching at my head.

"Are you seriously contemplating leaving your kid with me? I am a felon," I muttered.

"You were convicted of a misdemeanor. And I have no choice. Now get up, I need to show you what to do," Rosalie patted my head and I followed her into the kitchen, a little freaked out at the responsibility of having to take care of a four-month-old baby all day. Shit! What was I going to do with the kid? I mean, I'd seen Rosalie and Emmett do it every day for the last four months, you'd think by now I'd know what to do, but I'd always just witnessed as a casual observer and never with intent to replicate the behavior. Fuck, I wasn't even sure I could change a shitty diaper. And this kid pooped, like, eight times a day.

"Okay, his milk is in the freezer. Just run it under hot water until it defrosts and then put it in one of his bottles. Make sure you check the temperature. Do not microwave it." Rosalie handed me a frozen bag of milk from the freezer and pulled a bottle from the cabinet. "You might as well get one ready because he's going to be hungry when he wakes up. You can also give him cereal before his first nap. Save like two ounces from his bottle and mix it with that rice cereal in a bowl. Again, no microwave. Just heat the milk under the hot tap before making the cereal."

"Wait a minute, is this breast milk?" I held the bag awkwardly, my eyes narrowed in speculation.

Rosalie rolled her eyes and walked into the living room. "He should have a bottle before each nap, at ten and then at two, but don't give him one after that because I'll nurse him when I get home at four."

I followed her into the living room, a little uncomfortable at the mention of anything boob related.

"His diapers and wipes are in that basket over there and there's stuff upstairs in our room. You can let him play on his tummy, just put down a blanket and spread his toys out. He's rolling everywhere so do not leave him on the couch or bed or anywhere else where he can fall." Rosalie squinted her eyes at me. "Are you going to be okay with this?"

"Yeah, I can do this. If Emmett can do this, I can do this," I pointed out. I fucking hoped I could do this. It was just eight hours and he slept half of that anyway. I could totally do this.

"Okay, I'm going to write everything down in case you forget, and call me or Esme if you need anything," Rosalie frantically scribbled down all her notes before rushing upstairs to finish getting ready for work.

An hour later she was rushing out the door having put the chubby baby into my arms with a kiss on both our cheeks, her heels clicking down the sidewalk to her car and leaving us on the porch. I looked at little Charlie to see a toothless grin on his full face, and I laughed. This kid looked like he knew shit was going down today, like he was going to cause some serious destruction.

"Do you think maybe you could save the pooping until after four?" I asked him, his little hands reaching for my face, his fingers pinching at my nose and lip. "You've already done it, haven't you?"

I moved my nose closer to smell him. Sure enough, the sour smell of shit wafted around my head, and I instantly recoiled. It was going to be a long day.

I changed his diaper and fed him his bottle, being careful not to touch any of the boob milk, and then found all my efforts wasted when he spit up all over my shirt. I spread out a blanket on the floor and let him roll around while I ran upstairs to change, and returned to find he had rolled under the coffee table. I panicked because I thought he was stuck but he just grinned his gums off at me. We watched Discovery Channel until he got cranky and I fixed him another bottle before laying him in his crib. He wouldn't go to sleep, though, and I paced back in forth in Rosalie's room, bouncing him, singing to him, rocking him, but nothing seemed to work. He just kept crying. I tried to feed him again and I put him in a dry diaper, but I just couldn't figure out what the fuck else to do.

And then, as I was pacing the hall, Charlie squirming and wailing in my arms, my eye caught the rocking chair in Bella's bedroom. I hesitated at the door, but Charlie's piercing scream right in my fucking ear propelled me forward into the room. Her scent was still stuck to the plaster, sweet lavender hitting me like a fucking freight train as I took a seat in the chair. I started to rock with Charlie's head on my shoulder as he whimpered and then quieted, the soothing back and forth motion calming his cries and eventually lulling him to sleep. I continued to rock in the chair, engulfed in lavender and baby powder, Charlie's sweet smell blending into the room. I was afraid to move, fearful that he would wake up, so I just stayed in her room looking at the gaping holes in her dresser where the drawers had been.

Fuck, so much of the best and the worst of my life happened in this room, in this house. I allowed myself to remember every day I had with Bella. I remembered our first kiss on the porch, the first time I touched her in this room. I remembered the first time I told her I loved her, in this very chair, when I had braided her hair and promised no goodbyes. I remembered when I found her grieving over her father's dead body, when I found her bleeding on the shower floor, and when I found her gone. I felt every good feeling I ever had with Bella, and I felt all the bad, and I cherished it all.

The cracks in the plaster had been smoothed over with spackle, but they had yet to be painted. The damage I had created was now just a blemish that would soon be covered up and then there would be nothing there, no signs of destruction, no indication of what had transpired in this room. It would be new, fresh, unmarred. I think Rosalie wanted to make this Charlie's room but she was waiting for me to figure out what the hell I was going to do with my life. She had offered the room to me more than once and I had declined, but she hadn't yet claimed it for him. It could be his, a place for him to create his own memories. I thought of my childhood bedroom, with army men and marbles under the bed and the wall mutilated beyond repair, all secured behind a locked door. This was not Charlie's future. His life was a large stretch of white upon which he could paint any color he chose to splash upon the canvas.

And now, I guess, so was mine.

The stunning truth of this realization caused the fear to quicken in my chest again. I had no fucking clue what to do with my future now that the responsibility was all on me.

Eventually, I worked up enough courage to try to lay Charlie in his crib. He was fast asleep, his full face peaceful and serene, so I walked downstairs. I turned on the baby monitor, like I had seen Rosalie do hundreds of times, and found a strange comfort in the quiet hum.

I made myself a sandwich, peanut butter and honey on toast, and settled down in front of the television. I watched and ate, my mind busy some place other than fixated on the impending destruction of global warming or an asteroid sending a cloud of dust into the atmosphere and blocking out the sun. Instead, I thought of Bella. Tomorrow would be her birthday. I thought back to last year and my gift to her, my completed application to the culinary academy. We should have be there right now, in New York, together. I would make her breakfast and I would give her the ring and we would be happy, not perfect, but happy.

Oh God, I still wanted it. I wanted her. Why couldn't I let this go? I knew there wasn't a chance in hell of it happening anymore, the apartment forgotten and all the applications for financial aid shoved in the bottom of that box in the closet. I couldn't fathom the thought of New York without her.

I couldn't fathom the thought of anything without her. It had been over four months and the wound was still as fresh as the day she left. I traced the scar on my palm and down my wrist. The skin had healed but the scar would be here forever. I didn't want to forget, like Alice had. That wasn't an option for me. Some days my memories of her were the only thoughts that got me off the couch in the morning. Yet they were also the ones that forced me to roll over and cover my face and cry into the scratchy old yarn. I didn't have a life, I didn't have a plan, and I didn't even have schizophrenia. I didn't have anything except a box of junk in the coat closet of a house that had once belonged to the girl that I love.

It seemed like everyone else was able to move on and forge ahead while I just kept treading water, barely keeping my head above the surface and not fucking going anywhere but in circles. Sometimes, I wished a swell would just engulf me, swallow me whole and pull me down, down until the last breath in my body was forced out and the euphoria caused by lack of oxygen set in. These were the days I didn't leave the couch but remained entangled in her fucking afghan, like a damn fish caught in a fisherman's net.

Emmett had completely surprised me. He was an adult now, a father, and he really had his shit together. He was doing well in school, loved his classes and excelled in his studies. He was successful in his relationship, even though it was across a great distance. He was very proactive in his role as parent. He changed shitty diapers, he cleaned up spit, he got up in the middle of the night for feedings just to keep Rosalie company. Emmett was a fucking role model and here I was stewing in my own disgust.

Even Jasper had a plan, fucking drug dealing pothead Jasper, and he was following through with it. He knew what he wanted and he would be successful at it. After years of dealing with emotionally negligent parents, Jasper had found his motivation not in proving them wrong but in proving my sister right. He wanted to succeed because she knew he could. He will take care of her, and she will be happy.

Even Bella seemingly was able to forget. By giving up her inheritance and her house, she was able to cut her ties and move on. Why couldn't I? There had been no indication of hope but I still visualized the same occurrence every single day, a brown-eyed girl bursting through the door and sighing in relief as she pressed her lips, her hands, her body, to mine.

I watched the front door for a full minute, like I had a thousand times before, hoping that this time it would be real and this nightmare would all be over.

But it never ended. It was like some predictable horror movie, when the stupid character ends up running directly into the murderer when they should have gone in the opposite direction. Everyone watching gets it. Everyone except the next victim.

There hadn't been any more letters and without my permission my mind wandered into the very darkest of circumstances. What if she couldn't contact me? What if her body had finally given up, wracked with abuse and riddled with deficiencies? What if her body just couldn't take it anymore? I just didn't know and I was left floundering in the dark, lost, alone and unattached. The thought caused a great sob to build in my chest, the anxiety palpable as I tried to regulate my bodily functions.

I pulled my box out of the coat closet and dumped it out onto the floor in the living room, refilling it with my clothes from the closet. I looked at the shit covering the carpet. Amongst the various crap were my chef's coat and my new set of knives, and I quickly stuffed them both into the box. I pulled Bella's letter from my pocket and her monetary donation to the 'educate Edward' fund and tossed them both into the box also.

I knew what I had to do.

I would miss the greenery of Forks and its misty cold on my face and dampness on my hair. I would miss its fresh, woodsy scent of pine and dirt and rain. But I had to do this, not because I wanted to but because I needed to. I would cut my ties here, just like she had done. She had wanted me to be free but I couldn't be free in this place, constantly bound to her memory. I didn't want to forget, but I also couldn't survive being surrounded by reminders of everything I had lost. I pulled the small ring from my pocket, the memento meant for her, and slipped it onto my pinkie. It didn't fit of course, but I left it there feeling comfort in the constriction around my finger.

I visualized Bella's heart-shaped face and her dark hair framing her porcelain skin. I imagined her hands cradling my cheek, holding my hand, brushing through my hair, just urging me to follow through with this. I imagined her healthy and vital, her chocolate-colored eyes creased as her plump pink lips pulled into a lovely, devious grin.

It was time to start making preparations.

…

BPOV

My heart is pounding in my chest and I feel like I can't breathe. My hands are shaking and my legs bounce up and down in agitation. This is it, the end. God, I've made so many mistakes, but I can't bring myself to regret any of them. I know now that this is where I am supposed to be and that everything I endured has led me to this moment. I am done with trying, my attempts at normalcy thwarted by my own inability to accept that trying just isn't good enough. This is my first step in doing.

It's colder than I remember as I inhale the familiar scents and welcome the sting of cold upon my cheeks, and my feet propel me forward. No looking back, Bella. This is it. Whatever it takes.

It might take a lot.

Before I can even raise my arm to knock on the door of my childhood home, a small body slams into me. Her hair is soft against my face and her arms wrap around me with an unexpected strength, and I'm immediately overwhelmed by sweet organic smells. Tears fill my eyes and I let them spill onto the soft, thin cotton draped over her shoulder.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Alice's cry is fierce in my ear, her melodic voice tinged with frantic disbelief. She pushes me away and runs her hands through her hair, and I see a look upon her face of pure horror as my initial elation fizzles into panic. "He's gone. It's too late."

Gone? How could he be gone? Gone where? I clutch onto her arms to hold myself afloat, the cloudy sky streaked with blue spinning above me.

"Alice, where is he? I have to see him, Alice! Where is he? Tell me where he is!" I'm screaming at her now, my mind searching for explanations and refusing to even acknowledge what the possibilities could be. No, no, no, this can only mean one thing. I fall to my knees, sobbing into the long gauzy skirt of the girl who was once to be my sister, and I beg. I plead and I pray for karma to lessen her retribution just this once.

Please, I just want to be where he is.

...

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A/N

Title is from the song Carey.

Thank you for reading, my dears.