All That Matters, Chapter 1

Chapter 1
Why

Why? Why me? Why did Fate choose me to plague with death, with torture? Why did Fate choose me to tease with constant, unyielding hatred, so undeserving, so unneeded?

Why? The reason has no meaning, no true substance.

All that matters is the pain.

With heavy lids, I opened my eyes. I instantly shut them, the sun having entered through the cracked and dirtied window pane, greeting me with the burning brightness of Phoenix, Arizona.

I fell out of my makeshift bed, my clumsiness doing its darndest to rid the world of me forever. Still in my pajamas, grey plaid cotton pants and a sports bra from the corner store down the road, I tiptoed into my mother’s room.  

It was located directly next to mine, and was the only bedroom of the house. Mine was actually the living room, rearranged with a once-elegant, now-moth-eaten old couch in the corner, a small nightstand with a cheap, yard-sale type lamp, its shade crooked and dented, and a shelf tacked to the wall a little crookedly, filled from end to end with books.

Brontë. Shakespeare. Austen. Classics, all. Love stories, all. Famous, all.

So who was I, a mere girl living in one of the cheapest streets of Phoenix, living in complete squalor, taking care of her incapacitated mother, going to school – when possible – and eating five times a week, to wish for love?
I was Isabella Swan.

I had taken care of my mother for five months, ever since my father died of multiple lung diseases. Emphysema, lung cancer…and many I couldn’t even begin to pronounce. With him died all hope of treatment; most of our money had been put toward his impossible, nonexistent recovery. Treatment was now out of the question.

Treatment for breast cancer. Treatment that Renée had been lacking for months…all those months since my father’s death.

I sat on the edge of my mother’s bed, rubbing circles into her weathered, shaking hand. The blue veins popped out of her nearly skeletal arm.

“Bella…” she whispered, motioning with a finger to come nearer. I complied. “My dearest Bella…you have to stop working all the time.”

Taken by surprise, I started. “But how did yo-”

She cut me off. “Bella, I am not stupid. I am your mother; I know these things,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. A twinkle that faded almost instantly. “You’ve been working full time at the corner store – that’s how you got the discount on those ratty pajamas. You work part time at the library, you baby-sit many of the teacher’s children. You think I don’t know? I know, too, that you’ve been giving me most of your food – the food that you buy. Really, Bella,” she sighed, lifting my chin up with her fragile fingers. “I don’t expect this from you. I don’t want this from you.”

My carefully composed mask failed me. My face crumpled, and tears sprung forth from my eyes. “I’m…so…sorry, Mother,” I cried helplessly into the folds of her thin robe. “I thought…I thought I could…care for you. Take care of you. Now that…that Daddy’s gone…you need me, Mother…you do. You really do. You need….need treatment, Mom, and…and I thought…I thought...”

“Sweetie, I know you need to live. I know you need to just grow up.”

Her harsh words stung. “But…but I…”

And then I was blubbering. “Mommy, we can be okay, we can, we really can, I’ll help you Mommy, I’ll work longer and harder and get another job and I could ask for a pay raise at the corner store and Mommy, Mommy we can get through this Mom don’t be mad at me, Mommy. I’ll work hard and I’m sorry for lying to you Mom but we needed the money we really did we needed it because we’re poor and we have no money and we won’t and you need treatment, Mommy, don’t leave me Mommy, don’t die don’t die don’t die I need you Mommy! I need you…need…you…” Renée’s hand all the while stroked through my hair, attempting to calm me. An attempt which was quite unsuccessful. She tried yet another approach.

“Stop this!” my mother barked. Frightened, I bit back another sob and went silent.

Then I managed weakly, “I’m sorry?” It came out as a question. Tears still continued silently on their track down my flushed, sunken cheeks.

“No, honey. No, Bella. No, my Bella. Don’t be sorry, my pet, my love.” She wrapped her arms around my trembling form, pulling me to her with all her might. “Don’t be sorry, my Bella. My daughter. I am grateful.”

I looked up at her, uncomprehending. Hopeful.

She smiled sadly. “Yes, love, I am grateful. That I should be blessed with a daughter like you, to care for me, to sacrifice everything she has for me. It is a blessing.” She sighed. “A blessing, yes…but also a curse.”

I frowned, confused. Hurt surged into me. A curse…a setback…unneeded, unwanted….a curse.

Renée fixed me stolidly with her gaze, her cool brown eyes penetrating mine, digging painfully past my flesh and into my soul. “That you should be trying so hard to be an adult – and you’re succeeding. It terrifies me, my little baby…a grown up. You are grown up. And you shouldn’t be. A curse, yes…” She blinked, then turned to the window facing west, away from the sun, wrenching her gaze from mine. “I was young, Bella, you know that. I was too young when I married your Father…when I married Charlie. You must understand the…the pain, the hardship I have been going through.”

I cringed, distressed. I was a pain. A burden. Oh, God, Mother, I’m so sorry…so sorry…

“To have my own daughter – the girl I vowed to take care of! – working since the age of sixteen, more than two jobs, every day. To have my own daughter practically starve – in my care! You’re caring more for me than I for you! I…I…” she broke off, coughing. “I can’t believe myself. How cruel can a mother get?” And then she was the one sobbing.

“I’m not a burden…” I whispered. I continued, louder. Renée, not hearing me, continued to cry.

“No,” I said firmly. “No, Mom, you’re wrong. You’re not cruel. Far from it.” A smile escaped my lips. “I love you, Mom.”

Renée’s tear-filled eyes darted up to meet mine. “I…love you too, sweetheart. I really do.”

We embraced. Then, those words. Those dreaded words. The four words that doomed me, condemned me, tortured me.

“Honey…the doctor called.”

Oh, God. No. Honey, the doctor called. Doctor called…doctor…doctor…called…
I bit my lip, impatient at the sudden, awkward silence.

“Bella…I will…” she paused mid-sentence, changing her train of thought entirely. “Do you remember what color flowers?”

“Blue,” I whispered. “Everything will be blue, Mom. I’ll coordinate it, it’ll be beautiful…”

Renée’s hand was placed once again gently on my quivering head. “Baby…I’m so proud of you. I love you…take care of yourself…”

Her hand fell limply to her side. Then, like the softest breeze… “Blue…for… his eyes. Charlie’s eyes…Charlie.” Her eyes closed. “Charlie…”

She continued breathing, soft, staggered breaths so far apart that I doubted their existence.

“I love you, Mom.” I planted a tender kiss on her pasty forehead.

I never spoke to her again.

Renée died that night.