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“I’m sorry Jonathan. I’m sorry. I know you don’t understand my reasons, and you’re right to demand answers, but truth be told, I was in no mind to give answers. I still can’t answer them all. It was our joint decision, Nettie and Beth’s and mine. Though my daughter still stubbornly berates herself for driving us apart.”

“ We were all broken, desperately waiting for the smallest twig to latch onto, to sail the tide. And I’m ashamed to admit, but I was no help. Countless times, I reached for a knife to cut open a vein, or plunge it through my heart as I heard her crying out in fear, or fighting her way out of a nightmare. And every time, I placed it back in the kitchen, for my daughter.”

“ We didn’t really live, we existed. We woke up, we ate, we slept and woke up the next morning to repeat the motions, but we forgot how to live. It was months before she could tolerate the slightest of human touch, and a year before she could finally string two words together. I watched my daughter die a little every day, and I died right along with her. I couldn’t comfort her, I didn’t know how to. And in my selfishness, I foolishly alienated myself from you. Several times I picked up the phone to unburden the pain, to howl and cry and scream and let my best friend comfort me, but placed it back every time, believing you were better this way”.

Mom releases a loud sob and gives up, just gives up trying to control herself. She sits on the floor, clutching her stomach, and weeps and weeps. Dad makes no effort to stop her or try to control his own unabashed tears.

" You had every right to know, she was just as much yours as she was mine. Probably more. But I couldn't. I couldn't get past the guilt of not having being able to protect my child, my baby Beth, my only reason to live, and I hated myself. And I would have told you, had it not been for the absolute conviction that it would break you down and tear you apart just like it did me. Every day was the same. Every day we picked ourselves and put ourselves together only to dismember at night in the privacy of our rooms. I'm sure she heard me crying more often than not, and after a while, she stopped sleeping. My daughter stopped sleeping so I wouldn't be plagued by her nightmares. She sacrificed her sleep for mine. Even defeated and broken, she thought of me, and I did nothing, could do nothing but take those few hours of refuge just to get through another day. I tried every medicine, every advice, every therapy I could afford, but nothing helped. Nothing took away the pain, or even dull the edges. It was a long time before we had any semblance of a life. We took therapy, the both of us, and it took several months of evaluation and psychoanalytical sessions before she could allow me to pat her shoulders or squeeze her hands without cringing. Beth didn't want Nick or Kate to know and there was no way you could've hidden this from them. But she wanted them to have a chance at a normal life when ours couldn't be further away from it. And I knew she was right. Telling Nick would've most likely pushed him over the edge. I may not have been overly observant, but I wasn't blind to his feelings for her.

“And I couldn't Jonathan. I couldn't let a 19 year old destroy his life and a 16 year old live in unending agony over this. They were only children. I absolutely begged her not to come back here, but this was her only act that could be called remotely selfish. She said that seeing you happy, seeing Nick and Kate happy would make her happy. How could I refuse her this? How could I say no to her? "

How can anyone? I want to howl and weep too, sob and shout and beat my fists on the wall repeatedly until the blood and pain of broken skin dulls the cutting edges of a shredded heart. I want to scream and scream until I lose my voice, then scream some more until I can hear her screams no longer. I wish I could afford the luxury of letting myself go.

I clear my throat unsuccessfully and speak "we may not understand your reasons uncle Cam. But I do want to understand this. What happens now? Where do we go from here? And before you answer that, I want you to know that I have every intention of following her right down to the pits of hell if I have to. I'm not letting her out of my sight this time. And you'd better not be wasting your time to try for otherwise."

"No, son. I won't. But it's Beth you have to convince", he speaks gruffly, when Kate whisper yells from the adjacent room "Nicholas, Beth is awake".

14. She won’t talk to me

"I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to see anyone. Leave me in peace. Just leave me in peace."

“That’s too bad. You don’t always get what you want.”

After five hours of undisturbed sleep, Beth had woken up in her bed, dazed and confused, an hour ago. Then realization had set in and I watched her eyes go opaque with fear as she looked at me, gauging my response to the answered question;

‘Do I Know’?

She must have read the answers in my swollen eyes before she ordered me out of the room. I watched in anguish, as she hid her face away and asked the nurse to escort me outside the room. So I obeyed.

And waited.

An hour later, she was still facing away, not ready to look at me.

"Beth, please", I murmur brokenly, only to watch her shake her head in mute desolation.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine. We won’t. We’ll talk about something else then. How’s you hand?”

"Get out", she screams and I flinch back "I don't want to talk at all. Leave me alone. Why won't you leave me alone", she snivels, sobbing on the pillow.

"Because, I can't", I whisper achingly, taking her in my arms where she falls apart.

"Nicholas, I'm sorry, I'm sorry", she cries on my chest, while I brush her hair, her arms, her back, anywhere and everywhere I can reach.

“Why won’t you talk to me”?

"I'm a mess", she moans, sobbing uncontrollably, clutching my collar in a tight grip. "I'm a mess. What is there to talk? What is there to say? I'm empty Nick. Dead and empty. A broken shell. What have I to say? What is there to talk?”

"I love you Beth", I murmur in her ears and feel her jerk in my arms once before going utterly still.

"You can't. You can't say things like that. Don't say it. No. Don't say it", she whimpers like a child, shaking her head over and over again.

“Shhh, go to sleep. We'll talk later. Sleep now." She was getting more restless by the minute, clenching and unclenching her hands on my back.

"Will you be here when I wake up", she asks innocently, reminding me of my five-year-old Beth yet again. I nod my head solemnly before adding

“Always”.

2 days later

“Your Charts are looking good Ms. Whitfield, and your vitals are normal. Now, if you promise me to take your meals and meds regularly, I can allow you to go home this evening. I know you’d want to celebrate Christmas week with your family”.

Uncle Cameron had used his connections to summon the head doctor himself, so he could clear Beth for discharge before his evening rounds. He had given us a heads up before talking to Beth, hence I was busy packing her bags during this conversation.

"Nicholas, can I talk to you for a second", she asks as soon as the doctor exited the door.

"Talk while I pack", I reply, quickly stuffing her clothes in a duffel bag mom had brought this morning.

“Nick, I’m not going home with you”.

Can't say I wasn't expecting this. I continue to pack her clothes as fast as I can, without paying much heed to it. Or pretending to not pay attention.

"Dad has some pent up work in California before we head to London", she continues, when she doesn't get an answer. I continue to pack.

“I think it’s best if we leave straight for California”.

Hmm.

Jeans- check

Pullover-check.

Toiletries-check

Medicines and prescriptions- double check

Undergarments- ???

"Are you listening to what I'm saying", she demands, this time with a hint of frustration.

"Could you pass me that white top of yours, Duchess".

"You're not listening to me Nicholas", she calmly states, folding her hands in a sure sign of stubbornness.

"You are smart enough to know that isn't the case, Blue Eyes. What I'm doing is ignoring you", I reply, mirroring her stance to amuse myself.

That piques her enough to retort, "I'm not going with you".

“I say that you are”.

“And who are you to say that?”

“The guy who taught you how to spell your name and gave you your first piggyback ride”.

That shuts her up effectively, and I continue to pack in peace. She does not offer any more arguments, and I sigh in peace, assuming that she's done fighting this.

I am proved wrong the very same night.

9:30 pm

“Why aren't you at the dining table?" I growl, miffed at her serene expression as she tosses her glorious manes and calmly replies

“Because I’m not hungry”.

“You know Beth, I’m getting tired of that line”.

"Guess you'll just have to put up with it then. The way I put up with you dragging me here against my wishes."

"Of course", I answer, appearing to contemplate "my mistake. I know how difficult it must be for you to be dragged here by the hair, among people who have the audacity to love you. I can't imagine how difficult it is for you to live in the house you were practically raised in, to be confined to a room left undisturbed all these years, in anticipation of your return, to sleep on a bed and place your head on the pillows that still carry your scent from all those years ago. And my mom? The sheer nerve of the woman, to go out of her way and prepare all your favorite dishes then insist for your company at dinner, and dad, who walked in with chocolate meringue five minutes ago, insisting on feeding it to you himself.”

She sniffs and bends her head in shame, looking contrite and remorseful all at once.

"No one on that table is, even slightly, hungry. And everyone is seated with a fake smile on their faces because they want you to be happy. Your happiness is all that matters to us Beth".

This time she stands up without a word, and silently walks out to the kitchen ahead of me.

10:30 pm

“What now?”

I am standing beside the edge of her bed, clad in my pajama shorts and batman shirt, grinning shamelessly at her resigned expression. The fact that she's wearing matching Batmobile shorts didn't help matters either.

"Left side or right side?" I ask her. She sits staring at me for a full minute, before comprehension dawns in those beautiful eyes, now filled with apprehension.

"Excuse me?" she seethes in that snotty voice I love, while I pick my side.

"Right side it is", I decide and jump on said side, making her bounce on the bed.

“Nicholas, you are not sleeping on this bed with me”.

“Fine. But don’t feel bad when the floor mites bite me”.

“What? The floor does not have any mites. And you aren’t sleeping on the floor either.”

“Okay? But are you sure you’d be comfortable on the floor?”

“Why the hell am I sleeping on the floor?”

“I have no clue. But I’m perfectly fine with you sleeping on the bed too.”

"Nicholas", she grits her teeth when I pat the bed next to me.

"Why are you here, Nicholas?" she asks, screwing her face in a semblance of anger.

“I’m here because I cannot sleep anywhere else”.

"I don't need you to help me sleep Nicholas", she whispers before looking away.

Seriously, does she not know I'd do anything, anything at all to protect her, to keep her nightmares at bay.
Maybe, maybe she does not need me as a protector, but the simple truth is I'd never be able to sleep a wink without her. I need her, just as much as she needs me, probably more. But the girl is way too stubborn to give in without an argument. I'll just have to oblige her then.

“Maybe I need you to help me sleep”.

She does not respond to that so I continue, "I can't sleep in my room, I'd just lie on that bed and keep thinking about you. And then I'd have to come check on you, which will probably wake you up. So come morning, we'd both be a couple of sad looking sleep deprived zombies."

The first part of that is absolutely true. But the zombie part was strictly for me. She's never look anything less than beautiful, sleep or no sleep.

"Don't you hate me for not telling you? Don't you despise me? How can you still…. still love me Nicholas?" she questions in a whisper, and I know where it's coming from. A lot of it is guilt, some is probably disbelief, but mostly it's a deep-seated need for assurance.

"Because I can't help it. I don't want to. I loved you then, I love you know, even though I almost hate you for not telling me. Almost being the key operative word here. I feel what I feel, and that's that. What can you do about it?" I challenge blatantly, and watch her tuck her hands beneath her head as she lies down, facing me.