Chapter 137

Chapter 137
Anna POV

Morning sunlight filtered through the windshield as Edward's car glided along the tree-lined highway heading north from the city. I rested my hand against the passenger window, feeling the faint vibration of the engine through the glass, watching the landscape shift from crowded brownstones to sparse suburban sprawl and finally to rolling green hills dotted with summer wildflowers.

The air conditioning hummed softly, a white noise backdrop to our silence, and I found myself turning my head every few minutes to steal glances at Edward's profile—the sharp line of his jaw catching the light, his hands steady on the wheel, his expression unreadable but somehow peaceful.

We hadn't spoken since leaving my apartment, and strangely, I didn't mind. There was something comforting in the quiet, in the simple fact of his presence beside me, in knowing I wasn't making this trip alone like I had so many times before.

I remember the last time I went to see Helen, I just sat in silence at the back of the taxi. The silence during that journey not only failed to bring any comfort but was also suffocating.

I lowered the window halfway, extending my fingers into the rush of warm air outside, feeling the wind tangle through my hair and tug at the loose strands around my face. The scent of freshly cut grass and honeysuckle drifted in, sweet and green and alive, so different from the sterile smell I knew awaited us at the care facility.

Edward glanced over briefly, and I caught the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth before he returned his attention to the road. A moment later, without saying anything, he adjusted the air conditioning down a notch, as if he'd somehow sensed I wanted more of the outside air. At a red light near the edge of town, he reached into the console and handed me a bottle of water, still cold from the convenience store fridge, condensation beading on the plastic.

I took it with a quiet "thank you," and he nodded, his fingers brushing mine for just a second before the light changed and we moved forward again.

These small gestures wove themselves into a kind of wordless conversation, one I was afraid to interpret too closely for fear I'd read meanings that weren't there. But sitting beside him as the miles unspooled beneath us and the sun climbed higher in the clear June sky, I couldn't help but feel something shifting, something warming in the careful distance we'd maintained since everything had fallen apart and then slowly, tentatively begun to piece itself back together.

The care facility loomed ahead, a low modern building of white stone and glass that looked too bright, too clean against the wild tangle of woods behind it. Edward pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine, and for a moment we both sat there, the sudden absence of motion making the air feel heavier.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, my hands moving on autopilot, but my body felt reluctant to leave the cocoon of the car, to step back into the role of dutiful visitor to a woman who couldn't respond, couldn't see me, couldn't know I was there.

"Ready?" Edward's voice was low, gentle in a way that made my throat tighten.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and pushed open the door.

Inside, the hallways were mercifully empty, the soft beige walls and neutral carpeting doing little to disguise the institutional nature of the place. The receptionist recognized me with a sympathetic smile and buzzed us through to the long-term care wing without questions. I felt Edward's presence just behind me, close enough that I could hear his breathing, but he kept a respectful distance, letting me lead the way to Helen's room at the far end of the corridor.

The door was half-open, and I paused on the threshold, steeling myself. No matter how many times I came here, that first glimpse always hit me like a physical blow—Helen lying so still beneath the white sheets, her face pale and peaceful and utterly, devastatingly absent, the steady beep of the heart monitor and the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator the only signs that she was still, technically, alive. I stepped inside, and Edward followed, but he hung back near the wall, giving me space, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his gaze averted as if he understood this moment was mine and Helen's alone.

I approached the bed slowly, my footsteps muffled by the thin carpet, and reached out to take Helen's hand. Her skin was cool, almost waxy, and I had to fight the familiar urge to pull away, to run from the wrongness of touching someone who felt more like a statue than a person. Instead, I curled my fingers around hers and squeezed gently, hoping—always hoping—for some flicker of response that never came.

"Helen," I said softly, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet room, "I'm sorry I haven't been here in a while. I bet you missed me, didn't you?"

The levity felt forced, but I kept going, falling into the familiar pattern of one-sided conversation that had become a kind of ritual over the years. I told her about the weather, about the wildflowers we'd passed on the drive, about how the strawberries at the farmers' market were already in season even though it felt too early. Anything to fill the silence, to pretend this was normal, that she might wake up any second and laugh at my nervous chatter.

But as I spoke, something shifted inside me. The words I'd planned to say—the light, inconsequential updates—felt suddenly inadequate, dishonest even. My voice wavered, and I stopped mid-sentence, my grip on her hand tightening.

"I keep thinking," I began again, slower this time, my tone stripped of its false cheerfulness, "about what I'm gonna do when you wake up. Because you will wake up, Helen. You have to." I swallowed hard, feeling the familiar burn of tears behind my eyes. "I'm gonna get you out of this place. We'll find a house somewhere with a garden, somewhere you can plant those jasmine flowers you always loved. We'll have a porch where we can sit in the evenings, and I'll make you tea, and we'll just... we'll just be okay. We'll finally be okay."

My throat closed up, and I had to pause, blinking rapidly against the moisture gathering in my lashes. I could feel Edward's gaze on me now, could sense him shifting his weight, but he didn't interrupt, didn't try to comfort me, and I was grateful for that because I needed to say this, needed to get it out before it choked me completely.

"No one's ever gonna hurt us again," I continued, my voice cracking. "I promise you that, Helen. I'm gonna protect you this time, the way you always protected me. I'm gonna make sure you're safe and happy and—"

The word "safe" broke something open inside me, and suddenly I couldn't hold it back anymore. The tears came in a hot, unstoppable rush, my shoulders shaking as I bent forward over the bed, my forehead nearly touching the sterile white sheets. I heard myself making small, choked sounds that I hated, sounds of grief and helplessness that I'd spent years trying to suppress, and I couldn't stop, couldn't pull myself together no matter how hard I tried.

Then Edward was there, his hand warm and solid on my waist, not pulling me away but simply anchoring me, letting me know I wasn't alone. I turned instinctively into his chest, burying my face against the soft fabric of his shirt, breathing in the clean scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him, and I let myself cry in a way I hadn't in years, let the tears soak into his shirt while his arms came around me and held me steady.