"Wrong word," he grudgingly conceded. "Moping would be better–that would be doing something. You're just… lifeless, Bella. I think that's the word I want."
This accusation struck home. I sighed and tried to put some animation into my response. "I'm sorry, Dad." My apology sounded a little flat, even to me. I'd thought I'd been fooling him. Keeping Charlie from suffering was the whole point of all this effort. How depressing to think that the effort had been wasted.
"I don't want you to apologize."
I sighed. "Then tell me what you do want me to do."
"Bella," he hesitated, scrutinizing my reaction to his next words. "Honey, you're not the first person to go through this kind of thing, you know."
"I know that." My accompanying grimace was limp and unimpressive.
"Listen, honey. I think that–that maybe you need some help."
"Help?"
He paused, searching for the words again. "When your mother left," he began, frowning, "and took you with her." He inhaled deeply. "Well, that was a really bad time for me." "I know, Dad," I mumbled.
"But I handled it," he pointed out. "Honey, you're not handling it. I waited, I hoped it would get better." He stared at me and I looked down quickly. "I think we both know it's not getting better."
"I'm fine."
He ignored me. "Maybe, well, maybe if you talked to someone about it. A professional."
"You want me to see a shrink?" My voice was a shade sharper as I realized what he was getting at.
"Maybe it would help."
"And maybe it wouldn't help one little bit."
I didn't know much about psychoanalysis, but I was pretty sure that it didn't work unless the subject was relatively honest. Sure, I could tell the truth–if I wanted to spend the rest of my life in a padded cell.
He examined my obstinate expression, and switched to another line of attack. "It's beyond me, Bella. Maybe your mother–"
"Look," I said in a flat voice. "I'll go out tonight, if you want. I'll call Jess or Angela." "That's not what I want," he argued, frustrated. "I don't think I can live through seeing you try harder. I've never seen anyone trying so hard. It hurts to watch."
I pretended to be dense, looking down at the table. "I don't understand, Dad. First you're mad because I'm not doing anything, and then you say you don't want me to go out." "I want you to be happy–no, not even that much. I just want you not to be miserable. I think you'll have a better chance if you get out of Forks."
My eyes flashed up with the first small spark of feeling I'd had in too long to contemplate. "I'm not leaving," I said. "Why not?" he demanded. "I'm in my last semester of school–it would screw everything up." "You're a good student–you'll figure it out." "I don't want to crowd Mom and Phil." "Your mother's been dying to have you back." "Florida is too hot."
His fist came down on the table again. "We both know what's really going on here, Bella, and it's not good for you." He took a deep breath. "It's been months. No calls, no letters, no contact. You can't keep waiting for him."
I glowered at him. The heat almost, but not quite, reached my face. It had been a long time since I'd blushed with any emotion.
This whole subject was utterly forbidden, as he was well aware. "I'm not waiting for anything. I don't expect anything," I said in a low monotone. "Bella–，" Charlie began, his voice thick.
"I have to get to school," I interrupted, standing up and yanking my untouched breakfast from the table. I dumped my bowl in the sink without pausing to wash it out. I couldn't deal with any more conversation.
"I'll make plans with Jessica," I called over my shoulder as I strapped on my school bag, not meeting his eyes. "Maybe I won't be home for dinner. We'll go to Port Angeles and watch a movie."
I was out the front door before he could react.
In my haste to get away from Charlie, I ended up being one of the first ones to school. The plus side was that I got a really good parking spot. The downside was that I had free time on my hands, and I tried to avoid free time at all costs.
Quickly, before I could start thinking about Charlie's accusations, I pulled out my Calculus book. I flipped it open to the section we should be starting today, and tried to make sense of it. Reading math was even worse than listening to it, but I was getting better at it. In the last several months, I'd spent ten times the amount of time on Calculus than I'd ever spent on math before. As a result, I was managing to keep in the range of a low A. I knew Mr. Varner felt my improvement was all due to his superior teaching methods. And if that made him happy, I wasn't going to burst his bubble.