Breaking Dawn   ::   Meyer Stephenie

“Maybewe should go back to Rio, see a doctor,” he suggested anxiously when I was rinsing my mouth afterward.

I shook my head and edged toward the hallway. Doctors meant needles. “I’ll be fine right after I brush my teeth.”

When my mouth tasted better, I searched through my suitcase for the little first-aid kit Alice had packed for me, full of human things like bandages and painkillers and—my object now—Pepto-Bismol. Maybe I could settle my stomach and calm Edward down.

But before I found the Pepto, I happened across something else that Alice had packed for me. I picked up the small blue box and stared at it in my hand for a long moment, forgetting everything else.

Then I started counting in my head. Once. Twice. Again.

The knock startled me; the little box fell back into the suitcase.

“Are you well?” Edward asked through the door. “Did you get sick again?”

“Yes and no,” I said, but my voice sounded strangled.

“Bella? Can I please come in?” Worriedly now.

“O… kay?”

He came in and appraised my position, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the suitcase, and my expression, blank and staring. He sat next to me, his hand going to my forehead at once.

“What’s wrong?”

“How many days has it been since the wedding?” I whispered.

“Seventeen,” he answered automatically. “Bella, what is it?”

I was counting again. I held up a finger, cautioning him to wait, and mouthed the numbers to myself. I’d been wrong about the days before. We’d been here longer than I’d thought. I started over again.

“Bella!” he whispered urgently. “I’m losing my mind over here.”

I tried to swallow. It didn’t work. So I reached into the suitcase and fumbled around until I found the little blue box of tampons again. I held them up silently.

He stared at me in confusion. “What? Are you trying to pass this illness off as PMS?”

“No,” I managed to choke out. “No, Edward. I’m trying to tell you that my period is five days late.”

His facial expression didn’t change. It was like I hadn’t spoken.

“I don’t think I have food poisoning,” I added.

He didn’t respond. He had turned into a sculpture.

“The dreams,” I mumbled to myself in a flat voice. “Sleeping so much. The crying. All that food. Oh. Oh. Oh .”

Edward’s stare seemed glassy, as if he couldn’t see me anymore.

Reflexively, almost involuntarily, my hand dropped to my stomach.