AN: This was an idea that just hit me. I spent the past two hours at my computer hammering it out - it might be a bit corse, but I couldn't stop until it was done, and now I find that I cannot edit it. Let's call this a character essay, and leave it at that!

Ok, done procrastinating - now, back to The Doctor's Wife universe. OOW chapter to be posted soon! Thanks for reading :)

Jem Blythe needed forty-two cents.

Well, thirty-nine, really. Danny Scotts had offered to buy two of the three milk teeth he'd been treasuring, for a whole cent apiece. Jem felt confident enough that he could sell the third one easily enough. His hands were calloused and sore from whittling neat handles for the tops, but he would go on until he ran out of reels.

When all was done, Father might rub liniment on his hands, and Mother would kiss it all better.

Jem Blythe felt deeply insulted.

Who was Mr. Smythe to doubt his strength? Jem could lift crates just fine. Susan had him bringing in logs for the fire all the time, and those were plenty heavy. Heck, he could even lift Walter - though not for very long, and Walt always squirmed and complained when Jem tried. But didn't his teachers at school always pick him first to help move the desks? Not that he enjoyed it, but surely this was an example of what a strong worker he could have been.

Five cents an hour would have been sweet money: the necklace would have been his in no time!

Well, he'd just have to find another way.

Jem Blythe was proud of himself.

He loved the satisfying plunk of pennies dropping into his brass pig. He counted as they fell through the slit: twenty-two, plunk, twenty-three, plunk, twenty-four, plunk, twenty-five! Plunk.

Halfway there. Only twenty-five more to go! It wouldn't be so bad, now that he had found new ways to earn money. He didn't even miss the apple crunch pie Bertie Drew Shakespeare wolfed down right beside him.

Sissy Flagg said it was wicked to get rich by selling things he didn't make himself. Polly-Jane Humbert intervened before he could get in trouble for kicking a girl, by pointing out that that was exactly what Sissy Flagg's old man did for a living. Heck, Jem hadn't even thought of that. It was fun to watch Sissy sputter and stomp off. "Take that!" he contributed, then turned to grin to Polly-Jane, but she just blushed and sputtered worse than Sissy. Girls.

Jem Blythe's world was coming to an end.

The pig was gone. And there was fifty cents in it!

Mac Reese wouldn't have taken it. He was annoying sometimes, but they were friends.

Still, the pig was gone, and the last time he'd seen it with his own eyes was in his room. With Mac Reese.

Could he have stolen it? Perhaps it was payback for when Jem had called him a name before Christmas. But that was so long ago, he couldn't even remember what the name was! Besides, he'd said he was sorry, and they'd shook hands and all.

If it was Mac, he would take that handshake back. And call him many names, worse ones.

Jem Blythe wanted to cry.

It wasn't because of Mac Reese, who hadn't stolen his pig but broken it.

It wasn't that he'd gotten in trouble because of Mac Reese, and mean Mrs. Taylor's stupid prayer, AND that stinking bully Fred Elliott, and that he was to forfeit dessert for a week.

He didn't even care that he'd sold his string of birds' eggs. It was a stupid thing, and none of it mattered now, anyway.

Father was sick, the bad kind that drove Mother and Susan and all the other grown-ups to distraction. It was all anyone would talk about. Visitors stopped by to drop off tureens of soup for The Doctor, sometimes The Good Doctor, and on occasion Gilbert.

It was unnerving, how people worshipped Father. Clearly, they'd never been subject to his glare, felt his spank. Father never let Jem get away with anything, even though he was allowed to leave the table whenever he pleased, and stay up as late as he wanted. Why, some days, he was even out until after sunrise! And did Mother scold him? Not only did she not scold him, but she would smile at him! And bring him coffee, and breakfast at any hour!

"There, now, darling," soothed Susan when she found him sulking at the window seat, watching the February snow fall. "Don't you worry about your father. The Doctor is nothing if not a strong man: he's cured people of much worse, he will get over this, and that you may tie to. Now, have a monkeyface, Susan's made them especially for you!"

The monkeyface crumbled flavorlessly in his mouth. She'd meant to comfort him, but had only succeeded in making him feel more rotten. He knew he ought to feel sorry for Father, like everyone else, but he couldn't. More than anything, he felt angry: Mother's birthday was only in ten days. And now, Father was spoiling everything.

Later that night, when he pretended to be asleep, he heard Mother and Susan tiptoe into their room.

"Like little angels," whispered Susan, and Jem nearly rose in protest. "Mrs. Dr. Dear, what do you suppose will become of us should the Doctor... should he..."

"He won't," assured Mother, and Jem chose to trust her. After all, Mother knew everything. "The worst is over, I truly believe he is out of danger now. See how his appetite returned...?"

Their whispered conversation drifted away with them, and Jem's eyes popped open. It was the first time he realized Father might die - if not today, or tomorrow, then some day. Just like Gyppy, only so much worse, because he'd had Father his whole life, and could not, would not imagine life without him.

With some perspective, he saw that Father wasn't all bad. He was strong - not as strong as Grandpa, but he could still lift really heavy things, probably more than Mr. Smythe and Mr. Flagg put together. His cannonballs in the swimming hole splashed the farthest, and he built bully tree forts.

And, not that Jem would care to admit, his hugs were not quite as good as Mother's, but they were good hugs, too: they always made Jem feel safe, but also a little strange. Big boys didn't go about hugging their Fathers, not the way Walt did all the time. Such a baby.

Yet, what he wouldn't do for one of Father's hugs right about now...

A tear escaped from his eye, then another, and soon he was crying into his pillow, worse than when Gyp died.

Jem Blythe was annoyed at Susan.

It was his necklace, his present to Mother: he wanted to sleep with it under his pillow tonight, to carry it one more day before giving it to her, but Susan didn't want him to ruin the wrapping.

Well, then, he'd just have to stand guard before Susan's room. Pacing in front of her door, he pretended to be one of the Queen's soldiers, guarding her royal jewels in the dark, spooky tower in London - until Mother came out and scolded him for waking his Father, and told him that if he insisted on being an elephant, he should march himself straight outside, and stomp in the snow.

Jem tried correcting her, but she was in no mood to listen - merely disappeared back into the bedroom with a swish of her skirts that would have made the Queen herself envious. Ever since Father was getting better, her patience had grown shorter, and Jem wondered for a brief moment if it wasn't better when Father was still sick: Mother had been ever so much more tender then. But he liked having his Father around for another day - many others, hopefully. Anyway, being an elephant was much better than a stupid guard...

Jem was bored.

Church in Avonlea always felt longer. Father had promised him several times that the service was no longer here than it was at home, and Grandma had said that it was because he was anxious to go play with Freddie Wright, and that made time go by slower.

They didn't understand. Time wasn't going slow - it was moving backwards! Father had reached over Walter to lay a stern hand on his knee to stop him from kicking. Walt, on the other hand, was perfectly still: eyes closed, his stupid brown curls sprawled upon Father's jacket as he snoozed. It was a good way to make time pass faster and be quiet at the same time, except Jem wasn't tired at all.

FINALLY, the minister stopped talking, and everyone stood up. Jem wanted to race for the door, but seeing as how his family was sitting in the center of the pew, they had to wait for people around them to clear off. Also, he didn't fancy getting grounded for running in church.

Walt whined as Father gently tried to wake him up, and Jem groaned in frustration. This was going to take forever-

"Look who it is!" called Auntie Di as she approached with Jack was in her arms, but Freddie was nowhere to be seen.

"Hello, Darling!" Mother cooed over the baby, and Jem just barely held back another groan. If ever there was anything more revolting than girls, surely it was babies.

"Goodness, Anne, are those pearls around your neck?"

He froze then - it had been one year since he'd been ripped off by Mr. Flagg, one year since he'd confessed to Mother. Of course, she'd known all along - regardless of what the other boys said, Jem knew his Mother knew everything - still, it brought him great shame to revisit the cruel deception.

"Why, yes, they are," said Mother, fingering her necklace fondly.

"But they look so real!" exclaimed Auntie Di.

Here it comes...

"That's because they are."

Jem gaped at his Mother, who winked sneakily at him while Auntie Di was busy staring at the pearls.

"They are simply exquisite," declared Auntie Di. "If you don't mind me saying so, I am a bit jealous of them."

Jem's chest swelled with pride as he joined Father and Walt out of the church: he missed the knowing smiles all the women within earshot, including Auntie Di and Mother, exchanged.

Jem Blythe felt confident.

Shopping for a present for his mother had always been a headache. Every time he asked her what she wanted, she would shrug and say that she didn't need anything - just wanted to have her babes all under the same roof.

His father was easier to please, content with any sort of gadget or gizmo, even a magazine subscription (to add to the six periodicals he already received in the mail). But Mother didn't share Father's penchant for objects. There were books, of course, but Walt had always given her that, until... Well, the twins took care of that, now. Shirley had a knack for finding clever gifts: maps, vases made of Italian blown glass, neat metal bookends welded in clever shapes for the shelves. And Rilla always insisted on making the silliest, frilliest doilies and potholders and table cosies (whatever those were), all bows and lace and pink, and Mother would thank her effusively, and put them on display to soothe Rilla until the baby of the clan forgot.

At a loss for ideas, he had asked again this year, only to receive the same answer she'd given the previous year, and the year before that: "I have my pearls, what more do I need?" She was referring to her wedding ring and her necklace - one, a beautiful antique, the other, a sham.

Well. This year, Jem had found it: the perfect gift, sure to make his mother as proud as she had been of their counterfeit. He watched eagerly, clutching his expecting wife's hand as Mother's delicate fingers undid the ribbon and opened the parcel. He watched her face keenly, and saw her eyes widen in shock - but the euphoric gladness he'd expected did not register. Instead, she seemed... disappointed?

"Oh, Jem, Faith, thank you," she recovered almost immediately, bestowing her warm smile upon them. "They're extravagant."

"You don't like them?" Jem couldn't help but ask, his tone frighteningly like the petulant child which apparently still resided inside him.

"Of course, I love them!" insisted Mother, trying (too late) to repair the damage she'd done.

"They cost more than fifty cents," he grumbled.

Her gentle laughter tinkled like fairy dust, and Faith had the graciousness to leave him be at that moment - or perhaps the morning illness was catching up to her. She had been rather sensitive as of late: Jem made to follow her, but hearing her flowery voice engaging his father into conversation, he sat back, reassured.

"It truly is a magnificent necklace," said Mother, touching the pearls - real pearls, and the small, lumpy things were the best he could afford. "I will cherish them, and wear them on occasion" She closed the lid and placed her hand over her bosom, touching the necklace he knew she kept under her dress every single day, since he'd gone overseas. "These will always be my favorite."