Bye Baby Bunting
Ingleside
Glen St Mary
Dear Kenneth,
As you may be aware by now, my wife and I have repatriated Marilla Blythe from the Charlottetown Asylum.
Far be it for me to admonish a colleague, but when you promised to check up on Marilla whilst she was in their care, what exactly did you mean?
We were distressed to find Marilla in a most upsetting state. She was unwashed, battered and very confused. In good conscience we could not leave her there and took her back home instead. She will be cared for by the family.
I know you think you did the right thing in removing her from a difficult situation, but I think it had to be only a brief respite and nothing more.
I thought I knew what went on in that institution and I was appalled to find I was in error. Henceforth I will only send my most intractable patients there and even then, only for the briefest of stints. I do not believe they provide any sort of care for their patients. I will use it merely for family respite, nothing more.
I pray you will follow my lead.
With best regards
Gilbert Blythe
General Practioner
John woke up next to Marilla, she was still as beautiful as ever. Even if she didn't know who he was, he still loved her. "Oh Mar," he sighed.
"Mmm, John?" she replied turning around to him. "Why the big sigh?"
"Mar? Is it really you?"
"What? Yes, of course it is. What's the matter?"
Tears came to John's eyes, "it's just, you've been a...away for a while. We haven't had a chat for a bit."
"Away? I don't remember being away?" She moved into his shoulder for a hug.
One afternoon, Dora invited Minnie May over to Green Gables for tea. Minnie May had grown up with Marilla and knew that she had been unwell. There had been some incidents in town and at church, but she remembered Marilla fondly and was happy to take tea at Green Gables. She hadn't been there for some years, not since Dora had moved out of home. Minnie May greeted Marilla politely, unsure of her reception.
Dora was helping Marilla with her tea; she was drinking through a spouted cup by now. Dora holding it, giving her small sips and feeding her cake on a spoon. Minnie May had brought some of her favourite salve over and Marilla enjoyed the sensation of having her hands massaged. Each woman took a hand apiece and rubbed and massaged the unguent in, feeling the knotted hands relax under their touch as they chatted. Marilla lay back in her armchair, her eyes closed. Dora thought she had fallen asleep until out of the blue Marilla piped up with: "didn't little William Barry make a bonny Jesus in our Nativity Play, Mama," Marilla's eyes opened and looked directly at Minnie May, mistaking her for her mother, Constance Cuthbert.
"He did?" Minnie May faltered. "He, um never told me."
"Except he cried just after the donkey left. I was happy Papa took it out because it wasn't toilet trained," Marilla laughed a high-pitched cackle. "The donkey was so funny when he brayed," at that Marilla gave a passable imitation of the long deceased animal. "Hee haw," it was amusing at first, but she got stuck there and kept braying at irregular intervals interrupting any conversation the younger women attempted.
They gave up eventually, Dora apologizing and Minnie May assuring her it was fine. They kissed each other farewell for now, with Marilla still braying inside. It wasn't hard, Dora thought later, to imagine she did it on purpose. Especially as she stopped shortly after Minnie May left; though Dora doubted she was up to such complicated planning these days.
Anne paid her customary visit, accompanied this time by Gilbert. He got a shock every time he saw Marilla. It wasn't so bad for Anne, she saw her frequently enough that the change wrought was not so immense, but Gilbert really noticed a difference this time. She had shrunk, her hair had gone white and he looked closer at her face, had she lost a tooth?
Her bad days had started outnumbering her good. On a good day Marilla would get out of bed and go for a wander around the house on the arm of whomever was caring for her and spend some time in the parlour or if the weather were good outside on the porch, enjoying the sunshine with a shawl around her shoulders; on her bad days she refused to leave the bed. They would ask her if she wanted to get up and she would shake her head vehemently. John had told Anne not to push her, if she wanted to stay in bed, that was fine. At first it was just a day here or there but now, Anne noticed she rarely got up.
On this visit Marilla took one look at Gilbert and started singing in a high wavery voice:
"Oh! all of you poor single men,
Don't ever give up in despair,
For there's always a chance while there's life
To capture the hearts of the fair,
No matter what may be your age,
You always may cut a fine dash,
You will suit all the girls to a hair
If you've only got a moustache,
A moustache, a mustache,
If you've only got a moustache."*
By the end her voice had strengthened, and she sang the last couple of lines with gusto, finishing off with a long note. She smiled then before lapsing into giggles.
Anne sniggered, "she's noticed that moustache of yours then Gilbert. Nothing wrong with her eyesight." Gilbert frowned as he stroked his fine locks. He was very proud of his new moustache believing it made him look more refined, but if even his muddled mother in law was mocking him, what good was there in the world? "Well if you're going to gang up on me," he muttered, turning to leave.
"No, stay and sit with her. Don't be so touchy, darling," Anne kissed him lightly on the cheek. She was getting accustomed to his facial hair, though it had been a shock when he announced he was going to grow it.
The days were long and the nights unpredictable, but Anne always got ready for bed, even if she didn't get to stay there for long. Marilla was active during the night, not as bad as she had been when she was mobile; but still she needed attention and was agitated if she was alone. Standing by her mirror, the candle flickering, Anne plaited her hair quickly, thinking back her childhood when she plaited her despised red hair, as much to hide it as anything else.
Before she lay down, she walked into Marilla's room to check she if she was asleep yet. She might wake up during the night, but she was usually asleep at this time. "What the Devil! Marilla said sternly. "What are you doing up at this hour, Anne Shirley? It's past your bedtime, young lady." Anne looked at her, stunned. "What? Cat got your tongue, off to bed with you and don't forget to say your prayers!" Marilla ordered.
Unwilling to miss this most precious opportunity, Anne sat down on the edge of the bed staring at Marilla who looked at her most indignantly. "Why are you disobeying me?"
"Um, I just wanted a chat, Marilla." Anne said, still in shock.
"Fiddlesticks, off to bed with you. I won't hear another word. It's late and I'll never get you up in the morning."
Desperate to stay with her, Anne cast around for an excuse to stay. "Oh Marilla, I have such a lovely story brewing within me, may I tell it to you. If I don't say it out loud it will keep me awake."
Marilla looked most put out but softened when Anne cast her big grey eyes towards her. "Oh, very well. Come and lie beside me," she pulled the covers back. "You'll probably fall asleep before you finish."
Anne climbed in and summoned a story from her internal store. There was always one or two rattling around in her mind. "Once upon a time . . . ," she started. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Marilla's eyes closing and felt her body relax against her. Before she had finished the first act Marilla was snoring gently.
Anne lay back in shock, how had that happened? She was never able to recreate it, sadly, but she cherished the memory of the time when Marilla thought she was thirteen again.
One Sunday afternoon found everyone at Green Gables. The children had been reluctant to come, Sara in particular was wary of her grandmother; the memory of her stolen doll still fresh in her mind. However, Matthew looked after the younger children in the parlor while the adults sat with Marilla, looking at old photographs. Marilla lapsed in and out of lucidity. "You came over from Scotland, didn't you?" Marilla said to Davy and Millie, mistaking them for her parents. She did this quite a lot these days. In a quiet voice she started singing:
I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
Borne, like a vapor, on the summer air;
John joined in, his voice cracking with emotion. She had been his Jeanie back in the day, with her light brown hair.
I see her tripping where the bright streams play,
Happy as the daisies that dance on her way.
Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour.
Many were the blithe birds that warbled them o'er:
Oh! I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair,
Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.
The last verse,
I sigh for Jeanie, but her light form strayed
Far from the fond hearts round her native glade;
Her smiles have vanished and her sweet songs flown,
Flitting like the dreams that have cheered us and gone.
Now the nodding wild flowers may wither on the shore
While her gentle fingers will cull them no more:
Oh! I sigh for Jeanie with the light brown hair,
Floating, like a vapor, on the soft summer air.
Had them all in tears. Marilla's hair had faded to white now, but was still as beautiful as ever.
Marilla leaned over to John mid verse picked up his hand and kissed him tenderly. They looked on at the gesture in amazement. She held his hand as she sang, and fell asleep afterwards.
One evening Millie took up some scraps of material and sewed a rudimentary rag doll for Marilla, thinking back to her reaction to Sara's doll. It was nothing much, but she used buttons for eyes, darned a mouth in and attached some black yarn for hair. Marilla cried in glee when Millie presented it to her the following day and immediately put it to her breast.
Dora had sewn a new nightgown for her, one that buttoned up the front. John and Dora dressed her in it now and Marilla was content as she placed the doll at her breast and crooned soothing but incomprehensible words at it. "She'd thank you if she could," John turned to Dora and Millie with tears in his eyes.
"She already has, John" Dora patted him on the shoulder, "look at her, she already has."
"Bye baby bunting," Marilla sang.
"What?" Millie's eyes flew across to her mother in law, in shock at the words.
"Bye baby bunting."
"That's all she says, all that's left," John explained sadly.
Marilla was far more tractable after that. The doctor paid a customary visit and was astonished to see the difference in his patient. Previously, they had fought to keep her calm, but now she was in a happy state. She spent hours 'feeding' her 'baby', rocking it to sleep, sleeping beside it.
"She always wanted a child of her own," John remarked sadly.
"It was obviously a very deep-rooted desire," the doctor replied with his hand on John's shoulder as they stood to the side of the bed watching Marilla tend to her baby.
John brought up a bowl of food to feed Marilla. She was curled up in a foetal ball, sucking her thumb, her rag doll clutched to her chest. "C'mon love it's lunchtime, he said as cheerily as he could muster. He rolled her over and propped her up on a couple of pillows. He placed a kerchief around her neck, and one on her lap. "Now Mar, let's get some lunch in you. It's soup, looks delicious, I think Rachel made it for you, not too lumpy, nothing to choke on. Open your mouth for me, love." Obediently Marilla opened her mouth when the spoon came near. He ladled the soup in, she closed her mouth, swallowed and opened again. "The minister is visiting today it'll be nice to see him again won't it?" She stared ahead glassily with no indication that she had understood or even heard him, though he did not think she was deaf. Regardless John plunged on with his monologue. Maybe one day she'd look at him again?
"How is she?"
John turned around to answer Rachel, "No change, not so good, today." Rachel raised her eyebrows in Marilla's direction, and he looked around, her mouth was open waiting for the next spoonful, drooling a little; it was like feeding a baby bird. He wiped her chin with the kerchief and popped some more in, scraping up the residual soup from her chin, and dipping into the bowl for more. "I'll keep an eye on her after lunch, you go and have a rest," Rachel offered.
"Thank you, that would be lovely."
"My pleasure, we have to make sure we look after you too, John."
The doctor said she could go on like this for years, there was little actually physically wrong with her. John hoped to God she wouldn't. He didn't think he could bear it. He never thought he would actually will her to die, but this? This was devastating.
Anne got a little shock each time she visited. Every time she came, Marilla had deteriorated just a little more. This time was the worst by far. She was tucked up in bed, the blankets neat, a new nightgown unbuttoned, and she was 'nursing' her doll. "Dora made it for her, it keeps her so happy," John explained, "I'll just leave you two alone. I'll bring some soup for her lunch in a little while." With a fond look at them both he backed out of the room and went downstairs.
Slowly Marilla turned towards her and Anne got a good look at the devastation the disease had wrought upon her face. She had always looked old, beautiful in Anne's eyes, but elderly. Now she looked positively skeletal as her skin stretched out across her cheek bones. "What have you got there?" Anne asked.
"Ba ... by, my…y babiii," stuttered Marilla proudly, looking down at the doll.
"May I hold her?" Anne gently requested.
"Noooo," Marilla clasped the doll back into her arms. Squeezing the life out of it, had it been real. She shook her head, "no no no no no."
"I'm sorry, of course, she's yours. She's safe with you isn't she. What is her name?" Anne enquired, hoping to placate her.
"Baby, baby, baby," crooned Marilla as she violently rocked it back and forth.
Who knows what combination of events caused it but the fog lifted momentarily so that Marilla was aware of someone hovering nearby. Speech was beyond her and no real words came to her mind to express, but she managed in this all too brief moment of lucidity to catch John's eye and look at him. Really staring into his eyes with compassion and gratefulness and above all, love. Pure unadulterated love. Tears came to John's eyes as the one thing he longed for came to pass, just for that brief moment. He reached forward wordlessly to clutch her hand and they squeezed each other briefly as she wiped his tears away with her index finger. The fog descended again and her hand went slack as she gazed past him vacantly.
One morning he couldn't rouse her. She remained asleep, curled up around the doll. Doctor Mustard was summoned, he listened to her raspy chest for a few minutes, moving the stethoscope around to different locations. Standing back up he diagnosed pneumonia. "I expect it'll kill her," he declared.
Tears sprang to John's eyes. "Is it terrible to say I'm pleased?" he whispered.
"I think in this situation, it would be a blessed relief, wouldn't it? You lost her a long time ago." The doctor said, compassionately.
"How long, do you think?" John enquired.
"Couple of days at the most, I'd say. You'll have time for everyone to come and say goodbye, I expect, but it won't be long."
They perched on her bed, sat in chairs or cross legged on the floor, stood leaning against the wall. For a woman who had lived a quiet life with just her brother for so long, she had amassed quite a large family by the end. Rachel was afforded honorary family status and sat in a chair beside her oldest friend listening to her breath rasp. They chatted between themselves in brief patches, but for the most part were alone with their thoughts, each thinking about Marilla in happier times. Very softly Davy started to sing,
"John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw,
but blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo!
John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill the gither,
And monie a cantie day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep the gither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo!"***
When the last note died away, the room was silent. It was only when they all listened intently again that they realised Marilla had stopped breathing.
They hugged each other, taking the time to grieve together. Davy went to shake John's hand, but pulled his step-father into a hug at the last minute, his tiny frame engulfed by Davy's larger one.
John and Anne wept together letting the tears fall where they may. They were tears of sadness that she had died like this, unaware. Yet there was relief too, her terrible confusion was over and she would be taken home.
* If You've Only Got a Mustache by Stephen Foster (with thanks to Elizasky and apologies to MrsVonTrapp)
** Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair by Stephen Foster
*** John Anderson My Jo, Robert Burns
Thanks to Alinyaalethia and Elizasky for their thoughts and contributions.
Well thank you for reading and reviewing. It was a sad story, I apologise. But she died surrounded by those she loved even if she had forgotten them all.