PART 11: Aftermath
Everything ended as suddenly as it had begun. They had not seen Vincent van Ghoul or Flim Flam from that day; there was no more Chest to guard either. It almost felt that the whole adventure that had taken over a year never happened. The ghosts, the warlock, the juvenile con artist—all had disappeared out of their lives, leaving no reminders. The situation could be compared to a clock that was reset to an earlier time. Once again there were four of them. Just like before…but they expected an addition in about half a year.
On the ninth day after the events in the Himalayas, they were on their way to the editor's office. It was again time for review and plan discussion. The newsletter's headquarters was having a busy Monday. They walked past the desks behind which journalists and administration assistants were consumed by their chores.
The pair made their way to the familiar door. A sign hung on it, revealing the den of the big man: 'Editor's Office".
Daphne made a knock.
"Please come in," they heard a voice from the other side.
They did as asked and found the editor at his usual spot: by the desk. Their entry did not yet distract him from his work; pen in hand, he was going through the manuscript sheets before him. Several filled folders lay on the writing table by his right side, an implication of the amount of work he had to do. He turned to them several seconds later. He was a man in his early fifties, and spots of grey were already visible amidst his dark hair and thick mustache.
"Hello, you two!" he greeted them, putting the pen aside and placing his hands on the desk.
"Take a seat, Daphne," he said.
Daphne sat on the chair in front of the desk.
"Why don't you grab that stool, Norville."
"Sure thing, boss," Shaggy said, and taking the stool, place it next to Daphne's as he plunged into it.
"One second. Let me find the needed papers," he said as he began to search the inside of his table.
"There they are!" he proclaimed, now holding them in his hand.
The editor spoke first and passed them to Daphne for a look. The two soon began to talk. Shaggy did not pay attention; only a personal assistant, he was not obliged to be present at this routine, he tagged along with only the intention of looking after Daphne.
Once in a while, he would throw his gaze around: at the desk, at the shelves by the wall, at the structures visible from the window.
"I say, Daphne, you don't seem even half energetic and talkative as you usually are," the editor commented on the way the discussion was going.
"Sorry, but I had a case of nausea this morning and it returned soon after I sat down," the redhead complained.
"Would you like some water?"
"No, I'll be alright."
"Well, you know, this discussion is more like a formality and since there's nothing major in it, you can go home and rest," being a gentleman, the editor called the meeting to an end.
Shaggy drove the van back to their house. Having parked the vehicle by the garage door, he was the first one to exit it. Immediately, he found himself in the domain of the pleasant April weather, both sun and frail wind soothing his skin. But even a sunny day could make a person get a chill...
The first feeling of coldness arose when Daphne got out of the van. She did not use the other car door, but crawled out from the driver's side.
She made a couple of steps, as weak as the first steps of a child. He looked her in the eyes, and felt the same fear he went through during their adventures strike him in the back of the head. Daphne's features were pale, keeping her mouth wide open, she made slow but heavy breath. Her gaze, dull and mysterious, was hard to decipher.
"Daphne?" he said.
"Shaggy," she said, her eyes not concentrating on him as if her thoughts were flying elsewhere, "I feel terrible," she breathed out.
"Where is the pain coming from," he asked in disarray.
"Everywhere," she panted and dropped her head.
The young man was as scattered as she was in those moments. He wrapped his hand around her shoulders just to make sure she would not fall. He picked her up bridal style and carried her to the door, he let her back on her feet only when he needed to open the door.
Scooby met them in the foyer; the canine's look turned to one of puzzlement when he saw his friend pick up the redhead clutched to him and carry her to the living room. A fateful pet, the Great Dane followed.
Shaggy placed her on the sofa. He saw tears trail down his partner's beautiful features, and that was another reason for alarm. Like any other human, Daphne had experienced colds and migraines, but he could not remember any past malady burst her into tears.
"Do you want me to call a doctor?" he did not care what reply she would give, he already made the decision.
Daphne feebly shook her head in agreement.
"Keep an eye on her, Scoob," he addressed his four-pawed pal.
"Rokay."
He made his way to the phone, dialed the number, and explained the situation and symptoms. With the call over, he went back to the living room. Daphne leaning against the sofa's back, Daphne sat with closed eyes, her hand on the head of the Great Dane, patting him unevenly.
"You'll be alright," he said, trying to reassure himself as much as her and planted a kiss on her forehead.
The ambulance arrived fairly quickly, although Daphne had lost consciousness by that time.
He did not notice as time passed and could not tell how long he remained in the waiting area. Worrying, he could not keep his thoughts together—they flew into different directions like birds. They were everywhere, in present and past.
One of the doctors finally entered the room, his white coat almost melding with the walls of the same color.
"Mr. Rogers?" he medic read out his name from the sheet.
"Yes, Doctor," the addressee stood up.
"I am here to give you an update on Miss Blake's condition."
"Is she alright?" he asked, unable to wait another second.
"She will be," the medic said and broke his statement in two with a pause, "she had a miscarriage."
The doctor gave the young man an extra several seconds to churn his statements.
"There was quite a lot of bleeding, but she will recover. This incident will not lead to complications that can affect her health."
Everything in Shaggy's eyes gained a slight green tint. Partially, he was emotionally ready for such news. He formulated several theories while he was sitting, not assessing the true plausibility of each one. It was one of them.
"But what could have caused it? She seemed fine," the question slipped out in a whisper.
"There are different factors that can lead to a miscarriage. Moreover, pregnancy can cease on its own on an early stage even with no apparent reason."
The doctor explained relevant anatomic theses and statistics.
"But we are certain that this miscarriage will not affect Miss Blake's capability of bearing children in the future," the medic finished with a brighter notion.
The following day Daphne was deemed ready for check-out from the hospital, though it was strongly recommended that stayed at home for the next several days. Shaggy was the one to pick her up.
The atmosphere in the van remained silent throughout the drive; Daphne was not in the mood for talking. As they waited for the green light, the young man threw a look at his companion. The redhead was sitting by his side, her palms resting on her knees. He noticed how tightly her lips were joined, a feature that radiated an extra share of sadness. She was staring forward into the distance, her gaze dull.
The doctor had mentioned and warned that what she had gone through often left affected women with emotional traumas. It seemed the same applied to Daphne. The young man shook his head slightly, feeling sorry for her.
Eventually, they reached their house.
"We're home," Shaggy said, unbuckling his seatbelt.
This time Daphne exited through the other car door. As gracefully as usual, she made her way to him. Shaggy shut the car door and wrapped his hand around her, trying to comfort her. Grateful for his gesture, Daphne placed her head against his shoulder and rubbed against it softly.
"Let's go inside," Shaggy said after standing with her that way for several moments.
Not letting go of her, he made his way inside the house.
"Why don't you go have some rest?" he recommended as he looked her into the eyes that in those moments did not reflect even a speck of energy.
"Ok, I will," she said feebly, unintentionally making his spirit sore even more.
She stepped onto the stairway.
"Do you need any help?" though her steps were confident, he still wanted to be certain
"No thanks, I can handle," was her second sentence since check-out.
He watched her go down the stairs…just in case.
Afterwards was his turn to remain speechless and motionless. He stood like that for a bit as a bolt of many thoughts and emotions speared him. He went into the living room and fell onto the sofa like a brick.
However, his solitude was quickly interrupted. He did not hear steps, and only a brown blur when he caught with a corner of his eye hinted company. It was Scooby. The Great Dane could rarely be seen unaccompanied, and Shaggy noticed, after turning towards him, that it was not the case as a smaller form appeared from behind him.
Some said pets could feel the problems of their owners, so it seemed they were right. Scooby sat down on the floor near him; Scrappy crawled onto the couch.
"Shaggy, will Daphne be alright?" the smaller dog asked, concerned.
Shaggy put his hand on the pooch's head and scratched him behind the ear.
"She will be, Scrappy," he said, "she just needs time to recuperate."
He leaned slightly and put his other hand on the big Great Dane.
"Only, guys, let's not mention any of these…events…in Daphne's presence," he said.
The other two agreed.
"Anyway, have you two eaten?" he asked, standing up gradually.
"Let's go, I'll give you something to eat," he said upon getting a negative reply.
He stumbled into the kitchen, followed by his two pets. Himself not in the mood, he gave them their food and only watched as they ate.
He soon separated from their company. He returned to his and Daphne's room in order to check up on the redhead.
She had indeed followed his suggestion—she lay in bed. Carefully walking to it, he stopped at the bedside. Daphne was sleeping, tugged under the cover that only revealed the purple nightgown on her shoulders. Her eyes were shut, and he could hear her soft breathing. She looked better asleep than she did around an hour before, and he had to be glad of this slightest improvement. She looked calm; dream temporary released her from stress.
He thought the room was a bit stuffy. He went to the window and put his hand on the handle, intending to let some fresh air in. He paused before opening it and turned his face to his sleeping partner. He was not knowledgeable in medical issues. What if she was in a weaker condition than she seemed? He did not want her to get pneumonia due to a possible blunder of his. His grasp of the handle ended.
He felt sorry for her but simultaneously he could not shake off criticism. He had warned her, he had tried to persuade her to stay at home. Perhaps if she had heeded his concerned advice, this misfortune would not have happened.
However, there was one item of defense that turned the tables within several seconds…Daphne did not start it all…Daphne was not the one who opened the Chest of Demons.
He did.
Daphne's naïve idealism played its fateful role, but she had acted as she thought was necessary. For the world. For them. For their baby.
The primordial fault was his.
The next several days passed similarly, as was expected. Daphne spent the time between resting and being in a depressed mood. It was evident she belonged to the type emotionally most affected by miscarriages. Whenever Shaggy threw his gaze at her, he could feel the deep sense of loss she was experiencing. He only hoped that this period would not linger for too long.
He once woke up in the middle of the night; it was a common routine—he needed a midnight snack. He was about to stand up and make his trip when his ear caught a sound, low and melancholic. It was immediately followed by a similar one, which, in turn, was succeeded by another. Those noises were unmistakable—those were sobs.
He sat up and looked into their direction. Daphne lay on her side of bed, her back turned to him. Even in the moonlight he could see her tremble slightly with each sob.
He put his hand on her shoulder and gently caressed it. She did not react differently, just sobbed again.
"Daphne, please look at me," he urged softly.
Daphne slowly rolled onto her back. Her gaze met his. Her eyes and tears sparkled like crystals in the shadows. Her flame-red hair had dyed brown by the dark.
"Shaggy…I…" she wept out as she did the unexpected and actually sat up.
He reached out and rubbed her cheek. He wanted her to calm down; everything else mattered little that moment.
He inched closer and, wrapping his other hand around her, tenderly brought her into his embrace.
"It will be alright, Daph," he planted a kiss on the top of her head.
Daphne buried her head in his chest, but he did not achieve his objective. Instead, she plainly broke into tears. The young man kept repeating his assurances, all the while trying to come up with something that would make her relax, while the T-shirt he had on was becoming damper from Daphne's streaming tears.
Shaggy tried everything soothing that came to his mind: he caressed her back, kissed her occasionally, made compliments on her looks and qualities, repeated earlier assurances…
It took quite a bit of time, but Daphne finally calmed down. He tugged her in and kept his attention on the redhead until she fell asleep. He zapped out shortly after. After all of this, he did not want a snack anymore that night.
Daphne got better after several more days. Shaggy felt the shards of her depression would still linger somewhere in her mind for quite some time, but he was glad she again became the familiar Daphne. She could smile; she was able to take up job assignments…
Nevertheless, it felt that each of them had made a step into different directions. Rips in their relationship began to appear after the incident with the Demon Chest. The couple joint excitement over Daphne's pregnancy had partially stitched them. Yet now the stitches were undone, and the redhead seemed even more distant. He was hoping it was merely a temporary side effect of her depression and would subject to change.
It was the last third of May, and they were going on another assignment. However, times were changing. The golden days had passed. Back then, the romantic feel sweetened everything, including mysteries. Yet now even an average assignment had a metallic taste. Daphne was once again behind the steering wheel, Shaggy sat on his side, having little else to do but venture back to the earlier days through his memories.
The Mystery Machine stopped in front of an average small town dwelling. It was a one-story house painted white. Flowers decorated the small front garden and the windows. Getting to the door was a matter of several seconds. The redhead rang the door bell; the door was opened almost immediately. The person they were supposed to interview stood at the entrance. Dressed in a housewife's attire, she was a decade over them in age, her long raven hair tied into a ponytail.
"Hello, you must be Daphne Blake," she said, welcoming them, "I'm Rebecca Grant," she first shook Daphne's hand and then his.
She invited them in and led the pair into the living room where she offered them to take a seat on the sofa whilst she accommodated on a leather chair by the opposite side of a plated coffee table.
"Now, Rebecca, you are an author known across the country for your works of historical fiction, but as with many other present-day writers, your readers know very little about you as a person. So would you like to make several statements about yourself for your reading audience?" the interview began with these statements.
"Of course," she said and shared the most important facts of your life.
"And what made you choose historical fiction as your primary genre?"
"A general interest."
"And are there any particular themes you like to explore?"
"I mainly write love stories set in different eras. However, a common subject that can be found in my books is the place of women in society and the challenges they face confronting the social realities of their times."
"Chicks talking about chick things. That's going to be quite an interview," Shaggy thought as the female author began describing an event that inspired one of her works.
In the mean time, he felt the heavy lunch he had on the way here gone well, and in a union with the novelist's narration, it made him unable to prevent his eyelids from falling.
An elbow kick brought him back to the interview. He instantly found a pair of orbs on him; another pair of eyes awaited him when he moved his head slightly. The first gaze, the novelist's, was unemotional, Daphne's, on the other hand, was blazing angrily.
"Sorry, my bad," he said with a semi-embarrassed smile.
Daphne gave him a final disapproving look and turned back to her co-talker.
"So, Rebecca, would you mind giving your readers a couple of words about your upcoming book?"
"The story takes place in provincial Italy during the final years of the Roman Empire," the author said, "the main heroine is looking forward to her wedding that is expected to take place later that year. Exited and overjoyed, she does not know that the Hun armies are already on the march and Attila's shadow will soon fall not only on her country but on her very world…"
After the end of the interview, the hostess accompanied them to the exit.
"Thank you for the interview, Ms Grant," Daphne said.
"You're welcome. Thank you for the interesting questions," she thanked her in return, "And a little suggestion…" she looked at Shaggy and grinned, "A cup of coffee helps stay awake."
"That was so unprofessional of you, Shaggy," Daphne scolded him as they approached the van.
"But, Daph, I couldn't help it, it was so boring…" Shaggy tried to defend himself, "I mean what she saying!" he quickly added as the redhead shot him a critical look.
"There's a thing called self-control, you know," she said.
"Oh c'mon, Daph," he took her hand into his.
"My cheeks went red after I found out through her hint," Daphne added, unaffected by his gesture.
He remembered that May as the chilliest in his life.
He thought he kept seeing something deep in Daphne's eyes while they were walking their dogs in the park the next Saturday. They returned home in the afternoon.
"We need to talk, Shaggy," she said when the dogs went out of their view.
"Sure, Daph," he said and followed her into the living room, pushed by curiosity.
He sat on the sofa next to her.
"Shaggy, I've been thinking…" she began, her gaze on the cushion rather than on his face, "I feel it's not working anymore."