Content warning: grief, anxiety, depression

Author's Note:

First, a special thank you to KimBlythe for pointing out that "Edgar Willis" sounded like he might be connected to Bertha Willis. That was not my intention, so I've gone back and changed his name to Edgar Wilson. Thanks, KimBlythe for spotting the error.

This was the most difficult chapter for me to write. I debated cutting it, but that felt cowardly. Given both my experience and L. M. Montgomery's own terminal depression, it felt especially important not to pull punches here. I started this story with the intention of dragging some things about grief out into the light, so here they are. Things get better (both for me and for Gilbert), but this has to have a place here.

I can promise two things:

1. This is pretty much the bottom of Gilbert's emotional arc. There are other sad chapters, but none of them put me through the wringer like this one.

2. Part I of this story has 33 chapters. I'm hard at work on Part II, which is similar in length. I've already written an epilogue and I can promise you it ends with joy.

Chapter 14: The Bear

One morning, when Gilbert was twelve years old, he awoke early to stoke the fire. John Blythe was having another bad week, wheezing and coughing in such violent fits that his body would quiver for half an hour after they subsided. Gilbert would sit by him then, laying a gentle hand on his back, willing him to take another breath, and then another. When his father lapsed into fitful sleep, Gilbert would allow himself the refuge of the outdoors. A boulder some meters distant from the front door provided a favorite seat; he could look up at the Rocky Mountains, purple and misty in the distance, while remaining close enough to hear if he were needed.

On this particular morning, John Blythe was sleeping calmly, his breathing regular and relatively clear. Gilbert tiptoed to the cabin door, not wishing to disturb him. He carried his boots with him, stopping to slip them on only after he had latched the door softly behind him.

Gilbert was intending to gather kindling for the stove, but the need was not pressing. He had a few minutes to himself to wander in the cool morning. The mountains drew his eye, as they always did, and he wondered what it might be like to walk westward without stopping, onward and upward and down again until he reached the Pacific.

Gilbert approached his boulder, lost in reverie. As he rounded it, a low sound brought him up short. Not twenty meters away, an enormous grizzly bear snuffled in the underbrush, clawing at a dead log to expose the grubs within.

Gilbert froze, but not fast enough.

The bear swung its head around and sniffed the air. Rising onto its back legs, it stood, a quiet growl rumbling in its throat.

Gilbert stood transfixed. His mind began to work feverishly. There was no way he could outrun a bear to the cabin door, not even with a twenty-meter head start. He had no weapon and no hope of rescue. Not knowing what else to do, he took one slow step backward, then another, all the time keeping his eyes fixed steadily on the bear.

Three steps brought him back to the boulder. Five more put him behind it. He could still see the bear standing, its nose twitching, watching him as intently as he watched it.

All of a sudden, the bear dropped out of sight. Gilbert could not see it around the boulder and had no idea whether it had dropped to all fours to continue with its foraging or to rush him. He took several steps backward, more quickly now, still looking toward the boulder.

The bear appeared all at once. Powerful strides propelled it past the boulder, not in a full run, but in a loping charge that ate up the intervening meters in an instant.

Gilbert felt his guts turn to water. He steeled himself for the blow he knew must fall. But it did not. The bear pulled itself up short, still several meters away, its furry ears twitching with curiosity.

"Easy, bear," Gilbert murmured. He continued to back away, one step, then another, over and over until his heel collided with the step in front of the cabin door. He felt behind him for the latch, lifting it carefully. When it gave way, he stepped swiftly inside and slammed the door shut. Leaning against the barred door, he breathed as if for the first time.

In after years, the story of the bear had been a favorite among the Avonlea small fry. Gilbert could tell it so well, affecting a menacing growl that always made Moody jump, no matter how many times he had heard it. With the danger over, it was safe to laugh and wonder at the drama of it all. And it had not escaped Gilbert's notice that telling such a thrilling tale within hearing distance of a certain red-headed maiden tended to render that particular audience immobile and attentive, even when her back was turned.

Now, Gilbert found himself thinking of the bear again. It seemed to haunt him, looming in the corridor after Prof. Dewey's topographical anatomy lecture or padding softly after him as he climbed the stairs to the histology lab. More bizarrely still, no one else seemed to notice it, though it stood three meters tall and growled continuously. It was not a hallucination, per se, but merely an oppressive presence, keeping him always alert and on edge.

Gilbert found that there were times when he could shut the door in the bear's face. When he was absorbed in a lecture or experiment, or meeting with Dr. Edmonds, his attention would be fully engaged, focused on the task at hand. For an hour or two, it would seem is if everything was just as it should be.

But when the lecture was finished, or the meeting concluded, Gilbert would step out into the hall, and find the bear waiting for him. Somehow, it was a surprise every time. And every time, he had to realize again the agonizing truth. She was dead. No facade of normalcy could change that.

Sometimes, Gilbert would feel a bit of his old excitement. A professor would introduce an intriguing concept or he would discover something fascinating under his microscope. It would be like old times, when hunger for knowledge had thrilled him, energized him for the work ahead. But now, whatever zeal he felt would drain the moment he stepped over a threshold and back into the wider world. The bear was waiting for him, always. In a single instant, he would remember, and be ashamed for forgetting, and feel a deep despair wash over him, extinguishing any spark that had managed to kindle.

One Sunday in October, Gilbert knocked at the door of the Patterson Street manse. For the first time in over a month, Jonas had not come to the dormitory to escort him to dinner, as he had every Sunday since that first abortive attempt. Surely, this was progress.

Phil answered the door, her face smudged, her apron showing a long singe down one side.

"Doing battle with the stove?" Gilbert asked.

"And emerging victorious!" she replied, unfurling her crooked smile.

At dinner, Gilbert made sure to praise the meal, which was, in point of fact, tolerably good.

"Jo is responsible for the potatoes," Phil confessed. "But please don't tell anyone in the congregation."

Later, in the sitting room, Gilbert gave his usual update on classes and news from home. There was little enough to tell. The past week had brought his parents' regular letters, full of news about the apple harvest and assurances that they were getting on well. Gilbert privately suspected that they wrote to Phil just as often as they did to him, but she generally feigned ignorance of any news he shared from them. Perhaps they did not bother to tell her how the orchard was getting along.

A letter from Diana had given him the news of Avonlea. Mrs. Sloane was already inviting the whole town to Charlie's wedding, which would not take place until the spring. Josie Pye had rejected one suitor and taken up with another. Minnie May had been after Mr. and Mrs. Barry to let her join the Queen's class at school, but the matter wasn't settled yet. There was one worrying line; apparently Davy Keith was still living with the Harrisons and Dora with the Barrys. That bothered Gilbert, but he could not examine the feeling long enough to make any headway in deciphering it.

"How is Mr. Wilson getting along?" Jo asked, inviting one of the few subjects that ever seemed to animate Gilbert in any way.

"He went the whole week without breaking anything," Gilbert grumbled. "I was beginning to hope, but it turns out that he was merely hoarding his powers of destruction for Saturday. I won't tell you exactly what happened, as it involved a rather disgusting mess."

"I do feel some sympathy for the poor man," Phil said, "as one novice to another. We can't all have your steady hand, Gil."

Gilbert winced slightly, thinking of all the times recently when his hands had been distressingly, ungovernably unsteady. But Phil didn't know that and it would do no good to tell her. Instead, he said, "Even you, Phil, would watch where you were going when there were cadavers about."

Phil gave a little yelp. "Too right I would. Gil, you can't mean that he upset a . . . a body?"

Gilbert nodded solemnly, the ghost of a smile passing briefly over his face. "I think he upset everybody."

Phil and Jo dissolved into fits of laughter. Gilbert smiled softly at their pleasure, but felt unaccountably as if he were about to cry.

When Jo had recovered, he asked, "How are you getting on with your studies? It seems that they keep you so busy that you can hardly have time to absorb what you're learning."

Gilbert agreed. "That's true enough. We do get a break for supper every day, and only have to go back for evening sessions twice a week. Of course, I have extra work with Dr. Edmonds on Saturdays, so that takes up some of my study time. I try to review the textbooks and my notes the other evenings, and I can get a solid session of work in on Sunday mornings."

"You work on Sundays?" Phil frowned, her pointed black brows drawn together in disapproval.

"So does Jo," Gilbert pointed out.

"Yes, but Jo is a minister. He has to be in church on Sunday mornings."

"Well, I don't," said Gilbert, beginning to be annoyed.

Jo caught Phil's eye and gave a nearly imperceptible shake of the head. "That sounds like a challenging schedule," he said. "I'm very glad you can make the time to come see us."

Gilbert relaxed a bit. "I'm glad you'll have me. It's true — this is a workday for you. I do feel a bit guilty for taking you away from your duties."

Jo fixed Gilbert with a frank look. "You think this is not part of my work?"

Gilbert flushed hotly. "You don't need to minister to me, Jo. I'm not one of your congregants."

Jo did not look away. "No. But you're my friend. My work is to be present for people when they are in need. And I'll always be here, whenever you need someone."

Gilbert swallowed hard and studied his own feet.

Phil gracefully excused herself to fetch tea. When she had left the room, Jo leaned forward.

"How are you really doing, Gil?" he asked, his voice soft.

Gilbert leaned back with a groan. "I dunno, Jo. About the same. The schedule really does help. Keeps me busy. But any time I let my mind wander . . ."

He did not finish the thought.

Jo waited patiently.

"I just don't know, Jo. What is the point of any of this? What am I doing here, other than distracting myself?"

"You're working toward becoming a doctor," Jo replied evenly. "You're learning how to help people. To relieve suffering. Someday, you will save lives."

Gilbert snorted. "I'm not sure I believe it. I certainly don't look forward to it. Everyone else can see me as a doctor at the end of this, but I can't picture it anymore. When I try to think about the future, there's just nothing there."

"I can see you," Jo said. "I can see you working in a hospital, performing a lifesaving surgery. And I can see you in a little town somewhere, tending to a community. I can even see you here, on Patterson Street — we could work here side-by-side, caring for the people. I know you, Gil. You'll be wonderful."

Gilbert only shook his head. "Anything beyond next week is just blankness to me. I can't even think as far ahead as Christmas. I used to be able to see my whole life stretched out before me. Even when bits of it were uncertain, I could imagine a future for myself. Not anymore."

"You don't need to think that far ahead. Just take it a day at a time. A week at a time. Make it back to us each week. The rest will come eventually."

Gilbert was silent a long time, considering.

Finally, he took a risk.

"I always thought I couldn't live without her. Maybe I can't. I wonder sometimes . . . whether there's a reason I can't see myself in the future. Whether . . . I'm not going to be around much longer."

A clatter of teacups obliterated any reply Jo might have made. Phil, her face gone white as bone, stood gaping in the doorway.

Gilbert grimaced. "Don't look at me like that, Phil. Don't! I'm still here, so obviously I haven't done anything desperate."

These words hardly seemed to reassure Phil, who exchanged a frightened glance with her husband.

"Gilbert," Jo said, very gently, "have you ever found yourself thinking of ending your life?"

Gilbert let out a single harsh breath of laughter. "Only a hundred times."

"Gil . . ."

Gilbert waved a hand impatiently. "You don't understand. I'm not going to kill myself. You can rest easy on that account. How can I explain this so that you can understand?"

Phil set down the tea tray and sat next to Gilbert on the lounge. With an equal measure of gentleness and firmness, she took his hand in hers and looked squarely into his eyes.

"Tell me," she said. "Give me a concrete example, just as you used to do whenever you were working through a difficult problem at Redmond."

For a moment, Gilbert squirmed, wishing he could withdraw his hand. She was too close, seeing too clearly. But oh, it did feel wonderful to have firm, loving fingers wrapped around his own. No one had touched him in weeks, and it was almost as if he could feel strength flowing into him from her caring gesture.

"I . . . well . . ." he faltered. "It's like this. You know that my father was very ill when I was a boy, yes?"

Both Phil and Jo nodded, hanging on his words.

"Well, after he began to recover, I would sometimes wake in the night and feel pangs in my chest. I don't know whether they were really there, or whether I only imagined them. But it would frighten me, and I would lie awake for hours, diagnosing myself with everything from tuberculosis to cancer to an aortic rupture, convinced I'd be dead by morning. As I grew up, it happened less and less frequently. But every now and then, when I was overtired or worn down, I would find myself lying awake at night, afraid to go to sleep because I might never wake up."

He paused, and Phil squeezed his hand.

"Is it happening more now, Gil?"

He managed a rueful little half smile.

"No. I still feel the pangs. But they don't keep me up worrying. Because I don't really care if I wake up or not."

The last words came out as a ragged sob. Phil let go of his hand and pulled him into a tight embrace. He wept into her shoulder, far past caring anything for dignity or propriety. For long minutes, he poured out his grief, his despair, and his loneliness, until the tears had spent themselves and his body shuddered with relief. Phil held him close, stroking his back and whispering reassuring noises as he calmed.

Eventually, Gilbert sat up, gratefully accepting Jo's offer of a clean handkerchief.

"Oh, Phil!" he managed, with a dreadful attempt at a smile. "I've ruined your dress."

"Nonsense," she said, briskly.

"No. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone to pieces like that. It's not fair to put this on you. Any of this."

"Gilbert Blythe!" There was a flash in Phil's brown eyes that made Gilbert sit up a little straighter.

"Are you daring to suggest that there's anything more important to us than being here for you just when you need the most help? Oh, don't look offended. You do need help, and plenty of it. You're trying to keep so much to yourself. That was always your way. But I simply will not stand for it, do you hear me? Jo and I would do anything for you, Gil. Anything. And I will not sit here and listen to you admonish yourself for letting us share your burden. There's little enough that we can do. You will not begrudge us the opportunity to hear your troubles and to comfort you in any way we can."

Gilbert's smile was a little steadier now.

"Is that an order?"

"Indeed it is."

"You sound like my mother."

"Good."

Jo smiled sadly at the two of them, knowing there was little else he could say at the moment. Instead, he poured the tea and passed a plate of cookies.

After these ceremonies were observed, the pause in the conversation threatened to harden into a silence.

Gilbert sighed. "Phil? Could you do me a kindness?"

"Anything, honey."

"Could you just talk for a while? Tell me a story. Any story. Church business, maybe. Or the neighborhood doings. Just let me sit and listen for a while."

"Of course," she said, her voice low and gentle. Then she smiled, straightened her back, and chirped, "the aftermath of the annual general meeting of the Ladies' Quilting Society could fill an hour all on its own."

"Fill away."