Ottawa, Canada – London, England
April 2016
Now, little boy lost
"You need to call Mum and Dad and let them know where I am, so they won't worry," I instruct Walter hurriedly as we pile out of the car. "Oh, and call Nan! I told her I'd come to stay with her the week after next, but I might not be able to make it now. I have no idea how long this will take, so –"
Walter puts both hands on my shoulders and I looks at me, all calm and steady. I interrupt myself and slowly close my mouth.
"I'll let all of them know," he promises. "Don't worry."
"All I do is worry," I mutter, but we both know it's not my family's potential concerns about my whereabouts that have me worried. I'm worried, first and foremost, about Owen.
"You also have a flight to catch," points out Katya as she hauls my bag from the car's trunk. "Once you're on the plane, you'll have seven hours of uninterrupted time to worry, but it would be a shame to miss it."
I groan softly. I'm not looking forward to the flight. I don't mind flying, but seven hours cooped up in cattle class with lots of nosy passengers sure to recognise me isn't my idea of fun. In fact, it couldn't be further from my idea of fun.
Katya pats me on the back briefly. "Once I invent teleporting, you'll be the first to know," she soothes, even managing to raise a rare smile from me. Ever since the news about Owen's stroke flickered over the screen, I haven't felt much like smiling at all. To be totally honest, I've been jumpy and twitchy and a little too prone to snapping at poor Walter and Katya who have been nothing short of amazing throughout.
Overcome with emotion, I feel myself starting to get teary. "Thanks, you two. Really. Both of you, thank you so much for… for doing this and… helping me and taking me here and…"
"It's nothing," Katya assures me briskly.
Walter draws me into a brief hug. "You're welcome. We're glad we can support you. You know we're always there for you, don't you?"
I blink back a tear and nod, returning his embrace.
Katya looks down at her watch and clucks her tongue. "I don't want to rush you, but this is the last flight to London out of Ottawa today, so unless you want to prolong this unnecessarily by changing planes in Montreal or Toronto, I really suggest that you get going now."
Letting go of Walter, I smile gratefully in her direction and accept the bag she holds out for me. "You're right," I agree. "I should go. Thanks for… everything."
"Anytime," replies Walter gently, while Katya shoos me off, pointing in direction of the terminal. She's backed up by a cab driver who honks at us loudly, probably for occupying the drop-off spot for too long.
Gripping my bag tighter, I walk towards the terminal, only turning back around once and briefly wave goodbye at Katya and Walter. They stand next to each other by the car, completely ignoring the honking cab driver and God knows, if those two don't make a match of it permanently, I'll lose what little faith in love I have left.
But love isn't why I'm here, so I put those thoughts to the side and concentrate on finding my way around the airport. Having arrived here from Montreal by train (and dear goodness, the Canadian train system is a mess!), it's my first time at Ottawa Airport. Luckily though, all airports follow the same layout, as if by some unspoken international agreement, so even in my frazzled state, I manage to locate the check-in counters of Air Canada quickly enough. It doesn't hurt that there are very many of them.
Pulling the hood of my oversized hoodie deeper into my face, I get in line at the international counters. (That hoodie, while providing a smidge of anonymity, has also become something like a security blanket to me. I told everyone I nicked it from Jem back in Halifax. I didn't.) On a random Saturday evening in April, there's not too much of a crowd, so the line moves quickly, which I'm grateful for. I feel unsettled and antsy anyway and the waiting makes it even worse, though of course the rational part of me knows that the plane won't start a second sooner just because I'm at the gate a little earlier. It's just the general feeling of uselessness, I think, that has me so nervous.
"Good evening," greets the Air Canada employee politely when I finally step up her counter and place my bag on the conveyer belt. She's wearing a little too much make-up, as airline employees seem to be required to do, and her lipstick matches her red necktie exactly.
"Good evening," I reply and put my passport on the countertop. "I'm booked on AC888 to Heathrow, please."
The woman takes my passport without really looking at me, flips it open – and does a double take. I take a deep breath and brace myself for being recognised. It was inevitable, really, but in today's confused, emotional state, I really don't need a fuss.
A long moment passes as the woman looks at me, before her eyes flicker down first to my passport and then to her computer screen. She types something on the keyboard, looks closer at the screen, before suddenly pushing her chair back.
"Give me a moment, please, Miss," she asks, while already turning to go.
I sigh and lower my head. The hood blocks out the curious gaze from the businessman at the counter to my left, but does nothing against the dirty glares directed at my back by the people still waiting in line and blaming me for this further delay. Cautiously, I peek around the rim of the hood and detect the Air Canada employee a few counters to my right, talking animatedly to a colleague of hers.
I have no idea what the matter is and it's making me nervous. I need to go to London! They can't stop me from going!
Long, agonising moments pass (and as they do, I can feel the glares at my back becoming dirtier and dirtier), before the employee comes back. Without a word, she sits behind her counter and starts typing something into her computer at warp speed.
"Ex– " I clear my throat. "Excuse me?"
The woman looks up sharply.
Thus encouraged, I prattle on, "I hope there's nothing wrong? The ticket should be alright, my brother just booked it this evening. And my passport should be okay as well, I just got it renewed last year. I promise my visa is valid, too, it's –"
I break off, suddenly horrified. "My visa is valid, isn't it?" I ask anxiously. "I once had some trouble with my visa in the US, but I promise all accusations were dropped. My UK visa has always been fine anyway! It's an Ancestry Visa and it should be good for another two years. I wasn't even gone for four months either, so there's no reason to revoke… I mean, no-one did revoke my visa, did they?"
"Not that I'm aware of, but that's a matter for immigration anyway," the woman tells me matter-of-factly as she pushes my passport back towards me over the countertop. Between the pages, she stuck my boarding pass and I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Thank you! Thank you so much! I can't tell you –" Once more, I interrupt myself when I look down at the boarding pass.
"Seat 4K?" I ask, frowning. "I don't think I've ever sat this far in front."
The woman raises her head from where she attached the tag to my bag and her red-painted lips part into a smile. "I allowed myself to give you a little upgrade."
I stare at her for a moment, feeling befuddled. "Is this…?"
"Business Class," she finishes for me. "We don't have a First Class, but our International Business Class can keep up with what most other carriers offer in First."
Blinking, I look from her to the boarding pass in my hand and back up at her. "Thank you, really, but… why?"
She holds my gaze for a second, before nodding to a big screen hanging from the ceiling that is currently showing an ad for the latest iPhone but also has a news ticker crawling along the bottom. "Because we know what happened," she replies simply. "Have a good flight, Miss."
Still feeling befuddled by this turn of events, I pick up my passport and boarding pass and stumble towards the security check. I don't quite get why Owen being ill warrants an upgrade to Business Class for me, but some blessings should not be questioned.
This even more so because it turns out that flying Business not only comes with access to priority lines at security and passport control, it also gives you access to Air Canada's Maple Leaf Lounge, which is an excellent place to hide out if one doesn't want to be recognised. There are big leather chairs pushed up to windows and complicated, beeping machines to make coffee. There's also food, though this late in the evening it mostly consists of a selection of snacks and I can't eat anything right now anyway. My stomach has been doing nervous backflips for hours.
If the lounge was nice, the actual plane section reserved for Business Class passengers is even nicer. Never having had the budget for it, I only ever walked through it on my way to an Economy seat in the back, so it feels a little strange now to take my place in seat 4K, which isn't so much a seat as an entire cubicle by the window. The seat within it reclines to a fully flat sleeping position, which, quite honestly, is a marvel.
Feeling exhausted, I make use of this feature immediately after we're in the air and the seatbelt signs go off. I can't sleep, of course, because that would be preposterous, but lying in this bed – for it is a bed – with the blanket pulled up to my chin and the dark night sky behind the window, there's at least the illusion of privacy. As I lie there, I send a silent prayer of thanks to the kind woman at the check-in counter and whatever notion made her take pity on me.
As the plane glides through the night and with the low, grumbling sounds of the engines vibrating through me, I have, for the first time, a moment to take a deep breath and collect my thoughts. From the moment the TV presenter stuttered out the news about Owen's stroke, it's been a frenzy of nervous action and frazzled thoughts, but here, in the quiet of the nightly plane cabin, I can finally allow myself to consider what has happened – and what awaits me.
What I know without a doubt is that I'm right to be here. Even before the message came, I knew with absolute certainty that I had to be with them as quickly as possible. I know this family better than most people do and I know that without Owen, they're lost. He's their rock, their touchstone, the glue that holds them together and the pillar that holds them upright. I couldn't begin to fill the hole his illness created, but I think I can do something to prop them up until he's back to do it.
And if he won't be back…
I shiver and pull the blanket tighter around myself.
It's unthinkable.
It is unthinkable, but of course, as the night wears on, I return to the thought anyway, over and over again, and each time I do, the pain of it takes my breath away. Losing Owen… we can't lose Owen. It's that simple. The country can't lose him, the people can't lose him, his family can't lose him and I can't lose him either. It just… it can't happen. Period. It can't.
Not that I, in a plane somewhere over the Atlantic, can do anything about it, though the thoughts alone are enough to keep me awake for the entire flight, despite the comfortable bed. When the plane finally descends over Heathrow, it's 9am local time but still the middle of the night in Ottawa and yet, I'm wide awake. I'm also not hungry either, despite the nice stewardess noticing the distaste with which I eye the chicken sausage that came with the omelette and offering me some waffles instead. I nibble at them out of politeness, but my stomach is still somersaulting, so I don't dare eat too much.
In two and a half years of living in England, I've developed a healthy dislike for Heathrow, but even here, a Business Class ticket makes the experience a little less dreadful. There's even preferential treatment at immigration – where, thankfully, no-one questions the validity of my visa – so I make it out to the baggage area in decent time and collect my bag with a sigh of relief. I'm always terrified of my bags getting lost somewhere and today, of all days, I don't need the hassle.
Taking the Heathrow Express to Paddington, I next catch an incoming Baker Line train going towards Elephant and Castle, before changing to a southbound Jubilee Line train at Baker Street Station and finally alighting from the rush that is the London Underground at Green Park. The park itself is always a sorry sight, but it's close to Buckingham Palace and with my head down and my hood pulled up, I cross it quickly towards one of the side gates unknown to the general public.
Only there do I pull down the hood and reveal myself to the guard on duty. "Hello, I'm…" I trail off, sudden doubts taking over. Do I even still have permission to go in there?
The guard, however, immediately springs into action. "Miss! Come on in, Miss!" He waves me through and I feel a wave of relief. This was the final obstacle.
It feels utterly strange, to be here again. I became so familiar with the corridors and staircases in the past years, but until 12 or so hours ago, I was convinced I'd never walk them again. They're still familiar, still look the same, but everything else is different. The staff, thankfully, are also the same though, and they recognise me as well. Some look surprised to see me, but no-one stops me on my way up to the private quarters.
Once there, I turn around slowly, trying to decide where to go, when a passing housemaid named Jacky enters my line of sight.
"Can I help you, Miss?" she asks. She looks tired, but her smile is genuine.
"The Prince of Wales?" I ask and the formal title tastes strange on my lips.
Jacky nods. "This way, please."
Only when she leads me along a corridor do I reflect that I couldn't even be sure that Ken would be here. It just felt intuitive, coming to Buck House instead of KP, because in a moment like this, I can't see the children being apart from the mother. It only makes sense for them to have flocked here.
Stopping in front of a door not far from Owen and Leslie's private quarters, Jacky hesitates for a moment. "He's in here, Miss. He… he hasn't come out at all since last night."
It's all she can tell me without overstepping too many lines, but I know what she's trying to say. "I understand," I assure her. She smiles in relief and slips away, leaving me standing in front of the door.
I enter without knocking.
Inside, it's so dark that for the first few seconds, I can barely see anything. Only when my eyes have adjusted, do I recognise the outline of a bedroom. The furniture is dark and would feel oppressive even if the air didn't taste stale and dusty. Heavy curtains are drawn in front of the windows, blocking out all light except that emitted by a dying fire in a fireplace to my right. In front of it stands a high-backed armchair and in it is a slumped figure.
"Ken," I almost whisper his name so as not to startle him, but I needn't have bothered. It's like he doesn't even hear me.
Crossing through the room, I come to stand in front of the armchair. Still, he doesn't react. Only when I kneel in front of him and lightly cover his hand with mine, does he slowly raise his head. He looks at me unseeingly for a moment before his eyes focus and he recognises me. When he does, he lots go of a long breath.
"Rilla." It's almost a sigh.
"Yes," I assure him quietly. "I'm here."
"You came." There's wonder in his eyes. "You really came."
"Of course I did!" I very nearly feel a little indignant that he doubted it. "I promised to, didn't I?"
His eyes search my face for a long moment. "You did. I just wasn't sure whether you… remembered. Or cared."
The words hang in the stale air between us.
"I will always care," I reply quietly, my thumb stroking the back of his hand. "And I will always be there when you need me, no matter what happens. I promised."
Ken breathes heavily a few times, in and out and in and out, and I know it's in an attempt to control his feelings. I use the time to study him more closely. With my eyes having fully adjusted to the darkness, I can make out the details of his appearance. There are lines on his face that weren't there before and darkly smudged circles under his eyes. He looks tired, worried and absolutely terrified. He looks like he's carrying the world and doesn't know for how long he can hold it up anymore.
He swallows, his expression turning uncertain. "You once said that I may always –"
Before he has even finished the sentence, I've gotten up and pulled him into a hug. His face is squished against my left shoulder and my arms hold him as tightly as possible. There's a moment of hesitation before he returns the hug, but when he does, it's almost fiercely so. His breath comes out unevenly and when I feel the wetness against my neck, I understand. He doesn't make a sound, but as silent sobs rack through his body, I simply hold him as tightly as I can.
Part of me feels like crying, too – for him, for Owen, for them all –, but I don't. I know that right now, I can't.
It takes a long, long time until Ken grows calmer and even longer until he finally raises his head, his arms releasing me. There's a cloud of emotion in his eyes and I just know he considers feeling embarrassed, on top of everything else. I lightly brush a hand over his hair and shake my head, trying to tell him that it's alright.
With a sigh, he drops back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. With no other option nearby, I perch on the chair's armrest. When Ken notices, he smiles wanly and picks up one of my hands, interlacing my fingers with his. His hand is cold, when I never remembered him having cold hands before.
His gaze returns to the ceiling, so I just sit on the armrest and wait for him to be ready to talk. Even silent like this, I know what must be going through his mind and I know what he needs me to do. Right now, that's simply to be there and to wait. (It's strange, to suddenly feel like I understand him again. It's been so long since I did.)
I couldn't say how much time passes, but finally, Ken says hoarsely, "It happened so suddenly. He was fine one moment and not fine the next. I wasn't there, but Teddy said… Teddy said he complained about a headache and then he started acting disoriented and finally, he just collapsed. They rushed him to hospital and –"
He breaks off, breathing heavily. I slip an arm around him and pull his head to lie on my shoulder.
"I wasn't there," he murmurs, so quietly I can barely understand him. "I wasn't there."
I could tell him that his being there wouldn't have changed anything, that there was nothing he could have done, that it wasn't his fault – but I don't. Logic is not what he needs from me right now.
"I rushed to the hospital when I heard, but he was already in surgery by then," Ken continues tonelessly. "The others were there, too. Teddy was the only one who… who could even talk to me. Persis was crying the entire time. Mum was… she was so still it was almost scary. Totally catatonic. It was like… like she wasn't even really there at all."
He pauses and stares into the last remnants of the dying fire. I lightly brush my fingertips through his hair and wait.
"I went through her room," he whispers, barely audible. "When we got back, I ran up and went through her entire room to – to – to –" He makes a choked sound.
He can't say it, but I know it anyway. He went through her room to clear it of anything sharp, anything she could use to harm herself. Because right now, part of him is eight years old again and this is more than he can bear.
"Teddy offered to sit with her," he continues. "I know I should have done it, that it should have been me, but I couldn't, I –"
This time, I gently interrupt him by shaking my head. "No, you shouldn't have. Ted is as much her son as you are and frankly… frankly, neither of you is responsible for her."
Ken turns his head abruptly and stares at me in wonder as if I just revealed a hitherto unknown truth to him. Perhaps I really did.
"How is Owen?" I ask quietly when he doesn't offer anything else.
He flinches at the name, but then takes a deep breath to collect himself. "The operation went well, they said. They put him in a coma and now we have to… we have to wait. I made them promise to call the moment there's a change. I wanted to stay at the hospital, but it's always such a disruption with us being there and we were no use, no use at all. Mum was all weird and Persis was exhausted – they gave her something to sleep after we came back because she wouldn't stop crying – and I thought it'd be better for them to be here. I thought… I thought…"
"You made the right call, I think," I tell him sincerely.
Ken nods slowly. "I think so, too. It's just… if he… if something…" He grits his teeth together and squeezes his eyes shut, fighting for composure.
I gently rub his back and wonder if he will ever stop feeling responsible for things far beyond his control.
"I can't do it," he murmurs, eyes still closed tightly. "I can't… if the worst happens… if I have to… I can't do it. I can't step up. I don't know how. I'll be no good. I can't be what they want me to be. I can't be… I can't be… I can't be…"
Him.
That's what he means to say.
I can't be him.
"You don't need to be," I tell him softly. "You just need to be yourself."
"But I can't do it!" It's almost a cry of anguish and when he looks at me, his eyes are so full pain and fear and helplessness that it almost breaks my heart.
That look is more than I can bear, so I pull him back into a hug. He clings on tightly, as if my arms are the only tether still holding him here, preventing him from slipping away.
"Yes, you can," I whisper into his hair.
Because you'll have to. Eventually, you'll have to.
But I don't say it out loud.
Instead, I simply hold him and gently rock him back and forth. His breath comes out in harsh gasps and his hands are balled into fists around the fabric of my hoodie – his hoodie, I should say. (I wonder if he recognises it.)
Only when his breath has evened out somewhat do I lean back and carefully detach myself from him a little. "Did you sleep at all last night?"
Ken blinks in apparent confusion. "Is it morning already?"
"It's past noon," I tell him, smiling gently.
He shakes his head, an expression of disbelief on his face. "Really? I… I didn't notice that."
"With curtains like those, it's no wonder," I point out. "Are they leftovers from the Blitz?"
I'm not sure how he will react to the joke, but after a second, I can see the ghost of a smile flicker over his face and I know it's alright.
"I didn't get much sleep, no," he answers my earlier question and we both know that to be a grave understatement. He didn't close his eyes even once since he heard about his father collapsing.
"Do you think you could sleep a little now?" I ask carefully. "I promise to wake you the very moment there is anything to wake you for."
He seems to consider that, his eyes repeatedly moving from me to take in the room around us, but always finding their way back to me again. "Will you –" He breathes deeply. "Will you stay?"
There's something so vulnerable in his eyes and in the question itself that there's really no other answer I could possibly give but, "As long as you want me to."
"Okay." Ken nods. "Okay."
I get up from the armrest and pull him up with me, pointing him towards the bed in the middle of the room. When he starts stripping down to boxer shorts and a t-shirt, I briefly consider leaving the room, but it feels childish given our history, so I just busy myself with opening a window behind the heavy curtains. It overlooks the garden and the busy London traffic is but a quiet buzz in the background, a small reminder that around us, the world still goes on.
When Ken has slipped into bed, I make sure to tuck him in properly, securing the blanket all around him, which manages to raise a faint smile from him. Once I consider him adequately settled, I lie down next to him on top of the covers, both of us turned to face each other.
"You'll sleep now," I tell him, "and I'll be there when you wake up."
I don't expect resistance and there is none. Instead, I see gratefulness flicker over his face and relief and something I can't name, before his eyes drop shut. Just moments later, I know he's asleep, his face relaxing and his breathing becoming calm and even. He must have been exhausted the entire time but only now is he able to let go.
I should rightfully be exhausted as well, but even if I hadn't promised him to keep watch, I wouldn't have slept a wink. Instead, I just lie next to him, let my fingertips ghost over his sleeping face and wonder how any of this can ever be right again.
He's so… so utterly and completely lost, so broken, and I don't know if I – if anyone – has the power to hold him together anymore. Certainly not… certainly not if the worst happens…
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Visions of Johanna' (written by Bob Dylan, released by him in 1966).
To Guest No.1:
I'm very sorry to hear you had a tough time last week! I hope things have improved since then and that you're feeling better. If my 'little' story was able to brighten things even a little bit for you, that makes me very glad. I also hope that this new chapter lives up to the anticipation and meets your approval! I mean, I guess it's more angst-y than bright and happy, but we've got Rilla and Ken not only on the same continent but also in the very same room again, so maybe that qualifies as good news? =)
To Guest No.2:
This story is really anything but little by now, but if it managed to elicit squeaks of excitement, that's not so bad ;). Me, I was very interested to learn that London is your home town! Do you approve of my depiction of it? Is it accurate? I always like hearing from people who are more familiar with the places I write about. Also, I might or might not be a little envious, because of all the cities I've visited, London has always felt like the one I could live in. I know it has its drawbacks, too (those prices!), but I just always get the vibe that we'd be a good fit, London and I. I guess I'm allowed to dream ;).
To Guest No.3:
Thank you for following the story so faithfully and for your lovely words about it! I totally understand that the wait isn't much fun, because it's not much fun for me either. Whenever I posted a new chapter and see the comments rolling in, I immediately want to share what happens next. If I could, I'd all post it in one chunk, because I'm very impatient for everyone to get to read how things continue! Alas, there's this pesky thing called real life, so until I manage to clone myself, writing all day every day is not yet an option ;). (How I'd love to do that though!)
To Guest No.4:
Aww, thank you! Such a lovely thing to say! It always feels extra special when readers enjoy that chapters that heavily feature an original characters, because while I enjoy writing about all characters (I mean, I wouldn't be writing LMM fanfic if I didn't enjoy imagining stories about the characters she breathed life into!), the original ones feel a little closer to my heart because I created them from scratch. Therefore, it's especially encouraging to hear that you enjoyed the previous chapter =). I hope you will enjoy this new one, too!
To Rach H:
Hello! So nice to be hearing from you! And yes, things are looking better here, thanks for asking =).
You're entirely right when you say Rilla hasn't really been finding herself so far. She hasn't. I never intended for her to. I think she learned some lessons, one of them being that she can live without Ken. It hurts and it's difficult, but I think she wasn't sure whether she could actually be without him. She learned to function as her own entity again, which was one of the main lessons. There are other, bigger lessons still to come though and she couldn't have planned those if she'd tried.
As for Ken, he also made some big steps in the time we didn't see him, but the true extent won't be revealed for a few chapters. Right now, it's all focused on Owen and his illness, but I already wrote a chapter that focuses on what Ken did during their break-u. If I may say so, some of what he did was both much needed and a long time coming. Not that everything is suddenly right again between Rilla and Ken, nor will Owen's illness alone be enough to bring them back together, but they've both taken steps on their respective paths towards growing as people. They needed that growth period and now that they've acknowledged the deep connection existing between them, they have something they can build upon.
Now I'm curious. How does this chapter hold up? No Hanson, I'm afraid (mainly because Rilla never stopped to actually announce her impending arrival), and minimal information about Owen (because that's all anyone knows at this point), but we did get a good hug from Ken and Rilla, didn't we? ;)
To AnneShirley:
I've been trying to include a Diamond and Rust title for ages and finally, I had a good fit. I adore that song!
I'm glad that you approve of me finding other partners for Walter and Una. I must admit I've always struggled a bit to see them together, mainly because when you take away the stereotypes (him heroically sacrificing himself in war, her tragically pining for her lost love), they're just not that good a fit. I just don't think they bring out the best in each other, so enter Anglican George and Katya. In Anglican George, Una got someone who shares her interests and is a very kind person, but who's also easy-going and funny. Walter, I think, needs to be shaken awake at times, so Katya got a more decisive personality. She knows what she wants and she takes him along for the ride that is their shared life. She might appear a little too forceful at times, but she means well. She gathered what Rilla wanted to do when she couldn't say it out loud and she jumped into action. That was her way of being supportive, even if it was delivered in a very brisk way.
Yes, there's no way Owen will be picking up his duties any time soon, even if he survives this. There's going to be a shake-up in the royal family and no-one can pretend they're well-prepared for it. They'll need lots of support going forward and having a feted neurosurgeon among their acquaintances will definitely come in handy ;). Good catch there! Gilbert's profession was indeed inspired by the George Moore story, but that doesn't mean I didn't already plan for Owen's eventual stroke when I chose it...
To Mammu:
Someone small? Squee! Congratulations! :D I'm so very, very happy for you and I wish you and the small someone all the very best in the world! It's the possible excuse for short reviews, too ;).
I'm glad you enjoyed hearing about Una. That was a fun chapter to write :). This current chapter is less fun, but it confirms your suspicion that Ken is not ready to be king. Owen better hold on for a good while longer!
