Chapter Sixteen—From Death to Life
"Walter…what…how…aren't you…I thought—Walter?" Una found herself completely incapable of stringing three words together in a coherent manner.
"Lie back down, Una. You hit your head pretty hard when you fell. I don't want you to get hurt any worse than you are already," he told her softly.
"That's it…I hit my head. That's why you're alive. You're supposed to be dead. Did you know that, Walter? You're dead. And I'm babbling. I can't believe I'm babbling. I never babble…" Una's head was spinning. This couldn't all come from a bump on the head, could it? She wasn't supposed to be seeing things that weren't there. Or feeling them, for that matter. But a hand seemed to be brushing her hair out of her face, smoothing out her blankets.
"You've been up long enough, probably. Is your head hurting you badly?" He waited for her nod of assent. "You've just had a shock…I admit that I'm rather shaken also." His voice was cool and matter-of-fact—it reminded Una of Dr. Blythe's bedside manner—but there was a tremor to it. "Lie here for a while…if your head stops hurting, try to sleep. We can do something about your ankle in the morning; when I felt it earlier, it didn't seem to be broken. I'll check in on you every now and then."
Una opened her mouth to protest. In the last few minutes, reality had turned completely upside-down, and she wanted an explanation.
Walter seemed to be able to read what she was thinking. "We'll talk in the morning. You need to be able to rest…for that matter, I do too." He brushed his hand along her cheek.
He left, closing the door behind him quietly. Una exhaled a shuddering breath. What was going on? Why…how…isn't he…? What will Dr. and Mrs. Blythe think? What about Shirley? Walter Blythe, I hope you have some answers, because you have a lot of explaining to do for the clan. The pain in her head was decreasing slightly. Finally, Una managed to drift off into a light sleep.
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She woke several hours later to find Walter bending over her, feeling her forehead.
"Am I still dreaming?" she asked sleepily, pulling the covers around her chin. "Faith and I were children cleaning house, but Mary Vance was dancing around with a codfish wearing striped stockings and a beaded purse." Her brows furrowed. Somehow, the dream, which had seemed perfectly logical during its occurrence, now made no sense whatsoever.
"No, you're truly here. I'm just checking to see if you have a fever," he told her.
"Do I?"
"You don't seem to. I think you'll be just fine." Una was reminded once again of Dr. Blythe's bedside manner in the confident way he talked. If he said she'd be fine, fine she would be.
"Walter," she said hesitantly, as if expecting him to disappear with the mention of his name, "what time is it?"
"About one in the morning…and it's still raining. I didn't mean to wake you up; I haven't been able to sleep, so I thought I'd check in on you."
"You seem like a doctor," Una said, sitting up in bed. Walter sat down on the straight-backed chair. "Is that what you've been doing for all these years?"
A shuttered look came over his face. "No. I worked in a hospital for a while, but I'm not a doctor."
"Then it must be genetic."
"I suppose it must."
"So where have you been, Walter? We all thought you were dead!"
"No, I'm sorry to disappoint you," he said. Una was reminded once again of the bitterness she'd heard in Dean Priest's voice; only Walter's also had a dull quality to it.
"Oh, no! I didn't mean that at all!" Una cried. "It's not a disappointment to find out you're alive…it's a surprise. Everyone will be so happy to see you."
"Will they? I don't think so. I wrote home in 1919, telling what had happened to me and where I'd been, but I never had a reply. A son who had worked in a German military hospital of his own free will wouldn't look good for Dr. Blythe, would it now? Much easier to pretend that the aforesaid son had died when he was supposed to." Walter propped his elbows on his knees and sunk his face into his hands.
Una was indignant. "Walter Cuthbert Blythe, you're talking nonsense. I don't know what you did or where you've been, but your family wouldn't care if you'd been in Outer Mongolia. Maybe this letter of yours never made it to Canada. Maybe it ended up being sent to another Gilbert Blythe. Who knows? All I know is that your family has never been the same since you…" She paused, unsure of what the proper terminology was for a death that hadn't happened. "Well, since the reports of your death were greatly exaggerated."
Walter smiled faintly. "Mark Twain, eh? He also said that an excessive concern with timing was the key to success. My timing's been wrong for sixteen years. Couldn't even manage to die when I thought I was supposed to."
"You mean when you had your premonition of the Piper?"
He looked at her in astonishment. "You remember that? Yes, then. I expected to die, but circumstances seem to have prevented it."
Una looked at him slowly, juxtaposing the memory of the young, dreamy poet she had once known with the bitter man sitting by her bed. What had made the change? Where had the Walter she had once known gone? Was he still there? After some time had passed in silence, she asked him.
"What happened, Walter? How did you get from Glen St. Mary's to here?"
"Well, Francis Ferdinand decided to get shot back in 1914," he answered with a tinge of irony. "I can guarantee that that little happening had something to do with it."
"Walter…please?"
"Does your head still hurt?"
"Not nearly as much as it did. But, Walter…"she trailed off, not wanting to push too much.
"It's hard to talk about everything that's happened, but you are entitled to an explanation, I suppose. You always did have the knack of listening to a person, even when we were children. Well, it did start indirectly with Francis Ferdinand, on the night of the dance at the Four Winds light…"