Thank you for all your lovely responses to last chapter's mythological madness!
Thanks also to the engagement of new readers and reviewers. It makes my day to read your reactions!
With love
MrsVonTrapp x
Chapter Twelve
Who in the world am I?
Anne stood, prostrate, as all eyes turned to her, feeling their shocked surprise in the rising color to her wan cheeks. She felt she should utter an immediate correction of this most grievous error, but could hardly summon her voice, let alone the appropriate words, and the moment passed in the diverting arrival of Dr Johnston, entering the overcrowded room with an appalled look on his face, which the Matron answered by attempting to swat them all out of it as flies, save the distraught couple by Gilbert's bed.
"Thank you for your interest and concern, but in Mr Blythe's best interests we must have you all leave, please," the doctor advised firmly but a great deal more kindly, and the young nurse ushered out Dorothy, Jem and Mr Burke, whilst Matron grabbed at her own sleeve with obvious relish.
"Miss Shirley may stay, Matron," the doctor informed over his shoulder, striding to the bed. "Please send Nurse Chalmers back in, and I would ask you to please escort the other visitors to the main waiting area."
With nose firmly out of joint, Matron stalked out after the others, and Anne stood herself unobtrusively in the corner, observing Dr Johnston greet Mr and Mrs Blythe, about to update them on Gilbert's condition before a groan from the bed alerted them all, and then Anne had to clutch the wall for support as Gilbert slowly opened his eyes.
"Son!" Mr Blythe gasped.
"Oh, my darling!" Mrs Blythe repeated, tremulously.
Gilbert attempted to move his head, making a terrifying sound caught between whisper and whimper, and then moaned further as he tried to move his arms.
"Nurse, crank the bed please!" the doctor instructed as the flurried young nurse re-entered, and Anne watched as she operated the pulley mechanism that tilted the top half of the bed, taking Gilbert's upper half with it. His eyes were wild and uncomprehending, and they darted about even as his body couldn't. She could sense his struggle and wanted to cover her face with her hands so that she wouldn't have to witness it.
"Welcome back to us, Mr Blythe," Dr Johnston gave a quick, cautious smile. "You are rousing again after being under heavy sedation. It will be frightening for you for the first few minutes, and you might not be able to move as yet. Please don't fight the feeling – we need you to remain calm and controlled. Just concentrate on your breathing. Deep breaths, now. Do you understand?"
Gilbert gave the slightest tilt of his head, expelling a ragged breath and leaning back heavily on the pillows the nurse was rearranging to stare at the ceiling. The doctor turned back to his parents.
"Welcome, Mr and Mrs Blythe. I am your son's treating physician, Dr Johnston. I regret you came in on him during an unprecedented time in which we had other unexpected visitors. I assure you his room has been quiet and calm otherwise, with only two visitors permitted at any stage." His gaze shifted back to his patient. "How are you doing now, Mr Blythe?"
Gilbert nodded, a little more firmly.
"P-pain," he uttered hoarsely.
"Yes, I'm sorry for that. It will have all come back to you rather quickly and intensely. Much of your head pain will also be severe headache from dehydration. The nurse will assist you with some water, and then we will administer a little morphine, and you will be more comfortable soon."
"Hurt?" Gilbert moved his head, his eyes focussing with intensity on the doctor.
"I am not going to itemise your injuries for you at this moment, Medical Student Blythe," the doctor chuckled, leaning to look into each of his eyes and then to briefly examine the bruising around his head. "But you are conscious and alert, which is excellent news. I have every confidence in your complete recovery, but you must rest and recuperate. You've had quite the ordeal."
The doctor turned back to the Blythes.
"If you give us a few moments, we'll have your son resting more comfortably, and you may have a short visit with him. Thank you both for coming. I realize you've had quite a long journey, but your presence here with him will be a wonderful help. That and Miss Shirley's, naturally, who has been his steadfast support since he arrived at the hospital."
Dr Johnston flicked her an encouraging glance, motioning to the nurse as he waited for them all to leave the room themselves momentarily, and she and the Blythes made an uncomfortable triumvirate standing in the hallway.
"I am so very sorry, Mr and Mrs Blythe…" Anne began, holding on desperately to her crumbling composure.
"Anne, love, let's have none of that," John Blythe replied gruffly, giving her an awkward if reassuring pat on the shoulder. "I can't tell you our shock at that dreadful inferno. You've been with Gilbert all this time, and we are so grateful, and you have faced your own ordeal besides. We thank you for your telegram, which allowed us to be here when he woke."
She nodded uncertainly, feeling Clementine Blythe's eyes upon her in a way that went beyond gratitude or mere curiosity. Certainly the circumstances of her being here at all with Gilbert were impossible to explain, and grown even more intense and unwieldy since their departure for Bolingbroke. How could she begin to clarify something she was still coming to understand herself?
"Anne Shirley… may I ask… is it true?"
"True?" she squeaked; in every way a mouse in a trap.
Mrs Blythe's lips parted to say more, but with thankful timing the nurse beckoned them back in. Anne hung back, whispering to her furiously.
"Nurse! I beg of you – why did you say we were engaged?"
Nurse Chalmers apparently thought this was an insultingly obvious question.
"Why, Miss Shirley… I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn. Only I wanted you to receive your due acknowledgement. Didn't I hear you repeat I marry you till you were hoarse? How romantic for you to reiterate your promise to Mr Blythe! Quite honestly, the way he used to talk about you, I was surprised you weren't married already!"
There was nothing Anne could say in response to that, but the words warmed her cheeks as she re entered Gilbert's room. His mother sat by him, clutching his hand as she herself had so often done, and his father stood beside him with his own large Blythe hand lightly on his shoulder. Gilbert himself had relaxed his posture noticeably, and she overheard the doctor inform the need for several more days' rest and observation, before he might be discharged into their care.
"How are you feeling now, Gilbert?" Dr Johnston queried.
"Much… better," he breathed, before quirking an odd smile. "Morphine for Morpheus…" he muttered cryptically.
"Yes, the morphine will assist your pain, but it's only a very temporary measure," Dr Johnston advised. "Once we are satisfied you are over your concussion, we will have you move around as you are able. You will be sore but better for it. Today it's important to rest and sleep when you can. Drink and eat to rebuild your strength, and not have too much… excitement."
"Sleep…" Gilbert grinned up at his father. "The God of Sleep!"
"Steady on, Gil!" John chuckled. "Your mother and I were up before the rooster this morning!"
"We none of us got a wink, love!" Clementine patted his hand affectionately, fighting back new tears. "We are all just so relieved you are still here with us, sweetheart!"
"Still here… still here…" Gilbert mumbled, his head turned to search the room, his eyes not resting until they lit on her standing behind the Blythes. "Iris! You're here!" he gave her a broad smile.
Iris? Her heart stopped to hear his voice, but the name confused her. Did he mean it as an… endearment? As in the flower?
"I'm here, Gilbert…" Anne smiled bravely, her heart somersaulting in her chest.
"Good," he nodded to himself, almost matter-of-factly. "Because I need you, Iris. I can't do this mission alone."
"Mission, son?" John Blythe shared a puzzled look with his wife, and then up to the doctor, who was observing Gilbert closely.
"Yes," Gilbert answered firmly. "Iris wanted me to go to… go to…" he frowned, as if trying to remember. "The woman, in her dream. I had to give her the message, that there was a storm…"
"Storm, Gilbert? It was a fire, son, and you were so brave," his father's eyes looked suspiciously bright themselves, and he squeezed Gilbert's unaffected shoulder gently. "But no more heroics for a while now!"
"But he drowned…" Gilbert's voice dropped to a mournful whisper. "Iris – " his eyes were back on hers, blistering now. "When I'm with you, my work… it's not so burdensome." He took a long, shuddering breath. "But I feel their pain. It's too much. I don't think I want to be Morpheus, anymore."
Anne's mouth dropped open, trying to put the pieces together, whilst the Blythes looked about in worried confusion.
"You'll not need to worry about that anymore, Gilbert," Dr Johnston reassured. "You are just yourself, and all you need to concern yourself at the moment is rest."
"Will you stay?" he pleaded, and his mother immediately answered in the affirmative, with her husband gifting Anne a wry glance, silently acknowledging that the request was likely not actually made to Mrs Blythe.
"Gilbert, Nurse Chalmers will lay the bed down again to make you more comfortable, and you can sleep for a time, and we will wake you to attempt a bite of supper," the doctor nodded encouragingly, "and your family may indeed stay till visiting hours have ended, and retire elsewhere for the night to gain some much needed respite themselves." He turned specifically to Anne herself. "Doctor's orders, Miss Shirley!"
Anne gave him a chagrined smile. "Yes, thank you, Doctor."
His voice lowered and he angled himself away from his patient.
"Do not worry yourselves with what Mr Blythe may have been talking about just now. He has been in an unconscious state for a long time and still may think he's there – or feel he's slipping between dream and reality - and the morphine will only add to that elusive feeling. It will pass."
"Yes thank you, Doctor!" Clementine Blythe echoed, nodding, visibly relieved.
"I am afraid there can only be two visitors, now," Dr Johnston reminded gently.
"Oh, of course!" Anne was suddenly flustered. "I will wait in the waiting room for you both. A… friend… has kindly arranged accommodation for us all."
"We're much obliged," Mr Blythe nodded. "We came straight from the station and left our bags at the reception area."
Anne smiled so that she wouldn't cry, and with an anxious, darting look to a now-dozing Gilbert, made her solitary way back down the hall.
She found Mr Burke had long departed, leaving his contact information within a touching note from his wife, but a stalwart Dorothy and Jem waited with a subdued Anne until the Bythes came out to them after sitting with Gilbert, shuffling themselves in their own exhaustion, taking time to meet the Gardners properly and to thank them in turn. Jem remained effusive in his praise and gratitude towards both Gilbert and Anne, enough to make Mrs Blythe again look to her with a silently questioning gaze.
They all shared a cab and were dropped off at the hotel, Anne gifting Dorothy a sincere kiss with a hearty hug for Jem, learning from the former that, sadly, there was deemed nothing salvageable from the fire from most of the upper floors of the guest house, and Anne gave a sad pang for the pink princess gown so worried over by Mrs Gordon and now only a memory, let alone the good clothes both she and Gilbert had evidently sacrificed… although the image of Gilbert, in only trousers, undershirt and suspenders, remained with her to tease, taunt and torment at inopportune moments.
Their rooms were generous and well appointed, leaving the Blythes quite mystified as to their benefactor, until Anne had to somewhat reluctantly set out the surprising interrelationships that had come to pass regarding herself, Gilbert, Roy, Dorothy and Jem.
"Mr Roy Gardner…" Clementine Blythe puzzled, "is first cousin to Mr Jem Gardner and sister to Miss Dorothy?"
"Yes, indeed, Mrs Blythe."
"And were you… was not… Mr Roy Gardner an… acquaintance… of yours… beforehand?"
Anne's cheeks flared. They were sitting, briefly, around a small sofa and some chairs in his parents' suite sharing tea before they all retired, after Anne had filled in some of the terrible details of the fire for the Blythes, only conveniently omitting the little matter of having shared a room with their son.
"Yes, that is true. I met Mr Roy Gardner at Redmond – Gilbert too was generally acquainted with him. We… that is, Mr Gardner and myself… courted, for a time."
This news was met with a thoughtful silence.
"Our courtship ended, and I had not seen him since Convocation, until earlier today, after he himself learned of the fire and the surprising connection we had made with his cousin."
"An extraordinary coincidence," Mr Blythe remarked affably.
"Indeed, it was," Anne took a long sip of her tea.
"But you were not engaged to Mr Gardner," Mrs Blythe surmised, pointedly.
"No, Ma'am."
"And… you are not engaged to Gilbert." It was statement rather than question.
Anne was caught firmly now, with little choice but to clear the air.
"No, Mrs Blythe. I'm afraid that… although she meant well… the nurse was mistaken."
John Blythe's eyes were kind on hers, but his wife gave the same bright, searching focus in her look to Anne that was disconcertingly like Gilbert's, and it was all Anne could do to meet that gaze.
"But you have… an understanding?"
"Clemmie…" John cautioned.
"I mean no upset, Anne, but am just trying to get to the bottom of it all. A little over a month ago we are aware you were not, sadly, even on speaking terms with Gilbert, not really for years, and yet here, now, you have attended Miss Gordon's wedding together, stayed over in Kingsport before the fire and have hardly left his bedside for two days."
Gilbert's letter practically burned her through the pocket of Aline's skirt, but she would not betray the private thoughts behind Gil's words, not even to his parents. She had no idea if he would even remember writing those sentiments – and asking that particular question – and wasn't entirely convinced he remembered her at all, insisting, incomprehensibly, that she was Iris. It was this as much as anything that brought forth betraying tears.
"I feel very fortunate we have renewed our friendship, and I assure you, Mrs Blythe, there is only friendship between Gilbert and I – not… not… any understanding."
She felt as Lizzy Bennet must have, before Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and her distress was enough to have the Blythes make hasty if heartfelt farewells and urge her to rest, with an agreement to meet in the morning to journey back to the hospital together.
Anne was not sorry to be finally alone to process the extraordinary events of the past few days, drawing a hot, restorative bath and scrubbing away all the fear and worry alongside the smoke and the terrifying flashbacks of the fire and of Gilbert's fall. She gave herself over to her tears, crying freely, utterly exhausted and emotionally and physically spent. It was enough for her that Gilbert had awoken and would heal, but where it left her – and them – she had no idea.
And what of this Morpheus business? Is that what had filled his mind whilst he had lain so still and lifeless? If Gilbert had believed himself the God of Dreams – and perhaps his father, as for his mythological father, the God of Sleep – then what had that made her? Had Iris been anything at all? Anne had a good knowledge of Greek mythology, but had taken a degree in English, not Classics, and couldn't remember everyone – and Pris was not exactly on hand to ask. It would perhaps come to her, but not now, when her mind was so frayed and overwrought.
She crawled into the soft, comfortable bed, in her own nightgown – the Blythes having travelled with a small bag Marilla had quickly packed for her – sobbing anew over the anxious note from Green Gables about her welfare, the incomparable Dorothy having kindly sent an additional telegram to her own family. And there she fell into a depthless, dreamless sleep, with Marilla's note in her hand and Gilbert's letter, like an unfulfilled wish, under her pillow.
Gilbert hoped he would never dream again, for his dreams were strange and fantastical and he couldn't trust them. Only the waking pain and discomfort were frighteningly real, sharpening his focus, until the little top up of morphine made everything a floaty, hazy mirage again, and he was right back where he started.
By the dawn, he had requested to push through the pain with lower grade relief and topical ointments, sitting up and taking in the world and the stark, sanitised beauty of his hospital surrounds. He certainly had dreamed of this moment, too – being on the hospital ward; learning the rhythms and tempos of this unique orchestra – but had not had a thought and certainly not the desire to be mere audience member and not musician himself. He wondered if the old adage that doctors made the worst patients extended to almost-medical students, for he was already frustrated with his situation and keen for some progress. And impatient – so impatient! – to resume his life, now that he was certain and ever grateful to be back in the land of the living.
With morning rounds came his excellent overseeing doctor again, and through gritted teeth attempting to offset his lingering pain Gilbert asked his pointed, pertinent questions, going through an inventory of his injuries. The abrasions were annoying and needing constant ointment or they might scar, but he could handle them. His ribs were sore and tender but were evidently and fortunately only bruised, not broken. The gash on his calf was deep and had required many stitches, the skin currently stretched tight as a drum and the wound giving out a dull, ever-present ache, but it thankfully did not affect muscle and so he should not have a limp, and the stitches when he made an attempt to examine them were tiny and precise, showing excellent workmanship, which should only leave the finest scar and one he would be proud to wear.
His dislocated right shoulder was agony, though, and perhaps the entire area was a little more vulnerable due to his years up and down a football field, and he made a silent farewell from hereon to anything other than the most tame and cursory of outings on that score. He was almost twenty five, now, for goodness' sake, not fifteen, and must have a care with this otherwise strong and resilient vessel of his, for it could be compromised in a flash; something he now had firsthand knowledge of. He would not take his body and his physicality for granted ever again.
Which all brought him to… his head. Dr Johnston seemed pleased with him, here, certain that he had not sustained any long term effects from his concussion, and that the swelling of the brain that had originally concerned the good doctor had been offset by the decision to put Gilbert deeply under. It had put everything into that state of suspended animation he used to read about with a fascinated wonder, but now he knew the reality was rather different. It would take him a good while to shake the feeling and fear of the nightmarish whirlpool that threatened to suck him under forever, and of the confusion of waking and not knowing who and what he was.
And of things spoken in his presence and half heard… he had tried to distinguish their touch and their voices, but it was all so muddled and mangled… there was only that voice… and that touch… both had sustained him, soothed him, and eventually called him back to them.
Her name had been different in the underworld of his anaesthesia, but her form, her look, and the feeling lately when he was with her, never changed.
With determined mouthfuls he tried to shovel in some breakfast, knowing food, drink, movement… and rest… were his passage back to full health. And then, with a sponge bath - thankfully not given by the young, cheerful nurse who looked strangely and unfathomably familiar – he took breaths though his lingering pain and awaited his visitors.
But of course, as ever, he was waiting for her.
It was wrong, selfish – even sacrilegious – to be both happy and disappointed to note his parents as the ones who walked through the door to his room, but a minute after visiting hours had commenced later that morning. He was feeling clearheaded and in control of his pain, wanting to seize the opportunity to speak properly with the other visitor he knew was keeping time in the waiting area, whilst his parents naturally took precedence.
They were so delighted to see him, sitting up and clean and relatively comfortable, that he had to brush such churlish thoughts aside; he was their one and only and they had been worried sick – he had a whole new appreciation for the phrase – and the genuine relief on their faces brought a sizeable lump to his throat. His mother was determined to talk of inconsequentials – the conditions during their ferry crossing; their impressions of Kingsport – rather than address the reason they were actually here at all. Her determinedly cheerful persona slipped the moment Dr Johnston caught them, detailing both his satisfaction with his recovery so far, but also warning of the weeks of recuperation still required. One of Gilbert's uppermost thoughts had been whether he could commence his medical studies come the September, which would appear to be confirmed, conditional upon him not attempting too much too soon.
"I'll make sure he doesn't, Doctor," John Blythe grinned, in a clear case of the pot calling the kettle black, as the man who throughout his childhood had worked through colds, minor burns, bad backs, twisted ankles and, on the one terrible occasion, a horrible, hacking cough that had morphed into something so very more sinister, which only three years and the help of a sanitorium had been able to heal.
"Should I still try to walk a little, today?" Gilbert suggested hopefully, thinking with any luck he might make it all the way to the redhead in the waiting room.
"By all means," Dr Johnston nodded, notating his chart, "but I suggest you turn right, not left, and head to the little room that is used as the staff lounge. Not too far, and you can rest halfway if required."
Biting the inside of his cheek, Gilbert did as bid, thinking it impolitic to not follow doctor's orders considering he was on the cusp of studying to become one himself. Determined to make it under his own steam he shuffled along, clutching the railing, as his parents watched on proudly and the young nurse he had noted earlier, passing him in the hall, all but applauded her approval.
"Well done, Mr Blythe!" she affirmed, smiling broadly.
He stopped, pausing both for breath and because the nagging feeling wouldn't leave him.
"Thank you, Nurse," he gave his best approximation of a smile under the circumstances. "May I ask… do we know one another? It's only that you seem a little familiar to me."
Her smile turned slightly sardonic, and she tilted her head. "Indeed we do, Sir!"
There was the slightest sauciness to her tone, as if despite the boundaries of their professional-patient relationship, it still risked a response that had the flavour of familiarity. And the use of Sir…
He blinked, mind whirring. She wasn't from Avonlea, she wasn't from Queen's and she wasn't from Redmond.
"White Sands?" he guessed from logic alone, and then, the memory started to sharpen. "Isabelle Chalmers!"
"At your service, Mr Blythe," she gave a little girlish giggle that certainly wouldn't be out of place in the schoolhouse, and something it was perhaps fortunate that the fearsome Matron, whom he had encountered during rounds, was not currently in a position to overhear.
"Well, I'll be!" he would have shaken his head if it wouldn't encourage the revisit of his headache. "How do you do, Nurse Chalmers?"
"All the better for seeing you awake and up and about, Mr Blythe," she replied with a touching sincerity.
"Thank you. Very much."
She gave another delighted smile.
"I'm sorry, Mr Blythe, I must – " she juggled the linens she was carrying, gesturing vaguely down the hall and to other duties awaiting her.
"Please. Of course. Don't let me keep you from your important work."
She took a few brisk steps, before doubling back.
"It is an honour to assist in your recovery, Mr Blythe. And you and Miss Shirley, I must say, make a most devoted couple!"
Gilbert, hazel eyes wide, found he had to clutch the railing for support for several more minutes.
His parents insisted that he rest after his first out-of-bed expedition, knowing instinctively that his ambition had been outstripped by his exhaustion, and reluctantly took their leave to allow time for his other visitor. Gilbert plastered on a smile to farewell them, feeling the waves of pain lap him, after having held them off for so long and so successfully.
He counted the minutes until she might come in the assault to shoulder, ribs and leg, and his head had begun to throb again. It was cruel, so cruel, that he would be greeting her like this, breathing raggedly and writhing in pain. He didn't want that for her.
Dr Johnston reached him before she did, quickly and accurately assessing the situation.
"Mr Blythe, your pain threshold is laudable, but holding off on all treatments can be counterproductive in their own way. You've done excellently today, but you must not push yourself too far. Give your body the help it needs."
"Doctor…" he replied through gritted teeth. "The morphine… it addles my… mind… and… and… addictive."
"Yes, Gilbert, I'm afraid it can affect you, and it can be addictive, but we are talking systematic, long-term use in that instance – not now. We are reducing your doses each time, as you are doing much of the work yourself – not increasing them. Be assured, I am monitoring you closely, but I am afraid, if you remember, rest was also intrinsic to your recovery."
He nodded tightly. "Wait? Five minutes?"
Behind them, another visitor appeared, breathless, as if she had taken the journey at a rather brisk pace.
Dr Johnston inclined his head. "Yes, of course. I will give you both five minutes."
The doctor met her in the doorway, as her wide grey eyes darted to the patient, back in his bed.
"Hello, Miss Shirley. I am glad to see you more rested. Mr Blythe had an excellent morning, and even went for a brief walk up to the little staff lounge you will remember, but I am very sorry to say that his pain has caught up with him again, and he'll need an additional dose of morphine. It will make him sleepy and likely a little… confused… as you encountered last night. He wanted to wait to have a moment with you, first."
The doctor rarely saw eyes as expressive, and noted them now grow grave and dark.
"Thank you, Dr Johnston."
Anne walked slowly to his side, and Gilbert turned his head and looked at her – really looked at her – for the first time since she had met his eyes at the windowsill of a burning building.
"Anne," he panted, a flash of pain making him clutch his stomach and drew his face into a grimace, but his other hand he held out to her. She took it without question, collapsing in the chair beside him as she had done all the long, dark hours before.
"Oh, Gil!" she breathed, determined not to weep. "I'm here!"
"You've always been here…" his gaze to her was fierce. "I felt you, the whole time."
"Gilbert… I'll still be here! I'll be here, when you wake again. But you're in pain. Let the doctor help you."
"I'm… sorry."
His apology broke her, and the tears dampened the long, large hand she held to her cheek, pausing to kiss it, as he looked on with amazed eyes.
"Oh, Gil, darling! You just need to rest, and be well!"
His hazel eyes blazed at her response.
"Darling? You know that's… my line," he protested with a strained smile, gravel voiced, as the doctor hovered near them. "And… you know what yours is!"
"Yes!" she nodded through her tears, giving a stuttering little laugh.
She squeezed his hand tightly until it relaxed, limp, in hers.
Chapter Notes
This week's title is from Alice in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland Chapter 2 'The Pool of Tears'.
I am sure after the last update you'll all be relieved to know there are no other notes, quotes or anecdotes whatsoever! (Although thank you so much to the readers who have been so kind to mention them!)
Some Correspondence…
DrinkThemIn: Thank you, as ever, for your support of this! I thought that Morpheus and Iris really suited Gilbert and Anne as well! It was fun to play in the mythology sandbox this week, and I loved your pick up about Gilbert's 'call to medicine' correlating to Morpheus' job description, which absolutely involved the breaking of bad news here and on so many other occasions. What a lovely observation x
Bright Promise: So sorry this all came across as confusing! But you are absolutely right – Gilbert is muddled and confused, and that confusion plays out in what he thinks and how he experiences things whilst unconscious. I am sure you are not the only reader likely relieved he is awake now!
Sophie Amalie: Thank you so much for your lovely words and encouragement! So sorry this update took so long!