Glen St. Mary, Canada
December 2015
I've come home, I'm so cold
"She's gorgeous, Jem!" Di declares and leans over the baby in Jem's arms to stroke her soft cheek.
Jem beams proudly. "She is, isn't she? And she's so clever, too! She's the very cleverest of babies!"
"With him for a father, I find that hard to believe," mutters Shirley to my left and I make myself give him a brief smile.
"Look!" exclaims Jem as he touches his daughter's hand with one finger. The hand opens like a star fish – or a cat's paw – before closing tightly around Jem's finger.
"Isn't she the cleverest?" asks her father and looks around excitedly.
Joy pats his back. "Very clever," she assures and rolls her eyes at the rest of us with a comical expression. It's utterly lost on Jem who is far too besotted with his daughter to notice, well, anything.
"Do we think he's aware that it's called the palmar grasp reflex and is one of the primitive reflexes found in all human infants?" asks Nan sotto voce and raises both eyebrows.
"In most primates, really," adds Carl, who seems to be vaguely alarmed by the human baby in our midst but can always be trusted to supply the animal-related facts.
Nan nods approvingly at him. "It is generally believed to be essential for furry species so that the young ones can grasp their mother's fur when they're being carried, which would actually make it vestigial in humans. Should we tell Jem about that, what do you think?"
Faith, lounging on the sofa behind Nan, grins widely and you just know she'd have no objection to some teasing of her husband happening. Monday sits next to her, his muzzle on her knee and his eyes focused firmly on this newest and most defenceless member of his pack, lest anyone try to do anything funny with it.
Not that anyone will, of course. Instead, Walter, standing by Nan's side, extends an arm to wrap it around our sister's shoulder. "Let's not do that, Nanny," he suggests peacefully, completely ignoring the dark glare Nan's throws him at being called by the detested nickname.
Jem, of course, didn't hear anything anyway. He's far too busy presenting his daughter to Di and Nia. In fact, he was so eager to have them see her that he didn't even let them take off their coats or put away their luggage. They literally just arrived ten minutes ago and spent nine of those cooing over the newest addition to the family.
"Her name is Zoe?" asks Nia as she peers over Di's shoulder at the baby.
"Zoe Afiya," announces Jem proudly.
"Zoe is Greek for 'life'," comments Jerry from where he is standing by the door. "I don't think I've heard Afiya before though."
"It's Urdu," explains Faith and stretches her arms above her back. "It's a popular name in Uganda meaning 'good health'. For the daughter of two doctors, we thought it fitting."
Trust Jem and Faith to give their daughter a name that manages to be both a lovely sentiment and a plain old pun.
The thusly named baby takes this for a cue and starts getting restless in her father's arms, making soft, mewling sounds and waving her fits in the air.
"Looks like someone is hungry," observes Jem as he moves to hand Zoe to his wife.
"Someone is always hungry," points out Faith with a long-suffering sigh. Despite the word though, the look she gives her daughter is utterly loving.
"You know," remarks Joy casually, "when I look at her like that, I'm almost broody for a third one."
In the back of the room, Dan abruptly raises his head.
"But then I remember what it felt like to be a human milk bank for months on end and I realise I'm fine with the two I've got," continues Joy blithely. Dan breathes what looks to be a sigh of relief.
Faith laughs easily as she juggles her daughter into a more comfortable position to feed her. "I'm told it gets better. Someday."
"Also with the sleeping," mumbles Jem and grimaces a little. (Looks like someone is having a lot of short nights at the moment.)
"Also with the sleeping," agrees Faith, smiling wryly.
Joy grins and exchanges a glance with her husband. "What if I told you that Izzie still has a habit of appearing next to our bed every other night?"
"I'm not listening to you," declares Faith and waves a dismissive hand in Joy's general direction, making everyone laugh.
I try to muster as much of a smile as possible and I just think I've gotten away with it when Jem wraps both arms around me from behind and briefly lifts me off my feet. "Why so serious, little sister?" he asks playfully.
I curse silently. Of course he picks this particular moment to become observant!
"I'm not serious," I lie and try to wrestle myself from his arm.
"And you shouldn't be," he adds with a smirk. "You had a role in the creation of this one, after all. I did the maths and –"
"Jem!" I cry out and just about fight the urge of covering my ears with my hands. Naturally, everyone laughs even louder at this.
Luckily, attention is drawn away from me when the grown-ups enter – that is, our parents, assorted grandparents, Rosemary and Cecilia Meredith (sans John, who's already at the church) and Nia's mother who arrived with Di and her daughter and was immediately whisked away by mum – to remind us that it's time for church. Jem and Faith and their three week old daughter get a pass, of course, but as always, Grandmother Marilla won't hear of anyone else staying behind, despite Di's grumbling. Thus, we wrestles ourselves into our coats, collect Jake, Izzie, Bruce and Lily from where they built a snow fairy in the garden (Izzie's doing, I'm sure) and set off to our annual walk to church.
I'm not much feeling like company or questions, so I fall into step beside Dan and Walter, who both smile at me kindly and otherwise continue talking quietly about something I don't care about. When we reach the area where the usual photographers have gathered, Dan casually moves so I'm walking in their middle, partially shielded, and I feel a surge of gratefulness.
To be honest, it's weird to have the photographers here. Rationally, I know why they are, because neither they nor anyone else know that their reason for stalking me evaporated two weeks ago, but it still feels strange. It's like they're a vestige from a life that no longer exists, making their presence is a jarring reminder of what used to be. It's odd and yes, it hurts.
(But then, what doesn't hurt these days?)
I've got some practice in smiling through the pain though and by keeping a low profile, I make it through the church service and the walk back to Ingleside. Sometimes, having a family as boisterous as mine has its advantages, especially when one prefers to just be overlooked. And if there are some concerned glances directed my way, the chaos of having twenty-plus people running around always allows me to duck away in time.
I can't just duck away to get out of the King's Speech, because Grandmother Marilla does a headcount before it begins, but I'm prepared for that. I simply scuttle up to Dad and ask for an aspirin. He, being Dad, immediately starts asking questions, but when I just mutter something about a headache and jetlag and maybe having a cold, he finally lets me go and tells me to get some rest, which was the goal all along.
It's quiet up here in my old attic room and I breathe a sigh of relief. Part of me has come to resent the quietness, because when it's quiet, my thoughts are all that much louder, but the bigger part is glad for it. Quiet means I don't have to listen to the TV and there's no way in hell I'm watching that speech today.
Crawling into my bed, I turn to the side, pull my knees up and look at the window. From my position, I can only see the very tips of the ancient trees in the garden. The rest is just a vast expense of grey, grey sky.
After I left Kensington Palace on that awful evening, I curled up in my bed in a very similar way and didn't leave it much for the next two days, merely calling in sick at work and occasionally dragging myself downstairs to feed George. Ken didn't try to get in touch and I didn't know whether I wanted him to or not. (Some part of me still doesn't.) Sam tried to call and eventually messaged, explaining that he meant no harm, that he didn't think it through and that it was supposed to have been a compliment. I actually believe him, too, and I don't wish him ill, but I ignored his contact attempts and eventually simply switched my phone off. I guess once the trust is lost…
On Friday, three days after the day, Lucy and Dev – worried that I wasn't answering my phone – staged an intervention and basically threatened to break the door down if I didn't answer it. When I did, they exchanged a meaningful glance and went to work. Lucy popped me in the shower, Dev went to the shop to buy the most calorific food he could think of and together, they deposited George and me on the sofa and put on a marathon of movies about people who went through a break-up but, in Dev's words, "came back fabulous and slayed".
It was, it turns out, just what the doctor ordered and while I was far from fine after that weekend, I was at least back to feeling human. It even put on enough make-up and enough of a brave face to go to work on Monday and oversee the final Christmas office parties, though the evenings of that last week were still spent crying more than a single person rightfully should be able to. Thank God for Lucy and Dev, I can only say, who were there every step of the way and propped me up when I wasn't sure whether I could go on. They were also the ones who took me to the airport and deposited me on the flight back to Canada that was long planned in some ways and yet not planned at all.
And here I am. Five years later and right back where I started.
I grimace slightly, trying to stop yet more tears from falling. I've managed to put on a cheery façade since arriving here because the last thing I want is to ruin everyone's Christmas, but if I were to go down later with my face all red and puffy, even Jem would smell a rat.
Not that he needs to, because in that moment, there's a knock on the door and, with a heavy sigh, I turn my head to face it. I'm not surprised that someone is asking to enter my sanctuary, because I might put on a smile, but there's only so many of them I can fool. Really, the only question is whether it's Mum or Joy on the other side of the door.
"Yes?" I call out.
It's Joy. She opens the door just far enough to slip through, before closing it firmly behind herself and turning to face me. Her face manages to be both stern and concerned in equal measures, which is a particular talent of hers.
"How are you?" she asks, her voice matching her expression to a T.
I gesture vaguely to my head. "Headache."
Not, of course, that I expect her to buy it.
Joy makes a sceptical sound. "Headache," she repeats, not even trying to hide the disbelief in her voice.
I shrug, or try to, and turn my head back to the window.
After a moment, I can hear Joy come closer, before the mattress dips down on my right and part of my blanket is pulled away.
"I could try to ask lots of careful questions and work myself up to the problem," Joy begins thoughtfully, "but that would just take needless time, so I'll ask you outright: Are you and Ken okay?"
Not beating around the bush, is she? But then, when does Joy ever?
"Define 'okay'," I reply, still staring out the window at the relentlessly grey sky.
My sister clucks her tongue impatiently. "Stop stalling."
Her typical Joy-ness raises the ghost of a smile on my lips, but it's gone as quickly as it came.
"You've been off ever since you came here," she observes when I don't volunteer any information. "You're hiding it well, but you've always been able to do that, even as a kid. For someone so prone to italics and dramatics, you always could keep your secrets well."
I hum non-committally. Is she going anywhere with this, I wonder?
"I, however, am even better at finding out what people are hiding," Joy informs confidently, "so we can make this difficult or you can just give in and tell me what's wrong. In the end, you will anyway. You're aware of that, aren't you?"
Yes, I had figured as much.
Sighing heavily, I turn away from the window to face Joy. "What do you want to know?"
"I said," she retorts impatiently. "I want to know whether you and Ken are okay."
I incline my head slightly, my gaze drifting upwards to the ceiling. (Is that a crack there?)
"We are not, in fact, okay," I answer finally, surprising myself with how composed I sound.
Joy nods. "I thought as much."
"What made you think so?" I want to know, though to be honest, it's yet another attempt at stalling the inevitable.
"For one, you really haven't been the same. It doesn't take a genius to notice that," Joy points out. "For another, I just saw the King's Speech and there wasn't even a glimpse of you."
I had wondered how they'd handle this.
"Last year, you were featured prominently enough that one could have been forgiven for thinking you were an official part of that family," my sister continues. "This year – nothing. They even cut you out of the footage of him arriving home in August."
"They must have reworked it at the last minute," I muse absent-mindedly. (It helps to be absent-minded. There's less feeling in it.)
It's a little strange, to know I've been pruned so carefully from the footage when Owen made such a point to include me in the past. But at the same time, it would have been even crueller to keep featuring me this year as well and pretend the continued existence of something that isn't anymore.
Joy gives me an irritated look at my non-answer. "And why would they have done that?"
"Because things are not okay," I finally admit, my tone almost conversational. (I really do believe that's a crack up there.)
"Meaning?" asks Joy pointedly.
"Meaning," I reply, mirroring her emphasis, "that I will most definitely never be an official part of that family."
That shuts her up, which is an unusual occurrence in the first place. Joy is rarely ever speechless.
"Well," she finally remarks slowly. "I think it's safe to say that that's is the very definition of 'not okay'."
No argument there.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks after a long moment of silence.
I drop my head back into the pillow and sigh. "What's there to say?"
"Lots of things or nothing it at all, depending on what you want," Joy answers and I can't help noticing that the sternness is gone from her voice, replaced by pure concern.
Staring at the ceiling (I must remember to alert Dad to that crack), I consider her offer.
"I've been over this a hundred times or more in my head," I reply eventually. "The outcome is always the same. I don't know if talking about it would change anything."
"It might make you feel better," she suggests.
I smile wryly. "Honestly? I appreciate the offer, but I'm not convinced there is anything to make me feel better right now."
"There will be," Joy amends. "Eventually."
"Says you who never had her heart broken," I retort, but it's without malice. It's hardly a feeling I wish on anyone and if she manages to go through live without ever having to experience it, I'm the last to begrudge her that luck.
Joy purses her lips thoughtfully. "You got better after the Frenchman."
"Hardly the same," I point out.
It's true, too. I used to be so convinced that Alain broke my heart, but looking back, it's almost laughable. Back then, it felt like the worst pain imaginable, but compared to now… it's not even really worth mentioning.
"No," agrees Joy with a sigh. "No, it's not the same. I know it isn't."
We both fall silent after that, me still inspecting the crack on the ceiling and Joy studying my face, as if she might find all the answers there that I'm unwilling to give her.
"And now?" she asks finally.
I shrug. "I figured I'd impose on Mum and Dad for the time being and then… who knows?"
Joy hums thoughtfully. "You can always come to us as well. If you want to."
That gets the first real laugh of the day out of me. "And risk US immigration? No, thanks. I've had the unique experience and I'm disinclined to go through it again." Especially since as of two weeks ago, I lack a boyfriend with enough connections to threaten the Department of Homeland Security into keeping relevant information to themselves.
"True," acknowledges Joy. After a moment of silence, she adds, "And do you know what you want to do after –?"
I interrupt her before she can finish the question and find, to my own surprise, that my temper is rearing its head. Anger is the one emotion I haven't been feeling at all and it feels foreign for a moment.
"No, I don't know. Imagine that!" I snap. "I just had my life and my future collapse around me and I've barely begun picking up the pieces. Excuse me for not having an alternative life plan yet!"
Joy looks taken aback for a moment, but then shakes her head slightly. "You're right," she concedes. "It was a stupid question. I'm sorry for asking it."
I allow the apology with a curt nod. My temper settles down as quickly as it flared up and as it does, I have to admit that my reaction wasn't altogether fair. She has no way of knowing it, but part of why her question rankled so is because it is the question, the one that brought me here in the first place.
What do I want to do with my life, indeed.
"It's okay," I assure Joy with a sigh. "I'm just… not in a good place right now."
"Understandably," she immediately replies and briefly reaches out to touch my arm.
That leaves us with nothing more to say, so we lapse back into silence, both lost in our own thoughts. (Is that a shadow, I wonder, or has the large crack spawned a smaller crack at that end there?)
After a minute or two, Joy breaks the silence, "I don't want to bother you, but if there's anything I can do… if you ever find yourself wanting to talk…"
"I know where to find you," I finish for her, even mustering something akin to a smile.
She nods, smiling wryly. "Right. I'll leave you alone now. I promised Grandmother Marilla I'd help with cooking. I just…" She trails off, obviously not knowing what to say.
"Yeah, I know," I reply. "And Joy? Thank you."
Another nod, before she briefly bends forward to smooth my hair back and drop a kiss on my forehead. "Anytime."
She withdraws as quietly as she entered and I find myself alone again, not quite able to determine whether the conversation helped or whether it made me feel worse. If the latter, it wouldn't be Joy's fault though. There's really not much that is able to make me feel better these days.
I turn back to the window. There's a bird sitting in the very top of one of the trees, its silhouette sharp against the grey clouds. I watch it for a moment until, as if disturbed by something unseen, it takes off and flies away, disappearing from my view and leaving nothing but the gently swaying treetops and the grey winter sky.
It takes another ten or fifteen seconds until the awaited second knock comes. I call out to enter and turn to the door, expecting to see Mum. Instead, there's a tray entering the room, followed by Jake.
"May we come in?" he asks, a little uncertain. "We were sent to bring you tea."
(Tea. This most British of comfort drinks. How ironic.)
"And I have chocolate!" announces Izzie as she pushes past her brother with nary a thought for the tray he's carrying.
(Chocolate, at least, is nicely international. It's a universally recognised comfort food wherever you go.)
Jake has to stop for a moment to balance the tray, but Izzie already bounces into the room and onto my bed, stretching out at my feet.
"Mummy said you're feeling poorly," she informs me.
"Yes," I answer carefully as I pull myself into a sitting position. "I'm not feeling very well."
"Do you have a cold?" she wants to know, peering at me closely. "Grampa said you might have a cold."
"I might have," I tell her, not wanting to lie but also not wanting to give her the whole truth. "I'm also… a bit sad."
Izzie nods earnestly. "You miss Ken!"
The words, so blunt and honest, feel like a punch and I need to take a few deep breaths to compose myself. "Yes," I finally admit. "I miss him."
That, at least, is the truth. I left, but I miss him. Those feelings are not mutually exclusive.
"I miss him, too," Izzie declares and pouts.
I raise a brief smile of reassurance for her. She adores Ken and I don't have the heart to tell her that she will never see him again. (Another one of those thoughts I can't seem to get used to. Rationally, I know it to be true, but emotionally, it seems… unthinkable.)
While Izzie and I talked, Jake put the try down on my desk and poured a cup of tea, which he now offers to me. I accept it with a grateful smile. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it," he mumbles as he pulls up the chair and sits down.
I close both hands around the tea mug and start sipping it. It's hot and strong and it reminds me of England so much that for a moment, I think I might cry. (It's strange, how it's the little things that hurt the worst. I got through the conversation with Joy without coming close to crying, but the tea is almost enough to set me off. )
"I still have his number," Jake announces suddenly, but when I look at him, I find him staring past me at the window and the grey sky.
I nod slowly, not sure where he's heading with this. "I remember."
"I thought about calling him," he adds, his voice a little brusque.
"When?" I ask cautiously. I don't want to upset him with my questions.
"This entire year," he admits, still not looking at me. "I thought about calling him and telling him… well, you know. Certainly after August."
I watch him with some wonder. Here I was, thinking I had played my role so well and the entire time, Jake knew something was wrong. It shouldn't surprise me, because this is Jake and he's perceptive like that, but at the same time…
"That is sweet of you," I tell him, taking one hand from the warmth of the teacup and reaching out to squeeze his arm. Jake's eyes snap to me and he smiles uncertainly.
"Would it have changed anything?" he asks.
I hesitate, then slowly shake my head. "No. But it's sweet of you to care."
He searches my face for a moment, before accepting my answer with a nod. Briefly, he covers my hand still lying on his arm, before getting up and walking to the desk to fuss with the teapot.
My gaze travels over to Izzie, who's still sprawled at the foot of the bed and watches us with wide eyes. She is, I notice, already halfway through the stash of chocolate she brought for me.
When she opens her chocolate-smeared mouth, I think it's to ask questions, but instead she offers, matter-of-factly "I can tell you a story."
"A story?" I ask, surprised. To say that wasn't what I expected is an understatement.
"A story," Izzie repeats confidently and munches on another piece of chocolate.
For a moment, my gaze moves over to Jake, who's still standing by the desk, but has turned back towards us again. 'She's good,' he mouths and I nod to say that I understand.
"I would very much like to hear a story," I tell Izzie.
She beams at me and holds out a chocolate bar for me to eat. As I unwrap it, she crawls up to snuggle into my side, pulling the blanket over both of us. Jakes returns with a tea cup of his own and sits on spot at the foot of the bed that Izzie just vacated. When our eyes meet, he smiles in the affectionate and long-suffering way of all older siblings ever.
"Listen!" demands Izzie and both Jake and I are quick to give her our full attention. When she's secure in having it, she settled down comfortably and begins.
"Once upon a time, there was a girl who could fly…"
The title of this chapter is taken from the song 'Wuthering Heights' (written by Kate Bush, released by her in 1978).
To Rach H:
Hello! It's so very nice to be hearing from you again! However, you have absolutely no need to apologise for having to deal with real life. I did wonder where you'd gone, but only in a "I hope she's alright"-sort of way. I do hope you're alright, of course, and while I cherish all your comments, I know life is life and it can be a b**** sometimes. Mine isn't all butterflies and rainbows either at the moment (to the point that last week, I seriously considered putting the story on hold for some time), so, I really truly get it!
I'm kind of irrationally pleased that you think the break-up needed to happen, because that's absolutely my standpoint as well. It's painful and messy and nothing you'd with on anyone, but with the mess Rilla and Ken had worked themselves in, it was the ony logical outcome. They need to step back so that maybe, at some point, they can step forward again and figure out a way to do this in a healthy, happy way that leaves them both feeling fulfilled (and as equals!). Since this story isn't over here, I don't think it's too much of a spoiler to say that Rilla and Ken haven't met for the last time, so... I've got some stuff still up my sleeve (and partly written, too, which might be good news to people).
In a way, the last chapter was all about people doing things while misjudging the outcome and getting seriously hurt in the process. That's true for Rilla and Ken hurtling towards a break-up neither of them truly wanted and that's true for Sam ruining a friendship when he really only meant well. The poor sod actually convinced himself that he was paying Rilla a compliment and also showing the world that there's much more to her, but he didn't consider what a huge betrayal the breach of her privacy was. Despite him not meaning to hurt her though, he can't make this undone, so his mistake cost him a friendship that was dear to him (plus any small chance he might have had to one day be more than a mere friend).
In happier news though, you wished for family interactions and I hope this chapter delivered - or 'started to deliver', I should say, because there's lots more of this in the near future. Prepare for some seriously Blythe-heavy chapters as Rilla tries to find out where to go looking for herself, before we move our focus firmly on a certain royal family again. Also, I promise there's no need for sick, anxious feelings! Things will be alright in the end - whenever that may be ;).
