It was so warm…her limbs were so comfortably numb...there was a pleasant tingling in her bones…and there was a hand on her brow…she wondered who it could be…she wanted to open her eyes but her lids were so heavy…the touch was so gentle…
"Wade," she mumbled, but then a sweet, nostalgic scent filled her nostrils, coursing its way through her veins…the rich, complex aroma of freshly brewed coffee, newly oiled leather, an old hunter, that old hunter...she could recognize that scent anywhere, anytime...even in her sleep.
She smiled.
"Pa." The hand paused, and drew away. She frowned, slowly opening her eyes...and she saw him.
She struggled to sit up.
"You."
But with a firm hand on her shoulder, he pushed her back down.
"You shouldn't be sitting up so soon." She tried to rise again and opened her mouth, ready to light into him, but then her head gave a nasty, pulsing throb and she sank back into the pillows with a gasp of pain, her hand flying to her face.
"Ah," she managed to choke out. She drew her hand away and inspected it: there was a smudge of partially dried blood on her slim, white fingers.
He studied her as she did so, his face its trademark smooth blank.
"You fell face first on a rock...," he began. "You're lucky all your teeth are intact…and that you didn't hit your head," he added more quietly. Thank heaven for that. Her gaze moved from his face and landed on her fingers, the blood, and then she remembered: the rain, that piercing cold, and…him. She looked around: those plush curtains, the handsome mantelpiece, that ornate vanity...she was in her room...their room.
She touched her forehead.
"How long?"
"Three days," his dark eyes searched hers intently. "…you don't remember much of anything, do you?" She eyed him warily. Is this yet another one of your tests? I've never done well on those things...you should have seen Mother's face when she received my marks from that academy she made Pa send me to.
"No, I don't," she replied tartly, and she didn't, not really. There had been flashes of sensation, soft hands on her cheeks and brow, she had heard whispers...like the fluttering wings of a tired butterfly, and she had seen fleeting visions of a woman in black looming over her, but before then, there had been nothing, no pain, no pain at all. When she had sunk into that bottomless black this time, it was as if she had been submerged into the longest of dreams, the sweetest of nightmares. She had been afraid at first and had tried to struggle, to cry out, to scream, but could not, for she had been stifled against the darkness, but then she had finally stopped fighting, had let go, and had floated on cool, still waters for what felt like years...they had slowly bathed her stiff, sore body and had sunk into her seared, throbbing heart.
She had extended her arms in mute appeal, relishing in its cold embrace, and then she had floated up, up, up...her eyes locked on a hand mirror on the nightstand and she gestured to it impatiently. He handed it to her, his eyes never leaving her face. She was sporting a brilliantly purple bruise the exact hue of a ripe plum and her jaw was painted a lovely lilac; her lips were swollen and when she delicately raised her upper lip, she could see that her front teeth had pieced the soft inner flesh. Her hair hung limply about her shoulders and and as she angled her head, she could see that she had even scraped her chin.
"I'm a real mess, aren't I?" she remarked absentmindedly, the wryest of smiles spreading across the blue lips as she shook her head infinitesimally. She looked at Rhett. So what do you think? I'm not at my best, but I'm sure she's never been in front of you without any face paint on...but it's a real pity that rock laid claim to my cheekbone. I'd say that was my best feature...apart from my dimples, of course.
But why did he keep looking at her in that peculiar way?
"Did I...did I say anything?" she asked, attempting to sound flippant.
He grimaced then. "You kept saying you didn't like yams. It didn't matter what we tried to give you, you kept saying you didn't want yams." What a disappointment to you and those snoops out there.
Even from her periphery, she could see the old maid and that fat hen peering curiously into the room; the hen had her handkerchief pressed so tightly to her nose it as if she were trying to smother herself. Do I really smell so bad? I promise to return that cologne if you all go away. She saw a flash of blond then and had to blink several times to make sure it was really him she was seeing. She looked to Rhett, a question burning on the tip of her tongue but she decided to hold it in this time. Well, she thought, as the fat hen did yet another round, if I ever decide to snuff it, it will mean a heap of trouble for the lot of you so I shouldn't be surprised you all are here.
She looked back to Rhett.
"Was that all I had said?"
His eyes glimmered with some distant light and his tan seemed to deepen. "You thought you were at Twelve Oaks and Tara...most of the time."
You're still here, so I'm assuming Ashley didn't come up in my ramblings.
"And you kept asking for Wade and Melanie. Sometimes your mother and father and….mostly Wade." But there was something in his voice, his eyes. She averted her gaze then and would have flushed, if she had it in her to flush. What did it matter who she called for? What did it matter at all? Why did this man always concern himself with such trivial things?
When Doctor Meade hobbled in, she couldn't help but stare at that absurd goat's beard. She could tell by looking at that ancient face what he was going to ask; the question was written in every wrinkle, and she wished with all her heart for Rhett to leave. He had stood up when the old man walked in, and for a moment, Scarlett was relieved, but he stopped at the doorway, leaning against the frame, and she followed him with her eyes, silently begging him to go, but if he saw the pleading in her eyes, he ignored it. Doctor Meade sat heavily in the chair Rhett had just been occupying, clearing his throat with utmost solemnity and Scarlett felt as if she were a child who had been caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
"Scarlett, how much did you have to drink that morning?" Well, I had to sleep sometime so I suppose I just drank until I did. I learned from the very best, after all. Rhett was looking at her and she returned his gaze defiantly.
"One." There was a pause. The old man's mouth tightened. Rhett's expression didn't change but she saw the corner of his mouth go down. She threw her arms up in exasperation.
"Two, three…does anyone keep track of such things? Why is it anyone's business how many drinks I have?" and then she spotted Ella at the doorway with her mouth agape and she flushed, but then she felt the indignant anger flare.
You look like half a corpse yourself and your wife looks like she dips snuff...although after losing two sons, who can blame her...and then she felt the false strength leave her. The poor woman. She had felt, as all mothers did, their babes take root in that secret place, had heard their squalling cries as they had come forth from within her, felt that squirming warmth in her arms when she had held each of them, had bestowed them with names that were meant to be used, to be endowed with life, and not merely serve as inscriptions on cold gray stones, had cooed as they nursed from her breast, had wiped their tears when they stumbled, and had watched them grow tall and strong only for them to return home in pieces...or one of them had, the other had been long lost to the wind.
She knew how that felt now…to marry two children to the dirt, to don black instead of white, to hear them wed to the music of shrieking crows and whining blowflies, and to see them produce naught but worms. Scarlett sagged tiredly against the headboard and she looked at Rhett and when saw a flicker of realization pass over that swarthy face and the beginning of understanding in his eyes, she bristled again. Don't you look at me like that. I bet you had drunk more those three days you were at Belle's than I have this past year...although we can probably put Ashley and even Pa to shame at this point, but then she paused to look at her husband, to really look at him. The whites of his eyes were clear, no drunken haze obscured those sharp black irises, and his tread was as sure and steady as an arrow. Alright. Just Pa and I then, since Ashley's gone dry as well. The gutsy old thing hasn't touched a drop since Melanie's passed...at least from what I can see, although I don't know how he manages it. If I had to look at India everyday, I'd probably start drinking straight from the bottle.
When the old fart had finally gone, Rhett once again assumed his position by her side.
"You caused quite a scene; if anyone had any doubts that you cared about your children, I can say those doubts are gone now," his lips twitched with the smallest of smiles, but she saw a shadow pass over his face.
God. They mustn't think I was playing favorites…or maybe they all thought I had been drunk. Well, I suppose they had been right. And Scarlett inexplicably thought of that old dowager Merriweather with her incredulous owl's eyes and how she had swelled like a toad that day at that bazaar as she watched her dance her troubles away in those widow's weeds and she started to laugh but stopped, wincing. It hurt.
Rhett was rubbing his chin as she did so and when she looked at him, he abruptly stood and strode to the window, lifting the curtains. Scarlett studied his profile curiously, raising an eyebrow.
"Scarlett, you know I was sorry for what happened that day on the landing…for what I had said to you, don't you?"
Oh, that again. "I know," she said as she fumbled for the already leaking iced pack on the nightstand, giving a grateful groan as she slapped it across her face. "You told me."
"But I didn't, Scarlett."
She slowly lifted the pack so that one eye was exposed. He was looking at her now. "I didn't."
"What does it matter, Rhett?" she said heavily. Why must they have the same conversation over and over and over again? It must have gotten real tiresome; it's no wonder you ran to Belle...but I couldn't run to Ashley, could I?
"It's as you said. Apologies are for children."
"Are they though? Perhaps that's all a person can do in the end."
She threw off the pack and surveyed him with a mixture of exasperation and disgust.
"You sure were singing a different tune that night."
"So were you."
Scarlett huffed, but couldn't find the words to counter that.
"Before then…did you know that I was sorry?"
"No," she said sharply, but then lowered her eyes. "I didn't think that you were."
"And why is that?" His voice was soft.
Now it was her turn to grimace.
"I think you know."
"Why don't you tell me the reason?"
"Rhett," she said, picking at her eye, "Can we talk about something else, anything else? I am tired to death of all this."
"Don't women say that when they know they're losing an argument?"
"Who said this was an argument?"
He chuckled and he leaned back against the wall with his hands in his pockets.
"Scarlett, when was the last time we talked without going at each other's throats?"
Not in years, that's for sure. "I suppose," she said, with mock seriousness, "back when I still had something resembling a reputation to uphold." But I remember this grinning hypocrite telling some fool girl that she could do without one. I sure paid for listening to that, didn't I?
But you had been right about one thing, Rhett: I am tired, tired of it all. But as for it being too late for us to start over, I disagree. We could and should start anew. I will sit though one of Pauline's or Eulalie's yarns about our Glorious Cause and we can have a bet to see who lasts the longest without dozing off, although that is one fight I will lose. We can pay our respects to your dearly departed father and sup with your mother and your brother and sister...if I'm not too low bred to do so, that is. I'll be sure to forget to invite Sue; I wouldn't want to put you through that ordeal. We could bring Ella as well, although we should probably keep her away from the horses. I didn't tell you this the other night but Ella has been asking me for a pony because she wanted to be like a princess in this ridiculous storybook Melanie had read to her once, but I don't think we should indulge that particular request. The girl stumbles enough as it is.
This story isn't done yet…honestly, I'd much rather you read through the whole thing and hate it than only read halfway through and love it…these are POV chapters; reality is being filtered through the perspectives of the characters, and they may not necessarily be the most objective. A drunk, grieving person may not be seeing things with the clearest of minds. I write these stories because I love GWTW and am still trying to find closure with the ending and I will finish this story.
And Wade didn't like yams.