September 7, 1894
"Aren't you gonna finish that?" asked Davy, eyeing the remainders of Anne's hash browns.
She shook her head and pushed her plate towards him. "Enjoy." Anne watched on with fascination as the contents vanished by the forkful.
"Will the wheat be alright, you think?" asked Anne, following up on the concern he'd brought her last month.
"Probably." He didn't look up from the plate. "Mr. Wright said he'd help as much as he could, and Mr. Harrison offered to lend a hand again."
"That's nice of them. I'll have to bake something for Mrs. Harrison."
"I think you ought to thank them, not poison them."
A swift kick under the table made Davy yelp with his mouthful. Anne offered an acerbic grin in return. "So... any news from Millie, lately?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Her folks're still sore about us wanting to settle here."
"But why? Avonlea was good enough Hodgsons a few years ago."
"Mrs. Hodgson doesn't mind so much," said Davy around a mouthful of food. "It's Mr. Hodgson who thinks there's no future in a place like this."
Anne bit back a furious retort. "Well, it's Millie's sentiments that matter, in the end."
"Dunno. I don't want her to stop talking to her Pa altogether because of something stupid."
Her heart melted: she was seeing the little boy who'd never known his own father, and lost two mother figures already. The strong boy, bursting with the need to prove his independence, but who also craved affection and care. Anne reached over the table to muss his golden hay locks.
"Your future together isn't stupid."
"I know."
"You two'll figure something out, I'm sure of it."
"I know."
She sighed. "I love you, Davy."
"Anne, c'mon," he whined.
"I do," she insisted. "I love you very much."
"I get it! I'll do the dishes, alright? Just quit being weird, already!"
Anne grinned smugly as the boy she'd helped raise pushed away from the table in disgust, collecting their empty plates.
September 12, 1894
Prince Albert, SK
Dear Annette,
You do have a point: there has to be a fair exchange, a tit for tat? Well, the only issue is, I have no tats. Really, outside of work, my days (sometimes nights) consist of sleeping, bathing and eating, though not specifically in that order. Hospital anecdotes are the best I have to offer, and you seem to be nonplussed by those. Still, should something thrilling happen here, you'll be the first person to whom I'll write. Actually, you'll be the only person to whom I'll write - I don't know if Mrs. Blythe would be up to this type of excitement.
Speaking of whom, could you please elaborate? When you write 'seeing things', do you mean to say that she sees objects that aren't there? Does she forget herself and imagine that she is in another place altogether? Or are you implying that she talks to people who aren't present? It wouldn't be irregular at all for her to miss her son and husband, although actually seeing them would be a very bad sign indeed. We might be looking at anything, from waking dreams to hallucinations. Or perhaps she is being haunted. The more specific and detailed the account, the better we can assess what is going on. In the meanwhile, it would be best to keep a close eye on her.
I wish I could find something crass enough to disgust you once and for all, but sometimes, the chaos here is beautiful: yesterday, I witnessed the birth of triplets. Three fat, pink, screaming, healthy newborns, all in one go.
I can't tell you how seldom it happens - the conception of triplets, for one, but the safe delivery of all three is nothing short of exceptional. They made an incredible ruckus, and it was wonderful. Their mother, needless to say, was quite done in by the tripled effort of labor, but still she fought through her extreme fatigue to keep counting: six eyes, six hands, six feet; thirty fingers, twenty-nine toes (just kidding, there were thirty as well). Once they were cleaned and bundled up, the father came into the room to meet the little squealers: he saw triple and fainted (that was another ruckus, though perhaps a less beautiful one). It's times such as these that renew my belief in miracles.
You don't have to give me the specifics, but please do tell me the important bits. Let me know that you are at least in good health, and how you are faring overall. I'd be pleased with a bit more, but the bare minimum would suffice for now.
Your friend,
Doug
October 1, 1894
"...get him to sleep through the whole night. He'll simply cry himself sick, if I let him."
"That's normal, dear. Newborns cry, it's simply what they do. Thank heavens, my Horace was a quiet little thing, but Henrietta would wake the entire household twice a night with her shrieks. Drove me and Andrew to distraction, is what."
"They'll stop crying if you don't coddle them. How else will a baby learn not to cry? If you leave them to sort it out on their own, they'll eventually stop on their own."
"Have you tried rosemary water? Three drops rubbed on the chest before they go to bed. Worked splendidly on Ruthie, she stopped rising at all hours."
"Of course, one must never ignore a crying infant: just see what happened to the poor Blewett's babe."
Anne's blood turned to ice, as it always did when she heard the surname. She excused herself silently from the pie booth, where she'd been trapped listening to the most inane conversations, and marched straight to the head of the line at the lemonade bowl. Diana looked up from the task at hand and smiled. "There you are," she said, handing a full cup to Mr. Spurgeon. "Having a good time?"
"Hardly. You said you'd only be gone a minute."
"I'm sorry, they needed help here. I wasn't gone that long." When she received no answer, Diana looked up again. "Are you alright, Anne?" she asked in a quieter tone. "You look awful pale."
"I'm fine."
"Matilda, would you take over ladling duty?" she asked, wiping her hands on her apron before dragging Anne away from the crowd. "What happened? Your hand is freezing! I wasn't gone that long. Did someone bring up...?"
Anne shook her head. "No, but now I know what to expect from toothing to puberty, and everything in between. Honestly, Avonlea needs a Ladies' College, or a book club, at the very least."
Diana wisely kept silent on the matter, and focused on her friend's appearance. Some color had come back to Anne's cheeks. "Let's go do something fun," she said. "Look, the sack race is about to start! Shall we join?"
A small smile appeared on the pale face. "I'm not sure I'm up for it right now, but I'm sure we could give them a run for their money."
"Too bad. The prize is a batch of Mrs. Sloane's doughnuts."
"Maple?"
"Mm hm."
"I think I'll watch from a safe distance," sighed Anne, though the thought of thick maple glaze made her mouth water. Diana slid an arm around her shoulders and lead her toward the crowd, just in time to witness the cork gun shot. The contestants took off, holding the edge of their burlap sacks as they hopped about like toads, trying to beat each other to the finish line.
"Papa, I wanted to be in it!" whined a child, tugging at her father's hand.
"Maybe when you're older," conceded the man indulgently. "The potato sack race isn't for little girls."
"Hey, what did you do that for?" Moody's whine floated through the air.
"Sorry, I tripped," explained Gilbert, working on the knot that bound their ankles together.
"Aw, shucks, we were winning, too!"
"It's alright, Moody," He finished undoing the band, freeing their legs, and stood up. "It's just for fun."
"Now they're giving the first prize to little girls!"
"They won fair and square," insisted Gilbert, brushing dirt and grass off his shirt. "And they ain't so little, anyhow," he added with a bold wink to the redhead who'd been caught listening.
"...Anne? Anne?"
Diana's face came into focus, and Anne blinked. "Sorry. Who won?"
"Ronnie Kerry. Dear, you're really pale. Let's get you home."
Anne shook her head. "I'm fine. Come, let's go check out the ponies."
October 2, 1894
Prince Albert, SK
Dear A. B. Shirley,
Of course I didn't mean a haunting in the literal sense of the word. I'm a doctor, not a sorcerer! What goes on in that head of yours? Anyhow, I've reached out to a former professor of mine, as well as one of the doctors at the Royal University. According to Mrs. Blythe's symptoms as you've described them, it could be several things, ranging from stress to dementia - though the latter is unlikely, unless there it runs in the family. The general consensus is that grief would be the most probable cause for her episodes, and if that is the case, there isn't much to be done. They say that as long as she is functional, it wouldn't do to worry too much. Do you happen to know if she is still taking any sedatives? Barbiturates, chloral?
Should things worsen, however, please let me know straight away. I trust that you'll have the good sense to send a wire, or telephone directly if it is urgent.
As for the other matter: 'tit for tat' is a common idiom, surely an author of your grandeur would be familiar with it. Let it be noted that I commented only on my own lack of tats: the implication of their counterparts is entirely imagined on your part. How is it my fault that your own filthy mind would suggest such a crass double-meaning? Really, how vulgar of you!
I wish I could make it to PEI, I really do. The way things are going now, the hospital can barely spare me for a few days. We're stretched so thin, I've been putting in extra half-shifts to fill the gaps wherever they occur. That's how I ended up assisting the triplets' birth - I have some experience in obstetrics, but it isn't my assigned department. If the trip wasn't so long, I might have been able to steal away: but two days each way means I would need to take a week off at least, and that simply isn't feasible right now.
Thank you for updating me on the standing of Green Gables. I'm glad the harvest is going well so far, and hope that you manage to hire the help you and Davy will need. But you said nothing of yourself; of your health, of your emotional state. Gilbert wanted me to keep an eye out for you, and seeing as I really cannot come to Avonlea anytime soon to do so literally... Would it be too much to ask that you let me know how you are? My source keeps me relatively informed, but I would much rather read it from your own pen.
Your friend,
Doug
October 10, 1894
"Mrs. Blythe?"
The woman inhaled, rousing from her thoughts. "I'm sorry, dear, I seem to have gotten distracted. Oh, please don't take it personally, love," she quickly added, misinterpreting Anne's frightened expression for one of offence. "I'm afraid I haven't been sleeping well these past few days. It's nothing to do with you. Tell me again, about the sleeves?"
Anne couldn't go back to chatting about knitting patterns, not after she'd just witnessed another episode. This one had lasted longer than usual, and though Mrs. Blythe had clearly retreated to another world, there had been no verbal interactions with the alternate universe this time. Anne couldn't decide if that was better or worse.
"Mrs. Blythe..." she began hesitantly, terrified of shattering the woman's present comfort. "...how are you faring, really?"
Her daring question was met with an easy (if not tired) smile. "I promise, I'm getting along quite fine. I could probably do with more rest at night - I think one of the cats is in heat, I could hear her yowling in the garden at all hours. But dear, you seem awfully pale. Are you getting enough rest?"
Anne hated the tears that welled up in her eyes: they would prevent her from seeing Mrs. Blythe's reaction when she asked, "Do you ever see them?"
Trying to see through the liquid coating her pupils was like looking through thick glass: all she got was a blurry, barely distinguishable silhouette. It was impossible to make out any details, let alone facial expressions.
"Of course." Mrs. Blythe's voice was gentle. "All the time."
"Really?" Anne squeaked, doing her best not to blink.
There was a sigh. "I see John in the fields, always far away. Sitting on the porch, if I'm walking up the road. I see Gilbert in his bed, curled up in a lump under the quilts. I see his shape at the kitchen table, always studying, reading something or taking notes. But, my dear, it seems as though I should be the one asking you."
Anne felt something in her chest open, and the contents spill out. "I hear him. Sometimes." It was impossible to see anything now, through the rain falling from her eyes. "I know it sounds crazy, but I really do. At first, I thought it was my imagination, but it's his voice! I would know it anywhere, it's his voice speaking to me."
Two boney hands seized hers, stroking her palms and squeezing her fingers in a most affectionate way. "What does it say, this voice?" asked Mrs. Blythe gently.
Anne felt like a toddler as she sniffed back the snot trying to escape from her nose. "Just...conversation. Nothing special." It sounded insane, she knew: yet, she couldn't help but keep talking. "He tells me to watch where I'm going, keeps me from leaving something to burn in the oven. Teases me for losing my hat. Makes fun of Mrs. Sloane's."
The indulgent chuckle belied a wry smile. "Enid always did have eccentric taste in hats." Her voice then turned gentle as a cloud of cotton: "Anne, it's normal to hear and see the people whom we hold dear, after we've lost them."
"It is?" she hiccupped, her heart stopping. She wasn't the only one, after all! Of course, Gilbert would visit his mother! How could she have doubted it?
Mrs. Blythe nodded. "Of course. We see shadows, what our hearts are too full to contain. We know they're not there, not really - but they live inside us. We keep them alive in our memories, in our love for them."
A false alarm, nothing more. Disappointment crashed down on Anne with no warning. She fell into a sobbing heap on the table, and allowed the woman whom she was supposed to be comforting to pet her hair and soothe her back, with the calming expertise that was proper to a mother.
October 27, 1894
Prince Albert, SK
Miss Shirley,
I'm sorry you feel that way. If such is the case, I shall cease to bother you. However, in consideration to Mrs. Blythe's health and wellbeing, I insist on being contacted at the slightest indication of her condition worsening. The hospital reception has standing orders to put Mrs. Blythe's calls straight through to me: if you must call, use her name.
In the event that our paths do not cross again, I wish you all the best.
Respectfully,
D. Sheehan
November 5, 1894
"I'm awful sorry, Anne. There's just not that much to do around here. Times are changing - now that everyone's using the tell-ophone and all. Things are quiet here, maybe they're not as affected in the big city... But, that's how it is."
Mr. Rowan's drawled out pronunciation of 'telephone' would have made her laugh, were she capable of laughing. As it was, she was doing her best not to throw a tantrum right then and there.
"There's hardly enough to keep Abby busy - she needs it, on account of her father, so I find things for her to do, you see..." he trailed off sheepishly.
It wasn't his fault, she reasoned. Mr. Rowan had warned her in the spring that there wouldn't be much work.
"You're not in trouble, Anne, are you? If you need help -"
"I don't." She needed a job, not a hand out. "I mean, I'm fine, thank you." She saluted the bald man with a fixed smile and turned on her heels before her sharp tongue could lash out.
He could have found something for her to do as well, Anne pouted to herself on the way home. Why should Abby get the special treatment? Her father wasn't dying - he'd had one scare, years ago, and had been milking it ever since. They didn't really need the money, not any worse than Anne did.
Oh, she knew she was trying to convince herself of a fib. Hadn't Mr. Rowan been good enough to her? Five years ago, he had kindly given Anne a shift at the post office, paying her a salary even when there was not enough to occupy two employees. She ought to stay grateful for his generosity: after all, his help had seen her and Marilla through a difficult time.
When the expense of Marilla's medicine, piled on top of the cost of hired help for the farm, became unmanageable, Anne had suggested dipping into the savings Matthew had not entrusted to the bank. Marilla wouldn't hear of it: she insisted that Matthew had left her with strict instructions regarding its purpose. Unable to imagine anything dearer to the man than his farm and his sister (though not necessarily in that specific order), Anne had tried to reason with her charge, but Marilla wouldn't budge: this was not an emergency, and so they would go about 'panicking like headless chickens'.
Well, it still wasn't an option, Anne thought grimly as she let herself in through the gate and walked around the house. She would figure out a way to crunch the numbers. From where she stood at the edge of the garden, she could see Davy bending over in the closest field, inspecting something. His lack of optimism from this year's harvest concerned her a bit, but maybe things weren't as bad as he was making them.
November 17, 1894
"Is it really that bad?" asked Anne, incredulously, her eyes crossed from staring at the numbers too long.
Fred offered an apologetic grimace. "I wish it wasn't. But the way the wheat behaved this year..."
"The potatoes came out alright," she groped desperately for something positive onto which to hang.
"They did," conceded her red-faced friend, but Anne heard what Fred wasn't saying by the transparent emotions in his blue eyes.
"Alright," she surrendered. "What do we do, then?"
"Would you consider Silas' offer?" he suggested.
She shook her head. "I couldn't do that to Davy, much less sell to a Sloane."
"I didn't think so." He sat back. "Well, if you're not selling land, maybe some furniture? If there's anything you don't mind pawning off?"
Anne felt a surge of gratitude at the fact that he didn't straight up offer her any financial aid. Helping Davy in the farm and crunching numbers was one thing - but Fred knew that mentioning a loan out loud would be a strain between them. They were family, and if anything terrible should occur, there would be coffers opened and money dished out without a question. This was an understood fact, one which needn't be spoken to be true.
"I don't think we're quite there yet," she referred both to the verbalized suggestion and the implied offer. "I still have some set aside from my post office hours: as long as we can earn something from the market these next two weeks, I think we'll be fine."
Fred's smile was tolerant, if not a bit uncertain. Anne grinned back, the concern on her face mirroring his, and patted his hand. "Come on, let's head downstairs. That wife of yours tends to get irritable when dinner is delayed."
"She might be more lenient if you weren't always late."
"I most certainly do not!" Anne's fake outrage rang from the staircase. There was a thumping sound, followed by an umf- ow! and some giggling.
"Worse than children," mumbled Diana to herself, smirking indulgently, before asking Freddie to hurry up and set the table.
December 24, 1894
Christmas Eve turned out to be a much bigger affair than the previous year. The added presence of Davy and Mrs. Blythe had been confirmed last month, but the impromptu invitation issued to the Harrisons did crowd the dining room a bit.
That wasn't to say that they weren't welcome: Diana had greeted the couple warmly, introduced the children - reprimanded Small Anne for peeking through the lid of the gift hamper the thoughtful guests had brought with them - and assured them that fitting two extra seats at the table was no trouble at all. Fred had brought more chairs down from the attic, and everyone was squeezed in around the glossy oak table (yes, Diana confirmed to Mrs. Harrison, it was an antique, a Barry family heirloom).
Soon, Mr. Harrison was being instructed on how to make girls squeal by holding worms up to their face by Frederick Wright the younger; Frederick Wright the elder was trying to keep his other offspring from using her fork as a catapult, and Mrs. Blythe asked Davy about Millie.
Diana emerged from the kitchen, presenting the goose on her good silver platter, and everybody cheered at what a handsome bird it was. Anne took advantage of the distraction to slip in unnoticed, and set the tureen of gravy on the table before taking her own seat.
Fred bowed his head to say grace, and the others followed suit. He thanked the Lord for the abundance of food on his table, and for sending him many friends with whom to celebrate the birth of His Son; he asked that James Harrison and his wife and child be safe and merry, since they were unable to travel through the snow as originally planned; and finally, that He keep their beloved friend and son by His side.
The closing of his prayer was answered by a scattering of amens and some tear-betraying sniffs, and after an ice-breaking joke about who should best be suited to carve the bird, conversation and merriment resumed easily. Anne was clutching Mrs. Blythe's hand like a lifeline under the table, and was finding it hard to let go, but she eventually relinquished her fingers in order to allow the woman to eat.
It might have been all the chattering and laughter, but Anne didn't hear Gilbert that night.
December 31, 1894
Anne paced the length of her bedroom. She hadn't heard him in over a week: would he not show up tonight?
No, he would show up. He'd promised.
Or, maybe he wouldn't. Maybe Mrs. Blythe was right - Anne had simply gone mad, and the fact that she was aware meant that the hallucinations would not return.
Would a hallucination return, if one was aware of its falsehood?
Deep down, though, Anne knew that she wasn't insane. She knew that she'd truly seen him twice on the New Year. The recent disembodied remarks in her head might just be reminiscences of his voice, but she'd seen him last year, and the one before. Whether he was a ghost, an angel, or something else entirely, she had no clue: but she did know she hadn't imagined their exchanges.
It was already past eleven o'clock. What could be keeping him from showing up now? Was he being held up - did ghosts have an agenda, a schedule to which to adhere?
Anne let herself flop facedown on her bed, the same one upon which she'd been lying when she'd last seen him. Her eyelids had become too heavy too fast, under the influence of the barbiturates...
She scrambled into a sitting position: he'd been furious about the barbiturates, had come in just in time to prevent an overdose. And last year, he'd intervened when she was contemplating ending it all.
She thought she might know how to make him come, though she didn't have what she needed in her room. Mindful not to wake up Davy, she tiptoed down the stairs and into the kitchen. Setting her candle on the counter, she inspected the knife block and selected a serrated cheese knife.
Her sleeve was pushed back a few inches, and she held the blade over her veins.
"A bit dramatic, don't you think?"
She'd been expecting him, but not so soon: she started, and the knife clattered on the ground, narrowly missing her slippered foot.
"You came," she gasped at the form in front of her.
"Well, yes. I said I would," Gilbert rolled his eyes. "What's all this about?" he gestured at the fallen blade.
"It got late, and I thought...well, maybe you only come when I-"
"When you what? Try to cut your life short? You'd have a better success rate jumping off a cliff, you know. That knife is dull, and even if you'd sawed through to the artery, bleeding out from there would have taken forever."
Anne flushed. "I figured, maybe you only needed to see that I was thinking about it..."
"Yeah, that never would have worked," he smirked and leaned back on the counter, crossing his arms lazily in front of his chest. "I always know what you're thinking."
"Are ghosts omniscient?" she asked, her eyes huge as two saucers.
His grin turned smug. "Nah. I've always been omniscient, as far as you're concerned."
"Oh, really," she huffed, putting the knife back in its holder. "Then what am I thinking right now?"
"Let's see," he tapped a finger against his chin and stared at the ceiling, pretending to think. "You're regretting blowing off my friend, by means of post."
"Not remotely close," she bristled.
Gilbert's hazel eyes twinkled under his handsome, long, brown lashes. "I'd say I hit the mark just right. Was that really necessary, Anne?"
"He was getting nosy."
"He was checking in on you, like I'd asked him to."
"But why, Gil? Why him? He's so nosy, and so...annoying! Did it have to be him? Couldn't you have asked Fred? He's so much closer."
Gilbert's disappointment was obvious in the sternness of his eyebrows, and the twist of his mouth. "It's not always all about you, you know. Doug was a good friend to me: you're not the only one who's lost someone, you know." He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. "Ask him about his family, one of these days."
"He doesn't have much, does he?" ventured Anne.
"You'll have to ask him," said Gilbert, pushing off the counter to stand closer to her. "Doug's a good man, Anne. I hate to see either of you suffering alone."
Remorse forced her pride aside. "I was rather rude to him in that last letter, wasn't I?"
Gilbert grinned. "You said it, not me."
"Will he be alright?"
His smile faded. "That's sort of up to you."
"Why can't you do it?"
"Because you're alive, and I'm not? Because he would do the same for you? Because kindness is as kindness does?"
Anne frowned and stared away.
"I hate it when you're right."
It was worth it, just to hear him laugh again.
annjudith: Thank you! I like the concept of light out of dark, life going on, etc.
oz diva: Thank you! You found one of my weak points: last names. It was supposed to be Elphias, but it felt too pompous. Elbat sounded familiar for a reason I couldn't pinpoint, and it sounded less distinguished, so I ran with that instead. And then realized that Elbat is just table backwards. *groan*
elizasky: Thank you! You know how writers inevitably put some of themselves in their characters? You've just found the "me" in Doug: socially provocative and awkward, with a penchant for gross stories. I'm guessing it's both for his own amusement, and I suppose Anne might have egged him on a bit, as well.
Excellent suppositions regarding the will. Can't answer without spoiling. ;)
The Job 13:5 scene was originally going to take place in the Green Gables' attic, where Anne opened a dusty crate and pulled out Marilla's Bible. I liked the image of her making herself at home in the unused church better, for some reason.