March 22, 1896
"Here it is," said Anne unnecessarily as they approached the low stone wall.
Doug offered his arm. She took it, and together they entered the graveyard. Anne showed Doug to the two newest headstones in the Blythes' plot, and whispered that she would be right back. He nodded, and she slipped off to the spot she'd visited so often in her youth, the earth around it still bore the imprints of her knees.
Here, she used to talk. She would go on, and on, spurred on by the need to share everything that had (or hadn't) happened since her previous visit: and when she was done, she would talk some more: thinking out loud, recounting dreams, wondering about the future.
The neighboring stone was more recent, and had also been visited very often since it had been placed. Here, though, Anne stayed silent. She was much older, for one - besides, all had been said that needed to be said. Rather than to chat, she came to this one for physical proximity: to touch it, to lie on the grass beside it. It brought her comfort to curl up as close as possible.
Today, she sat between them both. She couldn't speak or touch, for fear of receiving nothing in return. It had been long since the last time...
When several minutes had passed, Anne stood and went to where Doug was kneeling, unmindful of the dirt and grass staining his trousers. One large hand rested on the headstone: from anyone else, the gesture would have felt intrusive. From Doug, it spoke clearly of respect, and somehow felt friendly as well - almost fraternal.
He released the stone when she settled down next to him, and sat back. Neither spoke for a while: they breathed in the smell of early spring, watched the new grass around them yield to the breeze, observed the occasional animal visitor scurry across the rows of marble.
"I used to think that death was my friend."
Doug turned to face her.
"Something I learned at the orphanage. One of the matrons used to say that we were the lucky children who were rescued from unfit mothers and violent fathers by Providence, and we ought to be grateful. And I was - though for different reasons. I had no memory of my parents, but I knew they were good. So, in a sense, I was luckier than the children who spent time enough with parents to know their failures - mine would forever remain perfect."
Her face took a stony quality as she stared at the ground. "Then, death took Mr. Hammond, and not a moment too soon. I used to work for his family, before coming here, and... Well, he's gone, thank goodness for that."
Doug remained respectfully silent as Anne's expression softened with tenderness.
"Matthew's passing was harder to accept. In the end, though, everyone must go, and there couldn't have been a better ending for him. He went suddenly - heart attack, quick and swift. The pain didn't last long, mercifully. He would have preferred that to lying on a sickbed, with everyone hovering over him, nursing him, crowding in and invading his personal space. I'm glad he didn't suffer for long, just hardly a few seconds.
"Marilla never minded the pain: she carried through it like a warrior," she continued with a note of pride and admiration. "I've never seen anyone so brave. Death did us another kindness in giving her time: she was able to go with the knowledge that that none of us were left stranded, and that all would be well. Davy chased his future in Gaspereaux, and Dora would be taken in by Diana's aunt in Charlottetown shortly thereafter. I would keep Green Gables up and running, and Rachel - Mrs. Lynde - would check on us. I had time to say goodbye, that was a precious gift."
She looked at the headstone, and the dreamy nostalgia drained from her face.
"Death isn't anyone's friend. I understand that, now. It was just a childish notion, a way to justify being left behind by everyone I ever loved."
This made Doug sit up straighter. His mouth twisted into a skeptical grimace.
"It couldn't have been crueller. He was so young... brilliant career ahead, he had so much yet to accomplish! To experience... now, he'll never get to - and his father-"
She clamped her mouth shut. Any further use of her vocal chords were sure to stir up the moisture building up behind her eyes, and she'd certainly had enough of that. Still, despite her efforts not to speak - or think, or breathe - one solitary bead coursed down her cheek.
"I hate death," she choked, struggling to explain her fitful demeanor, barely understanding it herself. "I'm not - I'm not afraid, you see. Or sad. I... I simply do not like it." Her rush to speak had jostled out more tears; she swiped at them clumsily, gasping to keep her breathing in check. Her composure was slipping, and the more frantically she tried to recover, the slipperier it got.
A burly arm reached around, and she found herself being tugged forward. Losing her balance, she toppled into Doug's bulk, and a second beefy arm prevented her escape. Oddly, the need to flee didn't even arise. His firm hold wasn't threatening: it felt...safe. His grip was tight and secure, yet harmless at the same time. Without hesitation, Anne burrowed into his soft embrace, pressing her face against the jiggly mound of flesh that was his chest, and let herself be squeezed until the sun began its descent.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x
After several hours of weeping, which had left her out of tears and sapped of energy, Anne had found herself too weak to even stand - let alone get herself home. It had been up to Doug to literally carry her back to Green Gables. At the time, she'd been far too drained to feel anything but relief. Leaning heavily against him as he supported her in his huge arms, she'd supposed embarrassment would follow later.
It didn't come when a nearly hysterical Millie greeted them on the Green Gables porch, nor when Davy was sent to fetch the forgotten horse and buggy at the church. Anne couldn't feel anything but the plush cushiness of the couch in the sitting room, the warmth emanating from the fireplace, the sweetness of Millie's rich hot cocoa. She hadn't even thought to blush when Doug had felt her brow for her temperature.
After Millie had managed to force some supper into everyone, Davy gave Doug a ride home, while the blessed girl had helped Anne fresh off with a cool washcloth before assisting her into her nightclothes. Though she'd been exhausted, sleep did not come straight away.
For a while, Anne gazed out the window. Between the drapes (which Millie had reluctantly left open at Anne's request), she stared at the moon. Listened to the owl's hoot, breathed in the grassy spring air. Sleeplessness normally drove her to light a candle for reading, sneak out for a nocturnal walk, do something - but her limbs rested lethargically beside her body, and her mind was only just reaching the confines of passivity.
Oddly, the first notion to burst her bubble of non-thought was the absurdity of Doug dragging her home on foot. She'd been completely out of sorts: what was his excuse for leaving poor Orlando behind? But never mind that: he'd been good to do so.
What was he going to do, leave you there?
And there it was: the voice she'd expected to hear at the graveside (one of them, at least). She had been honest about not fearing death: however, visiting the cemetery had filled her with trepidation of what she might hear, if graves could speak...
Of course graves can't speak, you goose!
The point was, the graves had stood deadly still, and the accusations she'd dreaded never did come. Instead, she'd gone and interrupted Doug's silent reverence by spilling her guts to him. Out spewed the words, then the tears, followed by the great honking sobs (now she felt the shame belatedly rising in her, remembering how a thread of snot had inelegantly snaked from her nose) and the hacking coughs of a distressed throat.
And Doug had held her through it all: not remotely disgusted, nor uncomfortable, he'd allowed her to make a mess of his handkerchief, then his sleeve when she'd run out clean corners (here the embarrassment doubled). Carrying her home when her legs would not (and then tripled), and staying by her side all throughout her collapse on the couch.
Ah, Carrots, you always did like to dramatize things.
Fine, then, if not a collapse, then an undignified wobble. To Doug's credit, he did not laugh at her (neither did Davy, nor Millie). Anne might have laughed at herself, but it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. In her nearly catatonic state, she'd allowed him to kneel so close to her (sit, once Millie brought over a chair from the parlor) and touch her forehead. The seasoned doctor made no big thing of it: just brushed the wisps of hair from her face and leaned the back of his hand on her skin, as naturally as if he were reading the time off a clock.
If it was no big deal, why are you still thinking of it?
Because... because no one had ever touched her like that before. Not even Matthew, who'd expressed his deep affection through actions... certainly not by Marilla, who'd avoided physical contact at all cost.
I've touched you plenty of times!
That was different. Not unpleasant, far from it - thrilling, but with an added sense of danger. Those were the touches which raised goosebumps on her arms, and made her tremble with a strange cocktail of desire and fear. Doug's touches were nothing like that: they felt safe, comfortable, and utterly uncomplicated.
Like a dog.
Like a friend - a very good friend. More than a friend... a brother. Perhaps.
Do you hear clucking? Because someone sounds like a chicken.
Anne flopped onto her stomach and pulled the pillow over her head, but even with cushion pressed against her ears, she couldn't completely tune out the grating clucks. Scrunching her eyes shut, she remembered something Doug had said while Millie kept busy in the kitchen.
"You've been in mourning for quite a while. Perhaps it's time to let go of some of that grief."
It had annoyed her at the time: hadn't she, though? Wasn't she moving on with her life? She was being more social, and staying in touch with those far away. She'd gotten a job, all on her own, which forced her to interact with people and businesses in Avonlea: she'd even travelled across the country by herself, twice! What more did he expect from her? Couldn't he see how hard she was trying?
But she wasn't, not really, and she knew it. Despite all her efforts to focus on the living around her, she kept looking back: waiting to hear, hoping to see... moulding her habits around someone who wasn't really there.
Doug was right: she needed to let go, and so she would. She closed her eyes and spoke her vow out loud: "I'm letting go."
Whether she'd expected it or not, there was no reply. The hollow spot in her chest expanded, and Anne quickly counted up the days left till the end of the year.
March 23, 1896
"Lavinia, this is Doug; Doug, meet Lavinia."
"Charmed, I'm sure." Doug tipped his hat, but kept a respectable distance between his new acquaintance and himself.
"You'll need to come a bit closer," beckoned Anne.
"Are you sure this is safe?" he asked, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder.
"Of course," she rolled her eyes. "They're dairy cows, not bulls. They won't charge - don't make any sudden movements, though."
Doug froze, and Anne had to bite her lip so as not to grin. It was wicked of her to tease him, when his fear seemed genuine... but how was she supposed to resist such a golden opportunity? In front of her stood the great, unflappable Dr. Sheehan; she'd never seen him fearful, and wondered if anything could get him off his game. Here, standing in a pasture surrounded by comically harmless four-legged vegetarians, Doug was completely out of his depth.
"You said it was safe!" His reproachful complaint tugged at the corners of her mouth until she could resist a smile no longer: her amusement caused him to blink. "Oh, ha ha, very clever," he glared at her. Anne threw her head back and gave in to laughter.
"You can touch her," she managed between chuckles, petting the cow affectionately between the eyes. "She's really very sweet."
Doug eyed Lavinia dubiously. "She's humongous."
"Hush!" admonished Anne without heat. "You'll hurt her feelings. Besides, you're not exactly the smallest of your kind."
"And I like it that way," sniffed Doug. "I don't usually socialize with beasts over twice my size."
"Oh, stop being a ninny, and come say a proper hello," Anne insisted. "Don't you want to thank the source of milk for your tea? Or coffee?"
"I don't take milk in my coffee," he grumbled, but approached nonetheless. "Alright... how do I do this?"
"She's a cow, Doug - leather for skin, remember? You can even slap her side, she won't mind," Anne demonstrated with a sturdy smack to the animal's rump, making Doug flinch. Lavinia barely blinked.
"Alright. Fine." His large hand reached out tentatively until his fingertips grazed the cow's side. Just as he exhaled in relief, her tail whacked about, missing Doug's face by a hair and causing him to leap back with a strangled yelp.
"It's alright," gasped Anne between peels of laughter. "She probably thought she felt a fly," she assured him.
"Yes, well, are we done here?" demanded a disgruntled Doug.
Anne took pity on him and lead him out of the pasture. Once safely on the other side of the fence, he pulled out a handkerchief to mop his brow and neck. "Never again," he wheezed.
"But you haven't been formally introduced to Orlando!" she teased, earning herself a scowl.
"I'll appreciate his company from a distance, thank you very much."
"Your loss," Anne shrugged as he pocketed the handkerchief, and they headed down the grassy path. "You might as well enjoy your last day in the countryside. Where shall we go?"
"Anywhere, as long as we stay clear of cows and horses."
"Hester Gray's garden it is," Anne chuckled agreeably. "We'll give you better parting memories there."
"I'll need some. Not that petting that monster wasn't fun," he added when she glanced at him sideways. "It might be a long time before I return."
"Oh." Surprised at her own disappointment, Anne strived for a light tone. "I'm sure you'll be relieved to be back in in the city."
"I'll miss this place," he assured her. "Not the cows - but the quiet. And the people. I'm glad I came: for the wedding, for you, and Mrs. Blythe... And I want to come back soon, but I don't know when I'll be able to take time off work again."
Anne swallowed past the odd lump in her throat. "But you will come back?"
"Why, Shirley! You're not trying to say you'll miss me, are you?"
She tried to scoff, but his lighthearted ribbing had touched a sensitive spot. Weak attempts to keep a stiff upper lip dissolved into a shaky pout.
"Hey." He nudged her gently with his elbow. "You know, you could always come to Prince Albert."
"I know." Her cheeks contracted into a self-deprecating, smile-like grimace. "I'm afraid I'm no better at farewells than I used to be."
"It doesn't have to be a farewell," Doug suggested. "It could just be a... a 'till new year'."
"Till new year?" she echoed.
"Sure. I've been trying to get you to visit over the holidays for a while, now - so why not? Unless you've got plans..."
"Well..."
"Of course, you'll want to be with your family," he misinterpreted her hesitation. "Which is fine - I mean, good."
"I might be able to find some time..."
"Don't worry about it," he replied. "In the meantime, we can keep the post office in business."
Anne smiled despite herself. "That sounds nice."
"I'll brush up on my poetry," Doug vowed. "I've been working on this piece: it's about a young man from Surry, whose backside was unfortunately furry-" he dodged her elbow, and broke into a run when she chased after him. By the time they reached the garden, panting and giggling like children, Anne wasn't worrying about the new year anymore, wondering whether or not their date would be honored.
A/N: Dear readers,
My apologies for the late update. Many thanks to all who stumble upon these ramblings. Special thanks to MrsVonTrapp for being supportive of my grumpy butt, through what's been a rough period for writing. I'm slowly pulling out of the funk, and will keep pushing myself to publish more frequently!
For those of you playing the game, the hidden easter eggs in the previous chapter are: the character named Jeannie, who faked her illness, licked her palms, and her little tirade about the exam she's skipping is a loose mimic of the main character's monologue ("I'm not European, nor do I plan on being European, so who gives a crap if they're socialists? It still wouldn't change the fact that I don't own a car!"). Still don't get it? Why, it's Ferris Bueller's Day Off, of course!
No easter eggs in this chapter - I might have lost my mojo. Hopefully, I'll be able to publish something of which I can be proud soon! Thank you all so much for reading.