8. Scarlett

You're safe, I told Rhett when the doctor finally left. I'm here, darling. You're going to be alright.

"When do you have to leave?" he asked me on the day he could finally speak, some days after we'd been in Savannah. His face was tense as he said this - perhaps because it was difficult for him to speak, or perhaps it was a difficult subject. Either way, I answered that I would not leave until we could leave together.

His face seemed to relax at that, and he went back to sleep.

It occurred to me that since he had returned home from St. Joe's, my basic promise to him had been that, that I would not leave. I would take care of him. Hadn't there been something about that in our wedding vows, something about loving, comforting through sickness and health … You would think after being married three times I would pay attention to what I was being asked to promise. It's not in my nature to dwell upon the particulars.

But here I was, promising to take care of the man that had walked out on me not six months before.

Fool that I am, I had it in my mind that he would outlive me. Its true, for all the years between us. I remember discussions of his wealth in his lawyer's office after our marriage - I must admit that the subject of Rhett's money called for my full and complete attention - but I remember being disturbed by the word predecease. That wouldn't be Rhett. The man is a cat with at least six or seven more lives to go. He couldn't die and leave me.

He's left you before, Scarlett, I think to myself.

Once after Melly died. Once before that, taking Bonnie with him. Once before that, on the pass at Rough and Ready.

"Tonight I think I die, Scarlett," Melly's tiny little voice managed from the back of the wagon. "Please, please." What, let her? Take her out of her misery, what Melly?

"Mrs. Wilkes," Rhett said, "You've been incredibly valiant this night. Don't stop now, I beg you."

Easy for him to say. He didn't hold her hand for twenty-nine excruciating hours. He had no idea what she had been through. How he dare?

When I'm dead on the alter of my country, I hope your conscience hurts you.

I mentioned to him, after we'd left his lawyer's office, that I didn't like all that talk of death and dying and that he shouldn't tempt fate.

Would you be sorry, he asked.

Oh Rhett, how you do run on, I had replied.

I would have been sorry.

"You're safe, Rhett. I'm right here."

I believe that I was born with an innate sense of control. I controlled my parents from an early age, and Mammy, and my friends of both genders. I never failed to get a man once I'd set my mind on getting him. Well, excepting Rhett and Ashley, of course. But I was born fearful, too. And after the war, I became even more so.

Case in point, January 26, 1866. I married Frank Kennedy.

I married Frank out of fear, didn't I? I was afraid that I'd lose Tara and everything else, so made poor Frank fall in love with me and I put him in the ground in a year.

And then Rhett proposed. Just like that, life as I knew it ended. Life with Rhett, after all, was anything but ordinary.

As I watched him lay there on Aunt Pauline's bed, I thought to myself - this was one of those events. This is one of those 'things' that just happen. I've never in my life felt so entirely helpless.

Ashley wasn't apprehensive in the least when he arrived the following Tuesday. He asked me what had happened. I had no answer for him. The doctor posited that when he had fallen, there had been some bleeding that had occurred inside of him. Bleeding? How? I thought that they had said that he had pneumonia!

I waited. I cried. I prayed.

I admired my Aunt Pauline's violet curtains of heavy damask.

I was twenty again, pulling down heavy velvet portieres from their rods for Mammy to pattern into a new dress. I ventured further into my mind:

I discovered, at sixteen, I was pregnant with my dead husband's child. My life was over, socially. I was never again going to be invited to parties and receive beaux. I wouldn't even have the luxury of receiving sympathetic callers, confined as I was to the house. I remember Pa being embarrassed as I started to grow round. He wouldn't even look me in the eyes. I wasn't pretty Puss anymore. And I could do nothing about it. I had wished that I was dead.

Years later, my friend Mamie Bart cheerfully recounted how she had gotten her own inconvenience taken care of. A deal was struck. She told me who to see to get it taken care of. Rhett's child. Bonnie.

He found out of course, and made good on his threat not to let me out of his sight while I was carrying her. He wasn't like Pa, embarrassed. He was kind. He was tender. He took care of me.

Now I would have to return the favor.

Bonnie would have been five in June.

August 9, 1873. Bonnie at four. The morning she had fallen to her death. Doctor Meade said that she died immediately. Her neck had broken. She felt no pain. I was so angry, so, so angry. How did he know? How could he have known? I should have listened to Melly. I should never have blamed Rhett. But I did, didn't I?

Now I would have to make up for my mistakes.

Be kind to Captain Butler, he loves you so.

He left me. I couldn't very well dwell on a promise I had no way of keeping. I cannot count the days on which I found myself abruptly blinded by tears. For Melly, for Bonnie, for Rhett…

I nudged him as he was sleeping.

"I love you."

I do love him. And I always will.