Chapter 10
Pain.
The entire world is filled with pain. It rolls over her in waves, impossible to control and nearly impossible to bear. She can just lie on her side, curled up tightly, hands balled into fists, and wait for it to pass. There are moments of respite in-between, but they're growing shorter. The pauses only allow her to briefly catch her breath, before the next wave rolls over her again and the world is, once more, filled with pain. Pain, like nothing she's ever felt before.
Fool as she was, in the beginning, she thought it wouldn't be so very bad. In fact, in the beginning, she didn't even realise that anything was happening at all.
The dull, squeezing ache that began sometime in the night wasn't unfamiliar, having been an irregular part of her life for several weeks beforehand. Daisy, upon being told about it, identified the ache as contractions and told her it wasn't unusual to have them even a while before birth, and Aunt Dora, when she sat Rilla down one afternoon and told her about what to expect during the birth, confirmed the same thing. Thus, when she first felt the ache, Rilla just stayed in bed and tried to go back to sleep, hoping for it to pass soon.
She did fall back into an uneasy slumber, but when she awoke from it, the ache was still there, even having increased in intensity. It reminded of her the cramps she knew from the particularly unpleasant time that afflicts women every month, coupled with the lower back pain that had accompanied her frequently in recently weeks.
Knowing that Aunt Dora would frown at her not being ready in time for breakfast, and feeling oddly restless anyway, Rilla got up and got dressed in a dress lent to her by her aunt. It had only taken Aunt Dora one look at the old clothes of Rilla's mother that Susan had gotten from the attic, before she went to her own storage closet and pulled out dresses from her pregnancy with Janie. Given Janie's age, they weren't of the latest fashion, but they were at least sewn and worn in this century, so Rilla accepted them gratefully.
Feeling slightly nauseous, Rilla struggled to eat breakfast, but, aware of her aunt's eyes on her, succeeded in swallowing some tiny pieces of bread. Afterwards, she went with Aunt Dora to the office to assist with paperwork relating to the running of the mine, all the while doing her best to ignore the increasing discomfort she was feeling.
That discomfort notwithstanding, she didn't mind helping her aunt. It had become a regular occurrence after her arrival here, and while she found it boring and tedious at first, her aunt increasingly started to explain bits and pieces of what they were doing, and, improbably, the more she understood, the more Rilla began to be interested in their dealings. It wasn't fascinating work, but given that she never ventured out much and even less so as her middle expanded uncomfortably, it provided her with something to do to break up the long days of waiting.
Today proved to be an especially long day. What had started out as pangs became increasingly difficult to ignore, though Rilla did her best not to let her aunt see that she wasn't feeling well. Having grown up under Susan's tutelage, she was taught early not to whine unless seriously ill, and besides, her very own pride forbade her from complaining. Therefore, she gritted her teeth and remained sitting at her desk, even as her body made it ever more difficult to ignore that something was happening.
Probably, she could have guessed what was happening, but she didn't want to face it, so she closed her eyes to the truth and resolutely proceeded with the day's tasks. She thought, from the searching way her aunt looked at her as the hours passed, that she had an idea what was happening as well, but neither of them acknowledged that something was out of the ordinary until noon was past.
The matter couldn't be ignored any longer when Rilla, standing in the hallway, suddenly felt a strange sensation, only to look down and find the hems of her borrowed skirt suddenly damp. Thinking, in the first moment, that she had wet herself, she didn't get a chance to hurry away and out of sight though, before Aunt Dora appeared and marched her directly to her room.
"I'm sorry, I…" Rilla began to apologise, but Aunt Dora was having none of it.
"It's happening," she declared curtly, and while she didn't specify what was happening, Rilla instinctively knew that now, the moment had arrived.
For months, she had done her best to deny, even to herself, how this would end, but of course, denial could only ever take her so far. She might have closed her eyes to the truth for a long time, but one look at her aunt's face told her that she could do so no longer. This bewildering situation she was in was close to being brought to an end, and the very thought terrified her.
At least her aunt knew what was to be done. Handing Rilla a loose shirt to wear, she ushered her from the guest room to a smaller chamber close to the kitchen, muttering something about not wanting the bed to be soiled. There, she left her to get changed, declaring that she would come back later to look in on her.
Even if pressed, Rilla couldn't probably tell how much time had passed while she stayed in the small room. Having changed into the shirt, she had sat down on the narrow bed and waited, only for nothing to happen except for the pain to get even worse. It was still somewhat bearable then, but as the hours passed, it became less so. When sitting was too uncomfortable, she tried walking instead, moving from one wall to the other in the small confinements of the room. It helped, for a bit, until the cramps grew strong enough to make her sway on her feet, and she decided to lie down instead.
It was then, approximately, when Aunt Dora opened the door for the first time, cast a brief look at Rilla and left again. Uncertain what else to do, Rilla stayed on the bed, lying on her side and hoping that it would all pass soon.
It didn't.
Instead, she could see through the small window near the ceiling that the sun was setting, its red glow giving way to darkness as night fell, leaving only a lamp to illuminate her room Without a watch, Rilla couldn't keep the time passing, but she had a feeling that hours went by as she lay on the bed. At infrequent intervals, the door opened to reveal Aunt Dora, but it was never for long before she was alone again.
[Content warning: Labour and child birth]
Thus, as she lies there, the night stretches into eternity, long and lonely and dark, and by the time the grey hue behind the window announces the arrival of oncoming dawn, any pride she may have ever felt has been cleanly erased.
She can but lie on her side, her arms wrapped tightly around her hard middle, too exhausted to even move, as wave after wave of pain racks through her body. She's cold, so desperately cold, yet knows she's drenched in sweat, her body shaking and shivering even in the fleeting moments when the pain briefly ebbs away. The's blood on her lip from where she bit down on it too hard, its metallic taste mixing with the salt of her tears. From the smell, she thinks there's also blood on the sheets, but it's too dark to be sure and she doesn't dare move to check.
She's hurting, she's exhausted and she's absolutely terrified.
Biting down on an edge of the rough woollen blanket, she stifles a cry into a moan, knowing she may not wake the house, may not cause a ruckus. As the pain washes over her, she feels her body convulsing, and holds her breath as she waits for it to pass. Newly, there's another sensation, urging her body to push or press, but she doesn't know if it's alright, so she resists it, with whatever little strength she has left.
Through the fog of pain, she's dimly aware of the door opening as a beam of light hits her face. There's the outline of Aunt Dora in the doorway, prim and proper as she's dressed for a new day to begin even before the sun has risen. Briefly, Rilla thinks there's someone standing behind her, but she can't be sure and can't be bothered to find out.
"I see things are progressing nicely," declares Aunt Dora from her place in the doorway. "First time labours always take a while."
Rilla doesn't answer, because she's too tired to make her mind form words, and because she doesn't know what there could possibly be to say. If her aunt says things are progressing nicely, it must be true, even if it feels to her nothing like that.
The door closes again, and she's back to the darkness and the loneliness and the pain.
She's past thinking, can only react to what is happening to her, and at some point, the sensation urging her to push becomes too strong to resist. She tries to prevent it, but she doesn't have the strength left, so she lets her body take over, to do whatever it wants to do. Exhausted as she is, it's a feeble attempt, and it doesn't accomplish anything, she thinks, instead making her feel like she's pushing against something stable, unmovable, that simply won't budge.
It continues like that, a cycle of pain and pushing, while the dim grey light behind the window grows stronger and brighter, dawn giving way to a proper morning. She's going into the second day of whatever this is, she thinks fleetingly, and if she had hoped for it to pass quickly, that hope was clearly forlorn.
As daylight illuminates the room, what little is left of her strength leaves her entirely. Even if she wanted to follow the sensation to push, she finds that her body is too tired to do so. She can just lie, unresisting, as the waves move over her, crashing and subsiding in an unrelenting cycle. She can't even cry anymore, she finds, so she just stays limp and unmoving, staring ahead without seeing anything.
She wants no part in this anymore.
She's tried to be brave, she thinks, and she did the best she could, but this, this is too much. She bore the pain and the loneliness and the fear, and she believes she did it bravely, but the sheer exhaustion now engulfing her is nothing she can fight. With no more strength left to spend and no end in sight, everything that kept her going dissolves into nothingness. Pride and bravery and even her very own sort of tenacity that no-one truly thought she had, are wiped away into blackness.
She doesn't know what it is, this cruelty, but she knows she doesn't want to have anything more to do with it. She doesn't want to have anything to do with a world that knows pain and cruelty like this, and as she surveys the state of herself, impassively, like someone watching from above, she thinks she might not have to for much longer.
If she only closes her eyes and –
The door is thrown open. There are voices, agitated, arguing, breaking her solitude. Someone pulls the blanket from her limp hold and moves it away from her face.
She could protest, Rilla knows, but she doesn't care to. She doesn't even care to open her eyes anymore, because if she doesn't, maybe these people will go away and maybe, she can make it be over soon. She only wants it to be over now, for it to end, in whatever way.
"With due respect, Mrs Andrews, this girl needs a doctor," announces a voice, loudly and forcefully. It's a woman, Rilla thinks, and not someone she knows, but she doesn't open her eyes to find out. It's not something that interests her anymore.
"She's fine," replies someone else – Aunt Dora – with annoyance. "First time mothers always take a while to labour and her waters didn't break until noon yesterday."
"She's exhausted," argues the other voice. "Look at her, she's not even moving!"
"She's just resting to gather her strength," corrects Aunt Dora in that crisp tone of voice that Rilla knows so well. "She will –"
"She will die if you don't do anything!" interrupts the other woman hotly.
Her words, plain as they are, succeed in getting through to Rilla, but not enough to entice her to open her eyes. It's more of a morbid curiosity, to hear that one might be dying, and while it briefly makes her wonder whether she ought to be doing something about it, she then reminds herself that if she were dead, at least all of this would be over.
It doesn't sound so bad to her, dying does.
"Nonsense!" snaps Aunt Dora. "She is doing fine. She is under my care and in my house! I don't see what authority you have here, only because my maid thought it prudent to call you!"
"My daughter called me because she was worried," the other woman answers back, no more politely. "She could see that something was wrong, and she was right!"
"It's only a matter of time," insists Aunt Dora. "She's young and strong. Once she has rested for a bit, it will all progress swimmingly."
"We both know why you won't call a doctor for her and it's not because you can't see that she doesn't need one!" accuses the unknown woman. "You're no fool, Dora Andrews, and I know you don't believe your own words. You refuse to call Dr Anderson simply because you're afraid to draw even more attention to this scandal you're hiding, but just think of what the scandal will be like if the only person you'll end up calling is the undertaker!"
Aunt Dora clucks her tongue in disapproval, in a way that is so familiar to Rilla that she doesn't even need to see it to imagine her aunt's face. "Now, that is rather dramatizing the issue and –"
"I wonder what her parents will say," interjects the other woman, speaking right over Aunt Dora.
The latter, clearly, is indignant. "She's an orphan. Her parents sadly died when –"
"Her parents," the woman interrupts once again, "are alive and well, as everyone can easily guess. Don't insult me by continuing this charade, Dora Andrews! I don't know where she comes from, but I know that someone asked you to take her in. Someone cared enough about her not to cast her out to the streets or sent her to one of those homes for fallen women. Despite her condition, she means something to someone, because otherwise, she wouldn't be here with you. Now, tell me, what will her parents think when you have to tell them you lost their daughter because you were too proud to call a doctor for her?"
In response, there's silence, of the drawn out, deafening sort, and the change in atmosphere is enough to coerce Rilla into a reaction, even if it's only to crack open one eye. During the fight, she just listened, with the detached curiosity of those not involved, but the sudden silence is unusual enough to pique her interest.
She sees Aunt Dora, standing by the open door, dressed in her blue-checked day dress, with her arms folded in front of her chest. Closer, by the foot of the bed, is another woman, who reminds Rilla of Daisy, or rather, of what Daisy might look like in another three decades. Her dress is simpler, less fashionable, but the expression on her face is nothing short of fierce.
"Do nothing, and they will both die." She's addressing Aunt Dora, her voice now low but no less urgent. "She needs help, Mrs Andrews, or they will both be on your conscience."
Another long, endless moment of silence follows, before Aunt Dora jerks her head up once, a reluctant nod of concession. "I will send Johnny to get Dr Anderson." She turns, briskly, and strides from the room, her skirts rustling as she walks.
The other woman – Daisy's mother – looks after her and murmurs, barely audible, "I hope it won't end up being Reverend James we need."
Only then does she turn around for a look at Rilla and seems visibly surprised to find her awake. It takes but a second for her to collect herself though and for her expression to soften. Walking closer to the head of the bed, she lays a cool hand on Rilla's forehead.
"You're doing well," she states quietly. "You've been very brave, and you fought well. Help is on the way now, for you and your baby. It will be alright, you'll see."
Rilla can't see, quite honestly, how it can be alright, because surely, the world spun off its axis long ago, this strange, unknown world filled with pain and fear. She can't see how anyone could make it be alright again, because now she has seen it and knows she doesn't want the world, if this is what it is.
There's another wave of pain washing over her, perhaps as a reminder of what the truth looks like, but she's barely strong enough to react to it anymore. If, before, her body cramped and convulsed under the pain, now it barely twitches. She doesn't even have to prevent herself from crying out, because she's quite sure she wouldn't be able to produce a sound anyhow. She just waits as the pain crescents, holding her breath until it's over, as she has done for hours and hours on end.
If she's being honest, she can't imagine a world not filled with pain anymore, a world where all of this is past her. Doctor or not, it feels like this is her lot now, a never-ending cycle of pain and exhaustion, and she can't see how there'd be anything to break it.
She's not even sure she wants anything to break it, because even if someone can, at the end of it, she will still be here. She will be here and she will remember and she will know what ugliness lives in a world she once thought beautiful. It's not something she wants to be a part of, not in any possible way.
But she doesn't say that, because she's too tired to speak and even too tired to form her snatches of thoughts into words. The hand on her forehead is cool and gentle, amid this sea of pain she's in, so she closes her eyes and concentrates on that, a solitary moment of kindness in a world that is otherwise just dark.
A/N: I know it's bad timing, especially with the content of this chapter and because I only just took a break, but work is sending me on a trip that I can't weasel my way out of. (Trust me, I tried!) Therefore, I'm putting the story on a one week-break while I'm away. The next chapter will, accordingly, be posted in July 11th. After that, however, there shouldn't be another break until mid-September at the earliest, so we should make some decent headway until then.
To Guest:
Just to clarify: Neither of Rilla's sisters ever had a baby. I'm sorry if I failed to make it clear enough, but it was Daisy talking about her own sister whose baby was taken on by their parents as their own child. So, this wasn't Anne and Gilbert but the parents of Daisy who did that. It was used by Daisy as an example of how it was dealt with in her own family, but given Anne's age, it was never an option for the Blythes. Even if Nan or Di had fallen pregnant (which they didn't) Anne would have been too old to pass a baby of one of them as her own as well, just as she's too old with Rilla's baby now, because she had her own children rather late in life for the era. Thus, Anne and Gilbert might not be winning a parenting award with how they're treating Rilla right now, but they didn't give preferential treatment to their other daughters either =).
As for why they don't allow Rilla to write to her siblings, I think it's part of everyone's desire to keep the secret of Rilla's pregnancy at all cost. At Dora's home, Rilla is known as "Bertha Keith", so if she were to get letters addressed to "Rilla Blythe", not only would they never reach her, but it might set people talking. At the same time, they can't tell her siblings the pretended name, because then they'd ask questions that no-one wants to answer. It's just easier not to have anyone send letters to Rilla while she is out west.
I fully understand that the way I'm writing Anne and Gilbert in this story differs from their popular portrayal in fanfiction. A few chapters back, I explained my personal view and why I think that my characterisation of them isn't so very different from how LMM wrote them in canon, but I absolutely understand that that's my interpretation and that others might see it differently. Certainly, in this story, they're not the very open-minded and understanding parents we've come to know in fanfic, so that's something we can agree on, I believe.
Having said all that, I'm very glad to hear that you enjoy the story despite the somewhat unusual depiction of Anne and Gilbert, and I hope that this chapter, dire as it certainly is, is also interesting to you =).