Chapter 15
"Rilla."
It's been almost half a year since anyone called her by that name and, even more than the red earth, it startles her. She didn't think one could grow unfamiliar with their own name, but after so many months of being Bertha, suddenly being Rilla again feels disconcerting.
"Rilla," her mother repeats, like she, too, has to get used to speaking the name again.
"Hello, mother," replies Rilla, because she feels she has to say something. Oddly, for a brief moment, she expects Aunt Dora to appear and scold her for being rude in not offering a greeting right away, but then she remembers that her days of being scolded by Aunt Dora are behind her.
She doesn't care what her parents say. Going back to live with Aunt Dora again is no option for her. She'd sooner run away altogether.
"Susan said you're here," offers her mother, seeming herself too stunned for her usual brilliance to shine.
In response, Rilla merely shrugs, because her being here is not a fact anyone can sensibly deny.
"Dora didn't tell us she was sending you home," her mother states, frowning in confusion. "It's unlike Dora not to be in touch. I suppose she must have written and the letter didn't get delivered in time?" Her voice turns up at the end, turning a statement into a question.
It would, Rilla recognises in an instant, be the easiest to nod and go along with her mother's suggestion. She surmised long ago that normally, her mother's contact to Aunt Dora is negligible and the chance of Aunt Dora coming to visit to set things straight is even smaller. Before all this happened, she hadn't come to Ingleside in Rilla's lifetime and with the additional awkwardness of the previous months, she doesn't think Aunt Dora is more inclined to visit now than she was before. Thus, if she just pretended that Aunt Dora sent her here and stuck to the story, it's improbable that the lie would ever be revealed for what it is.
However, even as she considers lying to fulfil her mother's expectations, she knows that she won't do it. In contrast to some of her siblings, she used to be an uncomplicated child who was happy to go along with what her elders told her, if only to avoid conflict, but after the experiences of the past months and weeks, she's not that child anymore. She's not even sure she's a child anymore at all, despite her 17th birthday still lying ahead of her.
"It was my decision to come back," she therefore hears herself tell her mother, watching her closely as she speaks.
Her mother blinks several times as she processes this information. "Dora agreed to it?"
"She did," replies Rilla simply, choosing to forgo explaining how she got Aunt Dora to agree to her plan.
"But where is she?" her mother wants to know. "If she brought you here…" She trails off and a second passes before confusion turns to evident shock. "She did bring you here, didn't she?"
There's a certain irony to the fact, Rilla thinks, that even though she's already damaged goods, her travelling on her own is still not an option. Why is it that society ascribes such importance to a girl's reputation?
"Ralph Andrews took me," she explains. "He went on to visit relatives in Avonlea." She doesn't mention that they parted ways at the ferry and that she was, indeed, alone for the final train trip.
Let them think that at least for the duration of this journey, her virtue cannot be questioned.
Her mother's relief is palpable. "That is kind of him. I must remember to send a note to thank him." She doesn't mention thanking Aunt Dora, which makes Rilla wonder, once more, whether her parents did anything to make up for the inconvenience of her presence or whether, through some unspoken family obligations, Aunt Dora merely fulfilled an expectation by taking her in.
Not for the first time Rilla reflects that if family obligations were at play, she would have preferred to have stayed with fun, easy-going Uncle Davy and his warm, motherly wife Milly, whom she remembers dimly from childhood trips to Avonlea. However, even she is clever enough to recognise that Avonlea wouldn't have been nearly far away enough for her parents to agree to it. To hide her shame, nothing but a journey to the other side of the country would have done.
Hide her shame, they did. Now she's back and what she doesn't know is how to go on from here.
"Did you have a pleasant journey?" asks her mother into the momentary silence and something about that question feels like a slap to the face. Apparently, here they are, standing several feet apart, talking about the pleasantness her journey.
When, Rilla wonders, did they turn into strangers?
"It was alright," she answers and hopes that the next question won't be about the weather.
It isn't. Instead, her mother asks the one questions she dreads even more. "How are you?"
It shouldn't be the impossible question that it is. In fact, so often, it's not even a true question at all, merely asked out of politeness without expecting an honest answer. So often, it is a question begging for the answer to be a lie as people claim to be fine when they are anything but.
She doesn't think her mother means the question to be understood in this way, but that's precisely what makes it impossible to answer for Rilla. She hasn't yet understood how she is feeling in the privacy of her own mind, so to answer her mother without revealing too much isn't something she knows how to do.
"Tired," she therefore replies, thus falling back onto the same non-answer she gave Susan earlier.
From her mother's expression, she thinks that she recognises the evasion, but while Anne Blythe hasn't always been known for tact and restraint, she has the good sense not to pressure her daughter into revealing anything more than she is comfortable with. If, for now, the only answer willingly given is 'tired', the best option is to contend oneself with it.
Somewhat warily, Rilla watches her mother, unsure whether her non-answer will be allowed to stand or if she will be made to say more. After all, in their house, there was always an emphasis put on talking and while it was rare that anyone listened to her chattering for very long, she knows her older siblings were usually encouraged to talk about their grievances.
However, her mother doesn't ask her to elaborate on her feelings. Instead, she echoes the very sentiment Susan made when given the same answer. "I should leave you to rest, then."
And while, logically, Rilla should be grateful that there's no prying, she is also oddly disappointed by her mother's reply. She can't put her finger on why it is, but she thinks it might be because her otherwise quite stubborn mother isn't usually known to give in so easily. It's not that she's entirely certain that she wants company, but at the same time, she's not sure she wants her mother to leave so quickly either.
She doesn't say any of this though, so when her mother stays standing in the doorway instead of leaving the room altogether, she does so of her own volition. For a moment, she appears to be teetering on the spot, as if unable to decide whether to stay or to leave, but then seems to settle on staying, at least for now.
"Did I tell you that we're glad that you're back?" she asks, looking unusually emotional herself.
"You didn't," replies Rilla somewhat tersely, because after so many months, her mother's emotions confuse her.
What she wants to ask is whether her parents intended for her to come back at all or whether they meant for her to stay away, hidden out of sight and therefore out of mind. The question is right there on her tongue, almost spilling past her lips, but she keeps it inside. She doesn't know what keeps her mum, but she thinks it might be because she's afraid of the answer.
"We are glad," her mother stresses. "Your father and I. We're glad to have you back."
Inwardly, Rilla wonders how her mother can speak for her father, because either he isn't home yet and she can't possibly know about his feelings or he is home and hasn't come upstairs, which begs the question how glad he truly is about her return. Remembering the way he sent her away in February, she struggles to imagine that he is.
"You understand we had no choice, don't you?" her mother asks, her voice having gained an urgent note. "We didn't want to send you away, but we had no choice. We needed to protect you and we couldn't protect you here. It was safer for you to stay with Dora."
'But did you mean for me to come back? Did you plan to take me back in once it was all over?' The words burn on her tongue, but Rilla keeps her lips firmly pressed together, knowing she couldn't stand being lied to and not knowing whether she could stand being told the truth.
"We know it was difficult," her mother continues, taking a few steps towards Rilla as she speaks. "We're so sorry it all had to happen as it did. If we could have done things differently, we would have."
Rilla takes a deep breath in response, not knowing what to say. She hasn't yet come to a conclusion, when her mother crosses the few remaining steps separating them. For a brief moment, she stands there, somewhat awkwardly, before reaching out and putting her arms around Rilla's shoulders.
When her mother touches her, Rilla stiffens immediately. From childhood, she's used to affection within the family, but she can't fully remember the last time anyone hugged her this way and the sudden contact feels unfamiliar to her now. She doesn't step away, but doesn't reciprocate the hug either, instead standing there rigidly while she waits for it to pass.
Her mother, clearly feeling this stiffness in Rilla's body, drops her arms after what can't have been more than four or five seconds and takes a step back. "I should let you rest," she states quietly, averting her eyes and turning for the door.
Rilla looks after her, her emotions in turmoil. A part of her wants to call her mother back and hide in her arms, just like she used to as a child, while another part only wants to shout at her, if only to provide an outlet for the anger and pain that has been simmering just below the surface for far too long.
Feeling torn, she is left doing neither, instead looking after her mother as she slowly crosses the room. Needing support, Rilla leans on the chair by her side, her knuckles turning white as her fingers grasp the back of the chair tightly. The urge to call out grows stronger the closer her mother gets to the door, and she bites her lip to keep quiet, because one lesson she learned lately is that doing nothing can be preferable to doing the wrong thing.
Not a sound escapes Rilla's lips and yet, when her mother has reached the door, she hesitates once more. Briefly, she remains standing in the doorway, her back turned, and Rilla thinks she might continue walking and leave after all, but then her mother does speak and whatever Rilla expected, it wasn't this.
"Did I ever tell you about your sister Joy?" her mother asks, still facing away from her.
Rilla remains silent, too surprised by the sudden change of subject to know what to say.
"She was my first baby, before Jem" her mother adds, voice hoarse. "She only lived for a few hours."
She knew this, of course. She doesn't think her mother ever told her specifically, but her oldest sister was mentioned by others occasionally, always in a hushed tone that left little doubt as to the fate of her.
What Rilla doesn't know, however, is why her mother is telling her this and why she's telling her this now. Is it to forge a connection? Is it to show that she, too, lost a child? Did Aunt Dora tell her mother that her son died, like she told everyone else? Or did she tell her the truth and her mother is trying to keep it from Rilla, unaware that she already knows?
"Losing Joy was the greatest pain I ever felt in my life," her mother continues. Her back remains turned, away from Rilla, so she can't read her face, can't tell what her mother is thinking.
Her emotions threatening to overcome her, Rilla grips the chair even tighter. She can feel herself shaking and her legs growing weak.
'Do you know that he's alive?' she wants to shout. 'Do you know that I have a son and that he lives? Do you know they took him away from me? Do you know that they lied to me and said he died? Do you know that he has a dent in his lip, like I do? Do you know that he's my baby and they didn't let me protect him?'
Do you know, do you know, do you know?
She wants to cry out, to shout, to ask all the questions that burn on her soul, and yet, no word leaves her lip. Her throat feels constricted, like someone tied a noose around it and is pulling at it, tighter and tighter, until it becomes hard to breathe and she's sure she must choke on the questions she doesn't dare ask for fear of what the answers will be.
Do you know about my son?
Do you know, do you know, do you know?
But it's not until her mother has left, closing the door softly behind herself, that the knot loosens, allowing her to breathe again. Rilla gasps for air, doubling over slightly as she braces herself on the chair, trying to remain upright. Blood rushes in her ears, and in her mind, the question pounds to the beat of her own heart.
Do you know, do you know, do you know?
Do they know?
Do her parents know what happened to her? Do they know what happened to her son? Do they know about the lie Aunt Dora spread?
Are they in on the lie?
The thought is unbearable, impossible to fathom, and yet, Rilla cannot be sure. She cannot say for certain whether her mother is truly in the dark or whether this is just another attempt to keep her, Rilla, from finding out the truth she would never have learned but for Daisy.
A year ago, she wouldn't have had any doubt that her parents couldn't possibly know, because a year ago, her trust in her parents was absolute, naively so. But a year ago, they hadn't yet sent her away to live with strangers in a strange place, and a year ago, she wouldn't have thought that possible either. Thus, they proved her trust wrong once already and she knows it's possible that if she were to trust them again, they would do it once more.
The thought makes her feel dizzy and she staggers over to the bed, collapsing on it just as her knees give way. She presses her face into the quilt spread over the top of the bed. It smells musty from months of lying there without being moved and the dust she disturbed so suddenly tickles her nose, almost making her sneeze.
Yet still, Rilla remains lying on the bed, face down, and while she doesn't sleep, she also doesn't look up when the door is opened a while later by Susan announcing that lunch is ready. Even if sleep will not come, she can still pretend to be sleeping, Rilla surmises, because sitting across from her mother at the dining table is more than she trusts herself to do. Certainly, she doesn't trust herself to do it without shouting.
Do you know, do you know, do you know?
The questions stay with her, circling around in her mind, keeping her awake long past Susan is gone. She didn't lie when she said she was tired from the journey and yet, the questions of what her parents know and what they might not be telling her won't leave her alone. Sleep, she knows, is impossible when the mind is in turmoil like this, but she doesn't move from her bed until the setting sun casts an orange glow through the window, announcing the coming end of another day.
It's nature that eventually drives her from her bed and also from her room, walking on tiptoes past the staircase and praying that she won't be discovered. Meeting her mother drained her and meeting her father is more than she feels she can face for today.
Therefore, when her father's voice does reach her ears, she stops dead in her tracks. As she looks around to try and locate where the voice came from, she instinctively holds her breath, wanting to make as little sound as possible.
The answer comes by way of her mother's voice, carried over from her parents' bedroom on the other side of the hall. The door is slightly ajar, allowing a beam of light to escape alongside the sound of her parents' voices.
"I think she was tired from the journey," her mother's voice explains and just like that, Rilla knows they're talking about her. "I think it's best if we leave it until tomorrow."
"What was your impression of her?" asks her father, and if there was any thought on Rilla's mind about tip-toeing back to her room, it is wiped away with that question. It is an answer she feels she needs to hear and while she's aware that eavesdropping is frowned upon, she figures that she's already done worse.
"She seems… changed." Her mother sighs. "She's so quiet and reserved, not at all like the cheerful girl she used to be."
"Is she healthy?" her father wants to know, ever the doctor.
"She's thinner than she was, and very pale," answers her mother. "She doesn't look ill, but she looks… older, weary. I fear she's no child anymore."
"No, she wouldn't be." Now, Rilla thinks it's her father she hears sighing. "I don't expect she had an easy time. It's a relief to know that she is well."
"But is she?" There's an anguished note to her mother's voice now. "I don't know if she's well. I can't read her anymore. I don't know my own daughter better than a stranger!"
There's a brief moment of silence, before her father speaks once more, "Give it time. Once she's settled back in and it's not so fresh in her mind anymore, things will get easier."
"I hope so," replies her mother, quietly, before calling out, louder, "Oh, Gilbert, I fear we made a mistake. I fear that we shouldn't have sent her away and I fear that she… that she blames us."
"Give it time," her father repeats, clearly trying to calm his wife. "In time, she will see that it was the only way. We didn't want to send her away, but keeping her here was impossible."
"Was it really?" asks her mother and Rilla hears doubt in her voice.
"With the child's father, whoever he is, gone to Europe, it was out of our hands," stresses her father, his tone not belying any doubt at all. "By the time Susan came to us, it was too late for me to intervene and attempt a medical solution, so with marriage off the table as well, we had no choice but to send her away. As her parents, we needed to protect her and this was the only way to save her reputation. Keeping her here would have destroyed her future."
"I know," agrees her mother, sighing. "I know you're right and yet… I can't help fearing that we lost her forever. Talking to her today… I don't know if she will ever forgive us."
And, standing in the dim light of the hall, just steps away from the half-open door, Rilla finds that she isn't sure either. Will she ever forgive her parents? She doesn't know. She doesn't know if she can. She doesn't even know if she wants to.
Do you know, do you know, do you know?
To Mammu:
Hello, hello! So lovely to hear from you again. I trust you and the little ones are well and hope that life is treating you kindly =).
Yes, I reckon that "different" describes this story rather well. I understand it's not always an easy read either, though as I've said before, we're working towards what constitutes a happy ending, so things will resolve themselves in time. And yes, that includes the fate of Rilla's son and also, eventually, the identity of his father ;).
Taking Rilla's child from her was, as you say, the action of a different time, though to modern readers, it's certainly potentially upsetting to read. I did actually consider keeping Rilla (and thus, the readers) in the dark about the baby's survival for a bit longer (which could easily have been achieved by Dora saying he lived till the next morning), but I figured that would have been far too dire. With their separation already difficult enough, I didn't want to add grief and the potential loss of her child to the mix, so I wrote it so that, while Rilla's a bit uncertain about his survival for a bit, it's apparent to readers that Dora is indeed lying and Rilla's son lives.
I'm certainly glad that you've stuck with the story even during the difficult bits and I promise that from here on, things will be less dire overall. It's shaping up to be a longer story, so it'll all take time to develop, but we're slowly seeing Rilla become more active and take her life into her own hands in the near future, so while not everything is resolved easily, she won't be stuck in those moments of helplessness that she experienced before. There'll certainly be ups and downs, but for Rilla's personal growth, the general path is pointing upwards from here!
To DogMonday:
I hope that the celebrations and family time are fun, even if they keep you busy, and that you're having an overall enjoyable summer =). (Mine has felt more like autumn recently, but they're saying we might see that sun again later this week, so here's hoping!)
To me, both the birth itself and then getting to meet her son were pivotal moments for Rilla, though each in their own way. The birth was obviously a horrible and deeply traumatising experience for her that left her feeling helpless and violated. Nothing will ever change that fact and nothing will ever minimise the sheer terror she must have felt throughout. I also think, however, that in that moment, she had two choices - she could either give up or start fighting. It was touch and go, honestly, until Daisy brought Jims to her and thus gave her something to fight for. She has complicated feelings towards him, too, and it's not like she was suddenly overcome with all-encompassing love upon seeing him (which I know happens for some mothers, though others take more time getting used to the change, and I believe Rilla to be among the latter group), but she feels protective of him and has decided that it's on her to try and protect him from a world that she now knows isn't always kind. All that mixed together brought forth a new attitude from her, as Dora learned to her surprise and as other characters will also learn soon. We know from canon that Rilla has a stubborn and defiant streak, so while this was buried by fear and confusion early on in the story, it's now breaking out again and it's helping her take back control of her own life. That's not to say she has it all figured out or that she won't go wrong at times or that she won't need the help and support of others, but she's decided not to be pushed around any longer, which, I think, truly marks a turning point for her.
I must admit that partly, I chose not to have her receive letters from home to emphasise how isolated she felt while at Dora's. Sure, she had Daisy who showed her kindness and even risked a lot to help her, but Rilla was fully cut off from everyone at home, and that amped up the feelings of uncertainty and loneliness. However, while she might have thought that no-one cared about her at times, the pile of letters shows that's not true, and, I hope, this chapter also shows that her parents never not cared either. I've gone on the record several times to say that while they certainly could have handled things better, their overall decision to send her away was the best possible one, and I hope that this chapter begins to show Rilla and the readers that they're neither uncaring nor unfeeling, just not perfect either.
Certainly, we're not at the end! In fact, we're very far from it still. To quote Churchill, we're at the end of the beginning, so if you want to, we can now consider the first act of the story to be closed, with the second act just about to begin. I can't yet foresee myself how many acts there will be, but... it'll be a while before this is done, I believe ;).