Chapter 12

Recovery is slow.

Having been torn apart and stitched together again, her body takes its time to heal, though Rilla herself is only aware of parts of it. Healing is not a straightforward process, and it saps her of nearly all the strength she can give.

Thus, she sleeps for large swathes of time, especially in the first days. Having been taken back to the guest room that was originally hers, she at least has a comfortable bed to rest her weary body on both when asleep and awake. When she wakes up on her own, it's often just for a few disoriented moments before falling asleep again. More often, it's someone else shaking her awake to make her eat some soup or drink tea, which, despite being hot and strong, never succeeds in keeping her awake for very long either.

Even when she is conscious, it never feels to her like she's entirely present. Life happens around her, but it appears dulled and a little distorted, like something watched through a window. She sees Aunt Dora, Ruthie or sometimes Margaret putting trays of food by her side, she hears them talk to her, she feels the cold metal of a spoon in her hand and tastes the different kinds of soup they tell her to eat, but her senses barely pick up on it. The soups taste the same without tasting of much at all, and the words they speak to her rarely penetrate her mind. It's mostly just noise that washes above her until she is, mercifully, allowed to sleep again.

Sleep is only a partial respite, however, because with sleep come the dreams and she can never be sure in advance whether they remain just dreams or turn into nightmares. The nightmares leave her frozen in terror as dark, faceless people close in on her, their fingers reaching for her, grasping at her arms and legs, holding her down. Helpless, terrified, she is unable to fight them, can only watch as they tear at her, tear at her limbs, tear her apart – until she wakes, gasping and crying, to a reality that feels blunted but, at the very least, doesn't terrify her.

One advantage of her dulled senses during waking moments is that the pain, too, is dulled alongside them. She is aching all over, from the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes, and whenever she moves without thinking, a sudden pain reminds her of what she's been through, but the sharpest edge of the pain has been taken away. In a rare clear moment, she thinks it might be because of the injections that Dr Anderson gives her at regular intervals.

Even in her befuddled state of mind, she shrinks away from the doctor whenever she sees him, an entirely instinctive reaction. She doesn't think he notices, or else, he doesn't care, simply proceeding with whatever examination he deems necessary. Thankfully, he at least takes to giving her the injections at the beginning of his visits, allowing her to doze through the majority of them, which makes it a little more bearable.

Other than Dr Anderson, the person she sees the most in her confinement is Aunt Dora. Not only does she take her food, she's also the ones to wrap cold packs around her calves when Dr Anderson declares her to be running a light fever, and she helps her change her nightshirt when its soaked through with sweat and milk that no-one will drink.

She asks about her baby, of course.

In fact, whenever Aunt Dora is in the room and Rilla is even partly conscious, she asks to see the baby she only held for one, snatched moment. Having lost any concept of time, she can't say how long ago it was that Daisy brought her to see her son, and as more time passes, she increasingly starts to question whether the memory is even truly real.

Did she really hold a little baby with downy hair and soft cheeks and long lashes and a dent in his upper lip? She thinks she did, she thinks she remembers, but in her dulled mind, she doesn't trust her own memory anymore, cannot decide what was real and what was a dream, or, perhaps, a nightmare of the cruellest kind.

Aunt Dora, alas, appears perfectly disinclined to answer her questions. Whenever Rilla asks about the child she gave birth to, she brushes her off with a cheerily dismissive, "For now, you need to rest and get well. We will talk about everything else when you're up again," and no amount of pleasing or arguing from Rilla succeeds in swaying her.

She would, she knows, be more successful in asking Daisy, but she hasn't seen the young maid in days. In fact, the last time she saw her was when Daisy brought her baby for her to see, and before that, when she got her mother to convince Aunt Dora that Rilla needed medical help. Daisy, the one person in this place who has never been anything but kind to Rilla, would certainly try and answer her questions about the baby, but much as she hopes that one day, the door to her room will open to reveal Daisy bringing her her food, it does not happen.

There's just Aunt Dora with her polite dismissal of all Rilla's questions, her daughter and daughter-in-law, whom Rilla is disinclined to ask in the first place, and Dr Anderson, whom she'll never say a word to as long as she lives. Unable to get up and seek answers from elsewhere, Rilla is left to wait and wonder, hoping that one day, someone will talk to her after all.

Surprisingly, the first person to willingly speak about her baby ends up being Ruthie.

Compared to Aunt Dora, she comes into Rilla's room more rarely and when she does, it's usually just to quickly place a tray of food on her bedside table before withdrawing again, almost stumbling over her own feet un her haste to do so. Her face, invariably, expresses a complicated expression that is simultaneously sulking, disapproving and morbidly curious all at one, which is at least better than Margaret's utter repulsion. She also never says even one word to Rilla – until one day, when she does.

Having put the tray down on the bedside table, Ruthie, uncommonly, doesn't rush from the room right away, but instead hesitates, loitering on the spot. Rilla, having only just woken, slowly turns her head, blinking sleep from her eyes as she tries to understand why Ruthie is still in the room.

"Can I help you?" she asks when realising that the other woman is unlikely to leave.

Ruthie quickly shakes her head, before stopping herself to nod instead. Finally, she settles on shrugging her shoulders, which is ever so helpful, Rilla thinks unwillingly.

With a sigh, Rilla heaves herself into a sitting position. She knows she's dishevelled and that her face is puffy, but a quick look down tells her that at least the nightdress that Aunt Dora helped her into earlier is still reasonably clean. She supposes she's as presentable as it gets, and she also supposes it doesn't matter. After all, it's just Ruthie, and their dislike is mutual.

Leaning over, Rilla examines the soup that Ruthie brought for her. It looks like a sort of chicken soup and while she doesn't have much of an appetite, she knows that she must eat if she ever wants to get up from this bed, and resolves to try and eat as much as possible.

First though, she needs to find out why Ruthie is still standing by the side of her bed, wringing her hands nervously. She's too tired to be dealing with Ruthie, but the other woman shows no sign of leaving.

"Can I help you?" Rilla repeats, not doing much to mask her annoyance.

Ruthie teeters on the spot and for a moment, Rilla thinks she might leave, but then she seems to decide otherwise. Taking a deep breath, she blurts out, "You had a baby."

Slowly, Rilla nods. Oddly, Ruthie's words are merely stating the obvious, but they still sound unfamiliar to her ears. Even looking back, it all feels so unreal.

"How… how was it?" Ruthie wants to know, looking both curious and uncommonly shy.

Now, it's Rilla taking a few calming breaths. "The birth, you mean?"

Ruthie nods, quickly and nervously.

For her part, Rilla has to resist the urge to laugh. It's a sardonic laugh that simmers just beneath the surface, which she recognises as being unlike her, but to be fair, nothing about this situation is truly like her at all.

Also not like her is the sudden instinct to tell Ruthie the truth about what the birth was like. To tell her about the loneliness and the helplessness, about the pain and the fear. To tell her about her own mother's coldness and the casual cruelty of Dr Anderson. To tell her about all the details that creep up on her in her sleep and make her wake in the night with tears running down her face and terror in her heart.

It would be vindictive to tell all that to Ruthie, whose child-birthing years are still ahead of her, but not very far away anymore. In light of her own pain, there's an unfamiliar desire rearing its head within Rilla and urging her to share the entire truth with innocent Ruthie, who has yet to be touched by all this. After how cold Aunt Dora was to Rilla through her own ordeal, there'd be a grim sort of satisfaction to turning her oldest daughter against childbirth, and for a moment, Rilla feels compelled to do so.

She is, however, not spiteful by nature and the urge to draw Ruthie into this entire mess passes as quickly as it appeared. Sighing softly to herself, she instead settles for a harmless half-truth that she thinks will hurt no-one, "It's long and painful, but in the end, as they say, it's all worth it."

The words taste stale mouth, but she knows there's no sense to installing fear in Ruthie's heart. From the disappointed expression on her face, Rilla guesses that Ruthie herself was hoping for more information, but she also knows that the other woman didn't truly know what she was asking for.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to eat some soup and then rest," Rilla states calmly and nods at the bowl of soup. "I'm still quite tired."

"Of course," Ruthie assures hurriedly. "Enjoy your soup."

She turns to leave, obviously quite eager to leave Rilla's presence now that her question has been asked. She almost makes it to the door, when Rilla, now following a very different urge, calls out after her, "Do you know where my baby is? Is he well?"

Her hand on the doorknob, Ruthie pauses and turns. "But don't you know?" she blurts out, before quickly covering her hand with her mouth.

"Don't I know what?" asks Rilla, narrowing her eyes. This entire conversation has already taken too much strength from her and she can feel a headache creeping up, but she knows that she has to hold it together, because whatever Ruthie means, it's important.

"I… I, um…" stammers Ruthie. "Nothing. Forget I said anything. It's nothing." And before Rilla has a chance to ask more or call for her to stay, she slips from the room, closing the door firmly behind herself.

Remaining behind, Rilla stares at the closed door, her still befuddled mind turning as it tries to make sense of Ruthie's words and her hasty exit. She can feel the familiar fog creeping up on her that has been clouding her thoughts for days now, and she is aware of how sluggish her thinking is becoming, but she knows that something is the matter and that it pertains to her child. She also knows that neither Ruthie nor Margaret will reveal anything more about it, so her only chance is and remains Aunt Dora.

Simply asking her aunt is likely to garner her another evasive answer though, so when the next day dawns, Rilla makes herself get up from the bed and get dressed, painful as it is to move around so much all of a sudden. Aunt Dora said they'd talk when Rilla was up, so she makes sure to be up when her aunt comes in to bring her breakfast.

"Good morning," Aunt Dora greets her, clearly surprised. "You seem to be feeling better."

Not by much, Rilla must admit to herself, but she grits her teeth and nods. She should probably stand up to prove her improved condition to her aunt, but she doesn't trust her legs to carry her, so she remains sitting on the bed.

"Will you tell me about my child now?" she asks, having neither strength nor patience to prolong this further. "You said we'd talk about him when I'm up."

Pausing, Aunt Dora looks from Rilla down at the breakfast tray in her hand and back at Rilla. Then, very carefully, she places the tray on the vanity by the door and sits down on the chair in front of it.

"Are you quite certain?" she asks. "You still look pale. Maybe you should rest more before we talk about this."

"Where is he?" Rilla wants to know, brushing past her aunt's words. "Can I see him?"

Aunt Dora purses her lips. "Unfortunately, you can't."

Rilla feels her heart clench nervously. "And why not?"

Her aunt turns her head, sighing. "I didn't want to tell you yet, but… he didn't make it. The birth was too difficult for him."

It's a good thing that she remained sitting, Rilla thinks absently, because the moment the words register in her mind, the entire world spins out of control. She feels dizzy, there's cold sweat beading her neck, and she tastes bile rising up in her throat.

"He was born alive, but he was small and there's always additional risks to using forceps," Aunt Dora continues. "We didn't want to upset you while you were unwell, so we haven't said anything until now, but he died within an hour of being born."

The spinning world slams to a sudden halt.

Within an hour of being born?

Rilla stares at her aunt. She can see that Aunt Dora's lips keep moving, but she can't hear any more words. She can hear nothing but the same set of words repeating in her head.

Within an hour of being born.

Slowly, she starts shaking her head.

That's not right. That cannot be right. He can't have died within an hour, because she held him much later in the night. She held him, a warm and living presence, long past the hour when Aunt Dora said he died.

"That's not right," she hears her own voice out loud. "That's not right. He didn't die."

"I know this is hard to take," Aunt Dora replies, her tone sympathetic. "Despite the circumstances, he deserved to live, like all children do. I'm sorry that he never got the chance."

Getting up from the chair, she tries to reach out for Rilla, but her niece swats her hand away instinctively. "He isn't dead," she insists, clinging to her own words. "He isn't dead."

"It's hard to face, I understand," states Aunt Dora, taking a step back. "With time, it will get easier, but for now, it's a lot to take in. I will leave you alone to process it. Please call if you need anything."

Leaving the breakfast tray behind, she walks from the room, closing the door. Rilla, however, hardly notices the food or her aunt's exit, her mind too stuck on a realisation that suddenly hit her with enough force to take her breath away.

Either Aunt Dora is lying or Rilla herself is going insane.

Either her memory serves her well, despite exhaustion and pain, and she held her son with his dented lip sometime in the night when he was born, which means he didn't die when Aunt Dora said he did, which in turn means that Aunt Dora is lying. Or, the memory that seems so clear to her is but a dream, a figment of her imagination, a sickening trickery of her own mind, to prove that she is going insane and that Aunt Dora is correct with everything she said.

Both options are possible, and while she desperately wants her memory to be real, she knows that she can't say that it is with the necessary certainty. Was Daisy really there that night to bring her baby for her to hold? Did the son she thinks she remembers, with impossibly soft skin and a dented lip, even exist at all, or did she dream him up in a state of exhaustion and numbness? She cannot say for sure.

Her aunt looked certain when she delivered her news and given how blunted her own thinking has become, it's almost enough to sway Rilla to believe her, to write her own memory off as nothing but a dream. Aunt Dora, her perfect and overly correct aunt, surely wouldn't tell a lie, especially one as far-reaching as this – or would she?

It doesn't seem plausible, and Rilla can see no reason for why she would be lying, but as much as she tries, she doesn't succeed in shaking the feeling of reality that accompanies the memory of her son. She remembers him too clearly, what he looked like and what he felt like in her arms and his peculiar smell of sweetness mixed with Aunt Dora's special goat milk soap.

It feels too real to her, even now, to simply write it off as imagination because her aunt said so, but that same aunt's certainty sways her from believing her own mind, sowing doubts she is unable to shake. Thus, she doesn't know who is right anymore and what is correct, but she recognises clearly the implications behind that very question.

Either Aunt Dora is lying and her son is still alive – or Rilla herself is going insane and he never lived to be in her arms at all.

Either her son is alive – or she's truly gone mad.

To Guest No. 1:
Sure, if this type of story is not what you're looking for, there's plenty of other material out there for you to try. I hope you find something that meets your expectations.

To RachelLynde:
Unfortunately, we can surmise from canon that Marilla Cuthbert died sometime before the start of World War One (and thus, before the start of RoI), so she's not around anymore at this point. I absolutely agree that she would have opinions on the matter though!
Being a girl of her time and social class, for Rilla to raise an illegitimate child of her own would be pretty much unthinkable. It's deeply unfair, especially to our modern minds, but the judgement and social stigma attached to the 'shame' of having a child out of wedlock was enough to ruin a young woman's life back then. Curiously, if Rilla had belonged to a 'lower' social class, she might have had a chance, because working class people were more practical and less morally obtuse (my own great-great-grandparents were both factory workers and lived openly together for years with their two eldest sons before getting married), but as a doctor's daughter, she's held to very high social rules and the repercussions of breaking them would be extreme. I'm not sure she herself would care so much at this point, but the adults in her life do and they're the ones calling the shots still.

To Joanna:
Thank you so much for your lovely review! When I read it, it brought a smile to my face, so thanks for taking the time to write it =).
In my writing, it's always important to me to write believable characters whose thoughts, feelings and actions make sense to readers. I understand not everyone will always agree with my depiction of certain characters, but I do always give it a lot of thought as I write. Therefore, it means a lot to know that you agree with the way I wrote Anne and Gilbert as well as Dora. You summarise very well my own thoughts about their characters (and in a much more concise way than I could, too! ;)), which strongly influenced how I'm writing them here. My goal, always, is to write them as fundamentally human, so they have strength and weaknesses, good and bad sides. They're flawed by definition and they get things wrong, often without meaning to, but they aren't inherently bad people (because frankly, that would be boring). Of course, Anne and Gilbert failed to prepare Rilla for what's ahead and to explain the reasoning behind their decision to her, but their main goal is always to protect her as best as they can. Dora, meanwhile, has behaved callously and neglectful towards Rilla in recent chapters, but as you say, she has her own experiences that shape her and her actions, so I'm absolutely sure that she has a reason for everything she's doing and that it all makes perfect sense to her. In her own way, she, too, is doing what she thinks is best - even now.
It honestly never occurred to me to have Rilla's baby not be Jims ;). I guess I could have given her a Marigold just for the surprise factor, but if we're being honest, no-one would have wanted to see a Marigold, right? Rilla and Jims bonding and growing into mother and son will always be the core relationship of RoI, so how could it be differently here? Because of circumstances (and because society then was much more forgiving of a young woman raising someone else's child than her own), things will be a whole lot more difficult for them in my story than in canon, but Rilla and Jims will very much be at the core of this story, too!
I must admit that I haven't read everything that LMM wrote, not even all her novels. Those I did read, I read some years ago, so I'd probably have to give myself a refresher before feeling comfortable writing about other characters, but… strangers things have happened, as they say ;).

To Guest No. 2:
You're absolutely spot on with everything you say about the encounter that ultimately resulted in the existence of Rilla's son. There was nothing romantic about it at all, full stop. In fact, since Rilla had no idea what was happening, she couldn't give valid consent, which puts this firmly in the territory of abuse (or worse). Being products of their time, the characters won't necessarily recognise or label it as such (the closest we get is Daisy voicing her feeling that this was NOT OKAY), but as a writer, it's something I'm highly aware of. Too often, fiction (including fanfiction) excuses or sugarcoats behaviour that is deeply problematic, especially when it comes to 'romantic' (or not!) relationships, but I promise that in this particular story, we won't gloss over the issue. I hope that by the end, there will be some element of closure for Rilla, but even with that happening, no-one will suddenly pretend that it's alright or even forgivable.

To DogMonday:
What I'm trying to do with my writing on occasion is to branch out of my comfort zone and try something new, be it content- or style-wise. With this story, that's certainly true. I knew that the content would be somewhat controversial (though I perhaps underestimated the extent of it) and I deliberately set out to try something new with my writing. Before, my default was always to use lots of dialogue, because it comes easily to me, so for this story, I decided to write it in a more character-focused, internal way without as much dialogue happening. Partly, that's because no-one is talking much to my main character right now (though that will certainly change as the story progresses) and partly that's me trying something new. Now, I fully acknowledge that there's a risk to changing a running system and that, when I shake up the status quo, some things will work better and others less so. That's normal, I think, when trying something new. I always regarded fanfic as the perfect playground for that though, because at best, I can play around a little and receive interesting opinions and helpful criticisms in return that I can use as feedback for my writing going forward. At worst, there are some people taking potshots that are neither constructive nor polite, but that says so much more about them than it'll ever say about me, and while it's not very nice, it's also hardly deserving of anyone's time. (For the record, I count you and your comments firmly in the first bracket.)
As for the previous two chapters, they certainly brought about many opinions and comments, the majority of which I found interesting and helpful. For the most part, both chapters described a dire situation, not for the sake of direness itself, but in attempt to get close to the reality faced by unwed mothers (or even some married mothers) over a century ago. Giving birth, for them, was far from a comfortable experience and those called to 'help' them were rarely helpful at all. As you said, even today, when we know so much more about mental health and the impact of life-changing situations like childbirth, moments arise that are far from easy. I know I talked with a lot of new mothers and while for some, the birth was unproblematic, others don't like remembering it at all, despite getting top notch medical treatment and having their partners by their side. There are so many different ways labour and child birth can progress and what's easy for some might be difficult for others. For this story, in keeping with what we know of the times, I chose to depict an emotionally difficult birth (which was nevertheless not too difficult on a strictly physical scale, because the doctor did intervene before a life-threatening situation could arise), because respecting the era and the content I'm writing about, this was what felt the most real to me.
To me, RoI is primarily about the relationship between Rilla and Jims and how they grow to be, effectively, mother and son. Sure, Ken appears for a hot second or two, but the love building between Rilla and Jims is really what that novel is about. Since my story is basically a re-writing of RoI, the bond between Rilla and Jims naturally had to be at the core of it. Giving that she actually carried and birthed him, the initial bond between them is built more easily than in canon, but I think this chapter gives a pretty good hint that from here on, they won't have it any easier at all. We're eventually working up towards a happy ending, but before that can happen, there's a lot of ground to cover still.