by Sarah McCoy
“What are we doing here?”
“I wanted you to hear something—a secret.”
He let go of her hand. Coolness crept into her palm. He leaned to the side and snatched something from the fuzzy wild rye.
“You’ve got to come close to hear it.”
She leaned her forehead toward him, and he lifted his fist to her ear. Chirp.
“A cricket?” She laughed.
“My mother said the first ones of the season aren’t crickets but fairies in disguise. They’ll listen to your wishes and make them come to pass.”
It seemed everyone had a way of wish-making. She doubted any of them were real and at the same time hoped all of them were.
The little bug gave another merry chirp. Marilla smiled. She missed their sound during the long winters.
“So how do I do it?”
He came closer, only the width of his cradled hand between them. “You close your eyes and whisper.”
She closed her eyes and felt like she was falling, tumbling into flares of purple behind her eyelids. The rhythm of the dance still pounded in her temples.
“I . . .”
John’s breath warmed her lips.
“I wish . . .” for you to kiss me.
“Marilla!”
It was Matthew.
“Marilla!”
She opened her eyes to John’s confused stare. Something wasn’t right. Matthew was calling—yelling for her.
She stood from the tall grass and ran in his direction.
“Matthew, I’m here!”
Reaching him, the sweat at his brow and strain of his eyes told her all she needed to know.
“Mother?”
He nodded.
“The baby?”
He’d hitched up Jericho already. “We’ve got to go.”
“Is Dr. Spencer there?” John panted, out of breath from following her dash.
“Father came for him. They’ve gone back already. We couldn’t find Marilla.”
Marilla swallowed hard. The ginger cordial gurgled in her belly. She climbed into the buggy.
“What can I do?” asked John.
Matthew shook his head. “I dunno. I just . . . dunno.” Then he gave the reins a flick and Jericho started off.
John and the May Picnic lawn got smaller and smaller. The band’s song had tapered to silence by the time they reached the empty road between Avonlea and the Gables.
“Where were you?” asked Matthew. “I’ve been looking for almost an hour.”
Had it been that long?
“Get on, Jericho!” she hollered instead of answering.
The night sky had turned rusty too fast. A storm was approaching.
XIII.
Tragedy at the Gables
By the time they reached home, the brewing tempest had picked up so that Marilla had to tie her shawl in a clove hitch to keep from losing it to the storm. Her hair had come free from its pins, and the plaits unfurled like reedy branches. The wind howled at her back and pulled the strands straight up to the sky.
“Get inside!” said Matthew. “I’ll barn Jericho!”
Marilla jumped out of the carriage, then raced up the porch steps and through the front door. Shutting it behind her, there came an eerie quiet. A pitch rang in her ears.
“Father?” she called.
The parlor was empty. The blackened hearth was burned down to ash.
“Aunt Izzy?”
The kitchen stove had been lit, but the pot of broth was set to the side. Congealed. Bread had been cut and left naked of butter. Skunk circled her ankles, crying for hunger. She tossed a slice to the ground.
“Hush now,” she comforted and left him to tooth and claw.
At the bottom of the stairs, she hesitated. Her breath stalled. Her head went light. The climb she’d done all day, every day, now seemed insurmountable. It was too quiet. She forced herself up one foot at a time, until she was at the top.
“Mother?” she whispered.
Hugh, Izzy, and Dr. Spencer encircled the bed.
Izzy faced Marilla first, with swollen eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. “Oh, child . . .”
Hugh and Dr. Spencer turned, but she didn’t see their faces. Her vision tunneled.
Red.
Her feet slipped from beneath her. The jolt of the floor was like falling on ice—pain so shockingly raw that she’d pushed herself up and away from it before her father could help her.
“Mother?”
Izzy covered Clara with the muslin bedsheet. Its pallor accentuated the blood beneath. An ivory dress with a crimson hem.
“Marilla?” Clara whispered back.
Her eyes were flat and dark. Her lips a strange shade of violet.
“I’m afraid . . .” Clara’s breath was shallow. “The baby is gone.”
Marilla looked to Izzy, who didn’t hide her tears. She shook her head.
“The child was stillborn,” said Dr. Spencer. “Nothing to be done. Even if I had been here. Nothing to be done.”
Clara blinked toward Marilla.
“My bold, beguiling girl . . .” Her vision flickered to Izzy. “Take care of her.”
Hugh buckled at the foot of the bed, hands around Clara’s feet. “Save her. Please.”
“If I could . . .” Dr. Spencer’s voice gave way. “She’s lost too much already.”
Clara smiled weakly. “My love, don’t be sad. It was all worth it.”
Hugh buried his head in the sheets and let out a mournful wail.
Matthew came through the bedroom door, taking them each in silently. His gaze settled on his father. He staggered back.
Clara turned to Marilla. “They need you. Promise me?”
“I promise,” said Marilla. “I promise. I love you. I promise . . .”
She couldn’t stop saying it, even after the light left Clara’s eyes and her hand turned cool.
Time evaporated. At some point, Hugh left. Matthew followed him. Dr. Spencer checked Clara’s vitals a last time, then scribbled the date of death in his ledger before moving the baby’s body out of the room. Marilla’s mind fixated on the empty space where it had been. Babies died. That was a fact of life. People mourned, planted crosses, and then moved on to making anew. But nobody had told her that mothers died too. Nobody had warned her that life and death could be split by a breath.
Only Izzy stayed in the room with her. She sat on the opposite side of the bed. A living mirror of her twin. Deceptively beautiful, death had spared Clara’s delicate features. Her silken lashes brushed her alabaster cheek. Her golden-brown hair lay smooth against the pillow.
Izzy ran her fingers through it, softly crying, “You can’t leave me alone . . . I need you.”
The storm broke overhead. The eaves of the gables groaned against the downpour. Thunder rolled.
I should’ve been here. That’s all Marilla could think. While she was wearing silly flounces, eating cake, and dancing, Clara labored in agony. While she wandered off to trade secrets with a boy, her mother was dying. The smallest elements produced the most significant change. Salt in bread. Water in soil. Light in darkness. If she had been there, she could’ve saved her mother.
The storm raged for hours and then left nothing but trickles down the windowpanes.
Izzy pulled Marilla into her arms. She’d fallen asleep against Clara’s side.
“It’s after midnight.”
Izzy’s bare face was so exactly like Clara’s. Her loose hair fell on Marilla’s cheek, smelling sweetly of the Gables. Only then did the tears come. Marilla let Izzy rock her like her mother would’ve when she had a bad dream. She closed her eyes and wished it so—to wake up to Clara shushing her fears and assuring her that all would be well tomorrow.
* * *
But the next day brought only grave silence. And the day after and the day after that. They moved about the house like ghosts. Izzy cleaned the bodies and prepared them for burial. Hugh and Matthew went down to the hollow by the brook and split white birch for
a single coffin. Mother and son would be put in the grave as one. Hugh called the baby boy Nathaniel. It meant as God giveth . . . and taketh. Mrs. White arranged the funeral with Reverend Patterson’s wife.
And Marilla? She did everything she could to keep busy: sweeping, washing, cooking, churning, scrubbing . . . sweeping, washing, cooking, churning, scrubbing . . . over and over. It was never right enough. She saw stains everywhere and was determined to atone. When she stumbled on the yellow-and-ivy baby gown, she shook with raging guilt and packed it in the bottom of her mother’s trunk alongside Clara’s dresses. She couldn’t stand to see them hanging bodiless.
Before they laid Clara and Nathaniel in the velvet casket, Marilla braided delicate strands of her mother’s hair, cut it, and looped it behind the oval of her mother’s amethyst brooch. It was her most treasured possession. A reminder of the promise she made to watch over Matthew and Hugh. They needed her. Even if they didn’t say so. Even if they said nothing at all.
Hugh went so long without speaking that Marilla started to forget the sound of his voice. Her own too. He said nothing at the funeral.
All of Avonlea gathered in the poplar-shaded cemetery. The Keiths, their third cousins on the Cuthbert side, came up from East Grafton with their sons. In addition, there were a number of folks Marilla didn’t recognize from Carmody and White Sands.
Mrs. White gave the eulogy. “An honorable woman of an honorable family. Her life was in service to them. She leaves behind the proof of her righteousness in her children and husband.”
Marilla winced. If only they knew the truth. Clara had needed her, but she’d chosen selfishness, vanity, desire. She shouldn’t have gone to the picnic when her mother was so near to giving birth.
Reverend Patterson said a prayer. “‘The wise shall shine brightly like the splendor of the firmament, and those who lead the many to justice shall be like the stars forever.’ So may it be with our sister Clara Cuthbert. Amen.”
It was the only time the Cuthberts spoke, together in unity: “Amen.”
The splendor of the firmament . . . the description struck Marilla like the holy wound had struck Rachel. It gave her a headache to imagine something so vast. And while beautiful, it made her mother feel even farther away. The throbbing at her temples increased. So she cataloged the practical: the cow needed milking; the handle on the door between the kitchen and pantry was broken; the cuff on the shirt Hugh wore was one stitch from coming unraveled. These needs were within her control. They comforted her.
When the time came, everyone lined up to pay their respects with flowers. Marilla, Hugh, and Matthew went first, each dropping a Scotch rose into the grave. Clara had brought the bush over from Scotland as a girl. It had blossomed powder-white pompoms just that week. Marilla found it nearly inconceivable that nature could thrive while her mother perished . . . and yet, it did.
After them came the whole of Avonlea.
“A true angel on earth,” said Mrs. Blair. Pink columbines.
“A beautiful mother,” said Mrs. White. “Cherished by all,” followed Mr. White. “Oh, Marilla . . .” cried Rachel. Crimson peonies.
“She is with the Lord and the Lord be with you.” Reverend and Mrs. Patterson. Purple Adam and Eves.
Even the widow Pye and her kin. She lifted her black veil, and it was the first time Marilla had seen her face outright. It was soft and full. Widow Pye said nothing, just laid down her bleeding hearts.
They moved Marilla. These loving friends. Some she knew well, others hardly at all. But they were her people: Avonlea. Without them, she was sure she’d crumble into the grave with Clara. To each, she nodded with appreciation so great, it humbled her to trembling.
John and his parents waited until the last.
“Mr. Cuthbert.” John took off his hat. “Miss Johnson. Matthew. Marilla.”
Marilla dared not meet his gaze. She was sure it would harpoon her through.
“Hugh, if you need anything,” said Mr. Blythe.
“Anything at all,” repeated Mrs. Blythe.
John carried a nosegay in his hand. The very hand Marilla had held instead of her mother’s. Yellow lady’s slippers.
She lifted her stare. “They were her favorite.” A tear wet her cheek. “Thank you.”
John’s eyes were steadfast on her even while he addressed her father.
“Mr. Cuthbert, I’d very much like to lend a hand however I may.”
“We have a French farm boy coming to us. Part of a trade,” explained Mr. Blythe. “One of our Jersey cows for an extra set of hands this summer.”
“My family can spare me,” said John.
Hugh looked to Matthew and Marilla. He worried about how to proceed alone with his two children. He and Clara had planned for Marilla to finish her studies, but how with only the three of them to run the Gables and farm? Marilla saw the wheels of his mind churning. John’s extra set of hands would help them with the fieldwork so that by fall they’d need only to tally the harvest.
“Mighty good of you. Izzy will be returning to St. Catharines. So we’d be obliged.”
Marilla reared back. Izzy was leaving? Marilla hadn’t thought past the present. Enough in that to flood an ocean.
* * *
The Gables’ windows and mirrors were covered in black like coins over the eyes. The men went out to inhale their burnt sorrows through tobacco pipes, leaving Marilla alone with Izzy for the first time since the night of Clara’s death.
In her room, she packed her suitcase.
“When?”
It was a question and a demand. Marilla didn’t want any more surprises. Only hard truth.
Izzy put down the fabric she folded. “The end of the week.” Her eyes brimmed. “I can’t stay in Avonlea. It belongs to my sister, not me. I have a home and business in St. Catharines. My life is there.”
Marilla shook her head. Clara and Izzy were born of the same womb. They shared each other’s makeup. A lifetime of secrets, dreams, and wishes. Why then could she not stay with them? For Marilla, if no one else. Had Izzy already forgotten her mother’s last words—to take care of her?
“Please.”
Izzy went to her room’s east-facing window and moved aside the black drape to open it. The breeze brought with it the sweetness of the cherry tree sapling outside. She inhaled as deep as she could and stood a long minute gazing out. Her back to Marilla.
“No one will be able to move on if I stay,” she whispered. “Everyone still sees Clara, except for me.”
Outside, Matthew’s and Hugh’s figures, small as ants, were making their way up the hill.
“I don’t want you to go.”
Izzy turned. The wind batted the curtain.
“Come with me to St. Catharines. I know the headmistress of a wonderful girls’ school. I live above my shop with the entire attic empty. It would make a cozy bedroom. Dormer window and pitched ceiling. Hugh and Matthew could take on a live-in hire. You wouldn’t be leaving the island forever. Just until—until . . .” She faltered.
The future was nebulous. Neither one knew how to answer the unsaid question: until when? It was futile anyhow. Marilla had already given her answer to her mother: I promise. She wouldn’t leave Hugh, Matthew, or the Gables. Not ever.
“My place is here.”
Izzy nodded. “I know it is. Just as I know mine isn’t.”
While it wounded her, Marilla respected Izzy’s decision. Her aunt could never step into her mother’s role, nor did Marilla wish her to. Staying would be a constant reminder of their loss and an eternal comparison to what once was. The only way for Marilla to move forward was to cleave her life in two: Marilla the mothered and Marilla the motherless. The distinction fortified her.
At the end of the week, Matthew loaded Izzy’s luggage into the wagon with Jericho at the lead.
“Write me how you’re doing or I’ll worry,” she told Hugh. His silence was agreement.
Marilla balled her hands under her apron, determined to be strong.
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br /> Izzy embraced her. “I’ll miss you most of all, my pretty flower. Will you promise to write me too?”
Marilla gulped against the tears.
“That’s all right.” Izzy kissed her cheek. “I’ll write to you, and you can reply or not, but I’ll keep writing.” She turned for the buggy and Marilla’s resolve broke.
“Aunt Izzy!” She threw herself into Izzy’s arms and buried her face against her aunt’s lilac-powdered neck.
“I love you, dear girl. So very much.”
And then Izzy let go and took Matthew’s hand into the seat. He gave a whistle and Jericho began to trot down the long lane. Izzy didn’t wave good-bye or turn back, but they could see the shudder of her shoulders from afar. Hugh and Marilla stood silent on the porch until Jericho vanished over the dewy June horizon. Then he put on his cap and went on to the barn, while Marilla walked down to the garden with a bucket. Sheep’s sorrel had grown neglectfully between their green peas, and she had a mind to weed it out clean.
XIV.
Green Gables Is Named
A fortnight later, Marilla was coming up the maple lane from gathering forest herbs as John brought their cows down to pasture.
“Oh—” She jumped when she saw him and dropped her summer savory.
He picked it up and returned it. “Good morning, Marilla.”
“Good morning, John.” She waved the bouquet garni. “I’m making an herb bannock. Are you staying for supper later?”
He adjusted his kerchief. The sun blazed down despite the mottled shade of the bear-clawed leaves. Beads of sweat dampened both their faces.
“Thank you, but I promised my parents I’d be home.”