#lollercakes

When finally the time had come she’d spun herself back into a furor, her anxiety piquing as her water broke and she found herself convinced it was blood between her legs. I’d nearly lost myself in that chaos, stomping towards the door as though I was ready to walk out. I couldn’t do it though - the consequences would be too severe and I would never forgive myself - so I turned back around and dug deep, pulling on my white coat from school to try to put some distance between us.

It had worked. Barely. But it had worked.

“I’m not lying. I would never lie to you,” I state, running my hand soothingly along her calf as she readies herself for the next, and hopefully final, contraction.

“You said last week - ah! You said you didn’t throw out the flowers in the vase but I found them in the garden! You lied then!” Her voice rises and I sense the urgency in her as she moans, closing her eyes as her head lulls back against the headboard.

“We were packing Anne! I’m not going to move a vase full of water to another house. That’s just ridiculous,” I snap and she groans, harsh laughter turning into a painful hiss. “Okay - that’s it. We’re going to push really hard this time, alright?” I instruct, widening her knees and preparing myself.

“Gil… Gil I can’t see you!” She cries, reaching her hand down for mine and patting the bed quickly as the contraction starts.

“I’m here, Anne. Do you feel this?” I grasp her ankle and squeeze it tightly. “Just push for me, love,” I urge. She does, she comes through and she brings little James Matthew into the world all red skin and screaming.

“Who is it Gil?” She asks breathlessly, her eyes closed as I cut the cord and bundle the boy up in a soft towel.

“It’s James,” I murmur and settle him on his mother’s chest, Susan watching silently as the infant cries between us. I long to run my hand across Anne’s brow, to hold her to me and never let her go, but my hands are unwashed and there’s still more to do so I take a breath and return to the end of the bed.

It’s there, watching Anne hold our child in her arms, that the tears I’ve been holding back for months start to slip out. They sting my eyes and blur my vision as I talk her through the last bit, forcing my voice to steady as Susan takes the boy in her arms.

I do lie, I realize later that night as Anne sleeps tucked against me and Jem lays curled up on my chest. I lied to us both every day when I said that everything would be fine. I lied when I told her she shouldn’t be scared, that this pregnancy wouldn’t be like the others. I didn’t know then that it would be fine, or that she’d be successful in carrying the boy to term. All I’d known was that she had to be shown that reality could be better, that believing in something could make it so. I lied but it was born of necessity to keep her steady through all her fears and compounding anxieties.

I needed to stop that now. It was not how trust was built, not truly. I had to remind her that love didn’t come from a heavy hand, it didn’t exist in harsh bruises or screaming matches. It came from quiet words and reassurances, from little gestures and soft touches. It came from believing she deserved it and that made it so. I didn’t have to lie, nor did have to fight her dragons for her, I just had to remind her she was strong enough to battle them herself.  

I didn’t grow up on birch switches and searing fights. My skin never felt the lash of a belt nor a palm’s swift impact, but not everyone I knew was so lucky. Loving Anne taught me the pain of trauma and the sharp cut of a memory still fresh and full of hurt. It also taught me the strength of resiliency and the value of a gentle word in a storm of anger, a lesson learned worth more than any schooling could give me.

The girl I once knew never really returned to me. When Anne came to the Glen I knew then the costume and the name was more than just something to hide in. She was running from the girl she once was, terrified of finding herself back in the world she had fallen into. She was no longer Anne of Green Gables, a dreamy, bright thing that existed only in my memory. Instead in her place was someone seeking shelter from a storm, a body worn and broken with the onslaught of time.

The girl I remembered was gone and the remnants of her were left to be collected through the years, slowly reassembled into something too remarkable for words. Anne became the sum of her experiences, the cracks in her armour solidified with golden beams that allowed her true light to finally shine through.

The girl I once loved was never meant to be mine. She was a figment, a fleeting being that needed to evolve and find her footing in a world that stripped her to her core. The woman I love rebuilt herself after loss and suffering and a hurt that refused to cease.

Our two sons were joined by two more brothers and three sisters, their joy and thrill bringing a light into our lives that radiated beyond our walls. Each birth was a small miracle to the woman who had lost so much, redeeming her belief in good things once more being possible.

In the years that followed Anne coming to the Glen we entwined our lives, creating a foundation and laying the bricks of our future. Together we built homes within each other, steady enough to withstand any storm that came upon us. Her scars healed, her smile brightened, and her hope finally returned.

She was exhausted. Mentally. Physically.

She’d been in Haiti for little over a week but had barely slept - the shelter was too crowded and there were so many people to help that she didn’t see the point in trying to sleep.

But now she knew she had to try or else someone would get hurt and she’d be the cause. Determined, she sought out the quietest space of floor in the storage closet and pulled the blanket over her head.

The dreams came for her like they always did - flickering in between recent and distant and haunting her. Regardless of whether she was in a disaster zone or home in her bed, the stench of Katrina clung to her and tinged every terrible thing her mind could recall.