Devoted To You || Gilbert Blythe

XLVI

"Are you sure?" Her voice quivers, making my eyes water.

"There's nothing that we can do." Gilbert chokes out as tears run down his cheeks.

"I see." Mary whispers as Gilbert breathes heavily as he tries to contain his sobs. Overwhelmed by the weight of the news, I step outside into the crisp air, my vision blurred by tears. The porch steps offer a temporary refuge, and I succumb to the emotional storm surging within me. Kicking rocks scattered along the path becomes an outlet for the turmoil, a physical manifestation of the helplessness I feel.

As each rock skitters away, my frustration and fear find a voice in the anguished cries that escape my lips. The quiet surroundings absorb the echoes of my anguish, and with each sob, the tension that had gripped my chest begins to loosen, though the ache of impending sorrow remains.

My trembling fingers brush away tears as I finally take a seat on the porch steps. The wood beneath me feels cool against my palms, grounding me in the midst of emotional turmoil. The world, for a moment, narrows down to the porch, the yard, and the looming shadows of uncertainty that stretch beyond.

The door creaks open behind me, a hand gently rests on my shoulder. "Let's go get, Delly." He whispers. Nodding in acknowledgment, I wipe away lingering tears, determined to gather strength for the difficult moments ahead.

Walking side by side, our shared silence speaks volumes, carrying the weight of unspoken emotions.

As we approach the Cuthberts' home, the anticipation of facing the reality awaiting us mingling with the echoes of shared memories. The door swings open, revealing a somber yet welcoming atmosphere within.

Marilla, her face etched with concern, greets us with a compassionate nod. Without exchanging words, we follow her to where Delphine rests, a tiny figure cocooned in the safety of her bassinet. The innocence of the sleeping child stands in stark contrast to the grief that shadows the room.

I reach down, gently lifting Delphine into my arms, cradling her close. Her small breaths and the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest become a poignant reminder of life's delicate balance.

Gilbert explains Mary's situation. The Cuthbert's gather up Delly's belongings and get them put into the carriage. Anne gives me a sympathetic look as I hand Delly back to her.

Gilbert and I walk back the way we came. He is the first to speak, "I don't think I can be a doctor.
Doctors are supposed to... I was... I had to tell her, but I-"

"Oh, Gilbert." I start but he cuts me off.

"No, don't. I'm not the one dying. I'm not the one who's losing everything. I'm just—"

"A friend who delivered the most terrible news to someone they love." I interrupt.

"Mary needed me to be strong. I just made it worse." He scoffs as we make our way through the field. "I couldn't find the words and I made it worse."

"Would she have been consoled by some dispassionate delivery? I hope you never have to do something like that again, but I don't think you'll be able to avoid it." I grab his arm and make him face me. "People will come to you, Gilbert. And they will bring their children, and everyone they hold dear, to see a doctor who cares just as much as they do." I speak as carefully as I can. "You will be a wonderful doctor. Caring deeply will always be the right thing."

We reach the yard of our home, and as Gilbert gazes at it, the weight of the recent events seems to crush him. His shoulders tremble, and then, as if a dam has burst, he starts sobbing. The sound is raw and heartbreaking, echoing the pain that swirls within him.

I step closer, instinctively wrapping my arms around him. He does the same, squeezing me like he never has before. Our tears intermingle as I join in his sorrow, understanding that sometimes, the weight of empathy can be overwhelming. In the quiet sobs, words become unnecessary. I simply hold him, sharing the burden of grief.

***

Night slowly crept up on us. Mary spent most of the day talking with Anne. I haven't gone to talk to her yet. I don't know if I can bear to look at her without crying.

I approach Mary's room with a heavy heart, knowing that this conversation will be one of the most difficult. The door opens with a soft creak, revealing the subdued light within. Mary lies in bed, her eyes reflecting a mixture of fatigue and acceptance.

"Ada," she whispers, a tender smile gracing her lips. "I was hoping you would come talk to me."

I step closer, fighting back tears, and take a seat by her bedside. "Hi Mary." I whisper, taking in everything. "I'm sorry. I just needed some time to— process everything." I bite my lip as a son threatens to leave me.

She gives me a sympathetic look, "Don't be sorry, Ada."

I take in a deep breath and release it. "I wanted to talk to you," I begin, my voice trembling. "About my mother."

Her gaze lingers on me, inviting me to share. "Tell me."

"When my mother was sick, it felt like the world was crumbling around me," I confess, the memories resurfacing. "Every day, I watched her slip away, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The pain was unbearable, Mary. Losing her left a void that time can never fill." I blink and a tear slips down my face. I take a deep breath, attempting to compose myself. "But, Mary, in that darkness, there were moments of light. I remembered the times we laughed, the warmth of her embrace, and the lessons she left me. Those memories became a source of strength, a reminder that love transcends the boundaries of life and death."

I reach out, gently placing a hand on Mary's. "You've given Delphine the gift of love and a family. She'll carry that with her, just like I carry my mother's legacy. It's not about how long we have, but how deeply we touch the lives of those we leave behind." A bittersweet smile crosses my lips. "You've made a home filled with love, Mary, and that love will endure. I will make sure of it." We both sniffle as I try to keep going, "Delphine will grow up surrounded by the echoes of your laughter and the warmth of your spirit. You're not leaving her alone; you're leaving her with a beautiful tapestry of memories and love."

Mary looks at me with a mix of sadness and gratitude. "Thank you, Ada. It's hard not to feel guilty, but your words bring comfort."

"I love you, Mary. And we'll make sure Delphine knows the incredible woman her mother was. I'll be here for Delphine. I'll be the friend she needs, just like you've been for me."

Tears stream down both our faces, an unspoken understanding passing between us. Mary's grip on my hand tightens, and I can feel the weight of her emotions.

"Ada," she whispers, her voice fragile yet filled with gratitude. "Thank you."

I lean in, embracing Mary gently. We share a moment of raw, unfiltered emotion, the echoes of grief and acceptance mingling in the quiet room.

"I forgot that saying goodbye could be this hard," I admit, my voice choked with emotion.

Mary squeezes me gently. "Life is filled with these moments, isn't it? The joy, the sorrow, the goodbyes."

"But it doesn't make it any easier," I reply.

"No, it doesn't," Mary agrees, her eyes reflecting the shared pain. "But, Ada, I want you to remember the laughter, the warmth, the moments we shared. Hold on to those, even when I'm not here." I nod, a lump forming in my throat. Mary's eyes soften with gratitude. "You've been a true friend, Ada Faye. My boys are lucky to have you."

Tears stream down my cheeks, and I nod, struggling to find the right words. In that quiet room, the depth of our friendship becomes a poignant melody, a melody that will resonate in the chambers of my heart long after Mary is gone.