The Three of Us

72. Separation

The Andrews home- with Mr. Andrews indignant that anyone would blame Billy, and Mrs. Andrews with complicated feelings she could not resolve, Prissy embarrased by the whole situation, and Billy who did not think twice about what he had done- were a million miles away from the hospital where Anne lay unhappy with a baby boy by her side.

When Marilla returned from the boarding house, Rachel met her, saying, "Marilla, I understand she's recuperating, but it's been days now and all she's done is give him his bottle a few times and burp him. She hasn't changed his diaper even once, or given him a bath, or anything. She ought to be doing more for him. She doesn't even pick him up when he cries. We do!"

"The doctor doesn't want her out of bed except to relieve herself. It's not as if she can go make his bottles for him," Marilla said, exasperated.

"Yes, but just look at her!" Rachel said, as if to prove her point:

Marilla peeked into the room. Anne was lying on the bed, awake, but doing nothing except staring into space, her large, watery eyes empty of any emotion. Her abandoned baby was crying, his face turning an angry red, but she did not appear to notice him.

"Anne," Marilla said quickly, coming into the room.

Anne came out of her daze and looked up. "Marilla," was her listless greeting.

"Anne, did you notice the baby, he's fussing," Marilla said, trying to sound gentle with her.

Anne glanced at him. "Oh," she said. She sighed and pulled him by his legs closer to her.

"Anne, I'm worried about you," Marilla said, sitting down next to her on the bed. She scooped the baby up- not dragging him by the legs as Anne had done- and wrapped him up in the blanket that had come loose from him.

Once he was wrapped tightly, he settled down almost immediately.

"Rachel told me that newborn babies like being wrapped tightly because it makes them feel the way they did in the womb. ...Remember how Dr. Wescott said when you stopped feeling him kicking so much, it was because there wasn't much room?"

Anne didn't say anything. "It's not the same," she said finally, her voice hoarse.

"What's not the same, dear?"

"He isn't."

"I don't know what you mean...?"

"It was different before, when it- when he- was still inside. I feel like it's not the same baby."

"Oh, Anne, this is the same baby. They didn't accidentally switch him. Rachel and I were both there the whole time-"

"That's not what I mean," Anne interrupted flatly. Then she said, "It's different now, seeing him."

"In what way?"

Anne heaved a sigh, as if explaining this was too much work. "Before, the baby was only an idea. And I didn't know if it was a boy or a girl. And I thought it liked me and wanted to talk to me, and I talked to it. Now, it's just..."

"What?"

Anne shrugged. She could not even look at the baby. "I don't know. It's not the same."

Marilla said gently, "Perhaps if you did more for him- fed him and did his diapers and everything- then you might feel more bonded to him."

Anne did not want to do anything for him.

But he started wailing again, for no apparent reason, and so she picked him up and rubbed his back, and eventually he stopped.

The moment he was calm, Anne asked, "Marilla, can I put him in that basket we brought? I don't like him laying next to me."

Marilla felt crushed, but got the basket from the corner where she'd set it. She lay the baby in it. "Perhaps you're right," she said. "Putting him in the basket instead of in bed with you. He could fall off the edge of the bed, or you might roll over him. He's safer this way. Uh, Anne..."

"What?"

"I couldn't help but notice- whenever you do take care of him, you don't look at him."

"Of course I look at him. How could I give him a bottle if I wasn't looking?" Anne asked irritably.

"Yes, you look, but...you seem to glance enough to see what you're doing, and then look away. Have you ever just looked at him? Just at his face, or his eyes?"

"I looked at him when he was born."

Marilla remembered Anne looking at the baby's face, and asking, Do I have to keep holding him?

"He didn't even have his eyes open, then, darling," she said softly. "Wouldn't you like to look at him when he can look at you?"

Anne did not answer.

"You act as if you're afraid to look at him. Are you afraid, Anne?"

"He's a baby. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Then can you? Go on, look at him. He hasn't gone to sleep yet. You can see his eyes. There's nothing to be afraid of."

Anne sighed and looked into the basket. She did not want to look at his eyes, so she only pretended to, and then she turned to Marilla. "I've looked at him now," she lied.

Marilla felt helpless.

Finally she said, "Well, maybe when you aren't so tired, things will be easier."

Anne did not see how being less tired would change anything. When Walter threatened to let out a wail, Anne put her hand to his lip, and he promptly latched onto her finger, comforted by it. When he wrapped his little fist around her thumb, Anne was reminded of the bandages had been wrapped around that thumb when her wrist was sprained nine months ago.