Saturday arrived much faster than Anne would've preferred.
"Anne, why aren't you ready yet?" Marilla reprimanded. The woman was already in a plain black dress with her hair pulled back into its usual strict knot, although her face looked especially pinched in it lately. It had no embellishments, just a plain long sleeved top piece with a straight black skirt, no ruffles or poofs in sight.
"It's a funeral service, we're not meeting the Queen," she muttered from her bed. She hadn't been sleeping well in days. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Matthew's sickly face draining of all color and feeling, his pink tinted skin turning ashy, warm embrace turning cold and hard and gone forever.
"I'll thank you to show some respect!"
Anne lolled out of bed grudgingly, rubbing her eyes (unsuccessfully) to hide the bleariness and weariness that the past few days had contributed. Marilla's face softened when she saw Anne's gaunt face and coarsely matted hair, tired eyes usually bright blue and now swollen bloodshot from unwanted tears that only spilled during nightmares and dark circles marring the undersides. The blue seemed all the more striking on her dark demeanor now, making her seem more like a skittish, wide-eyed animal than a fairy like her Gilbert compared her to.
"Rachel and I made a dress for you because I know you don't have any black long skirts. It is in your wardrobe."
Once Marilla exited the room, Anne threw open her closet doors lazily and quickly saw the black dress that stuck out like a sore thumb. Any other day, she would have been just chuffed to have such a dress. It was truly very beautiful, long sleeved with the most tragically understated puffed sleeves and a cinched skirt with delicate ruffles and tiny Chantilly lace adornments. When she was younger, she might've had a tragical fantasy about being a beautiful maiden weeping dramatically over the grave of her truest love, her elegant dress sprawled out beneath her feet and auburn hair draped over her face.
Instead, she took it out of the closet numbly, slipped it on, and did none of the usual preening. Her hair was bristly and matted from days of neglect, so she ran a brush through it half heartedly and pulled half of it out of her face with a white spotted black ribbon.
Climbing down the stairs slowly, she saw Marilla waiting on the couch for her, staring out the window forlornly. She dabbed at her sky blue eyes with a lace trimmed handkerchief. She heard her daughter descending the stairs and her watery eyes turned to Anne.
"Rachel was right. This dress becomes you," Marilla sniffed sadly. Anne had never seen Marilla in this state. It seemed so unlike calm, collected, and unfeeling Marilla to tear up, to be so fragile, a condition usually for Anne. Now it seemed the roles were reversed. Marilla was falling apart with every breath, and Anne was suppressing it, a dull ache eating her from the inside out.
It did look gorgeous on Anne's lithe figure, the jet black flowing like a waterfall and pooling at her feet, cinched with a belt of black silk and faux pearl. It seemed like the perfect dress to be draped over somebody's grave and weeping. She never thought it would be her most kindred spirit's headstone.
"We should get going," Anne deadpanned, avoiding the subject entirely. Marilla stood up shakily, reaching for the girl's hand. Using the other for support, the two women walked to the family graveyard together.
People started to pour in, all clad in their best black numbers. One thing was clear; every single soul in Avonlea mourned Matthew Cuthbert. Though many had problems with his sharp sister and free spirited daughter, no one could deny that he was a kind and unproblematic man. He would be sorely missed and loved by each person in the town.
The service started with the Reverend bowing his head solemnly, starting the sequence of strung together words flowing fluidly from his mouth. To Anne, they were simply that, just words, none of them good enough to express her sorrow.
As the service continued and the pallbearers lowered the casket into the ground, her father clad in a black suit, eyes closed and perfectly still, the shred of hope that maybe this wasn't real escaped her. It was reality and seeing her dearest Matthew being lowered to the ground made it more real. The truth pummeled her like a punch to the gut.
The imagination could not change the fact that Matthew Cuthbert, loving brother and father, was gone. It was like someone had reached into her chest and ripped her heart out, stomping it cruelly until it was broken beyond repair.
The reverend echoed the same words that he had for John Blythe, leaving Anne with curses on her mind and on the tip of her tongue. Wasn't each soul special enough to have their own commemoration instead of the priest's dispassionate delivery of compulsion?
She put the thought out of mind as the service came to an end. All around, she saw people giving Marilla their sympathies and for some reason, she felt wicked and blood boiling anger!
None of these people knew him like she did, yet they feigned that he was someone that they loved more than anything! They said that Matthew Cuthbert was a good man, a kind man, and other generic nice words of the sort. They didn't mention any of the things that made him so distinctly himself, the things that made him someone Anne loved.
They didn't mention how the tips of his white ears would turn rose when someone gave him a compliment, nor how every time things would get slightly uncomfortable, he'd excuse himself to the barn, no matter what time of day. They didn't mention how though he was quite a shy man, he would do anything for Anne and Marilla. They didn't mention his affinity for listening to Anne read the Brontes' works out loud to him on quiet Sunday mornings nor how he enjoyed the peace of coffee and a muffin in the barn sometime in between breakfast and lunch at noon while making pleasant small talk with Jerry. They didn't know him, and how dare they pretend that they did! The anger was so consuming that she had to mutter a paltry apology to Marilla when she'd chastised Anne for glaring daggers at each sympathetic supporter.
The anger slowly ebbed away when they retreated back into the house for the post-funeral reception. Anne was disinterested, paying attention to the people she cared about (very few, at this point) and tuning out the rest as people came forward to offer their condolences.
Soon enough, Diana, Ruby, and Josie got to the front of the line. Knowing Anne, they offered her warm embraces, saying nothing at all. They stood beside her wordlessly, just supporting her when she needed it.
The only thing said was a little sentiment from Diana. "We're not going to say anything. We don't know how this feels, so we're not going to pretend we do. But we're here for you, Anne."
"Thank you," she whispered to them, their silent apologies meaning millions more than anyone else's. As they were ushered away by their family, she bit her lip and fought the tears coming to her eyes.
"It's okay to cry," a voice said from her side. She cast her eyes downward to see little Minnie May, the girl standing proudly and yanking on the edge of Anne's dress to catch her attention. "I do it all the time and so does Mother. She cried just yesterday!"
Anne let out a hollow little laugh. "Oh? What for?" she asked the girl, bending down to her level and humoring her as a distraction.
"I cut off all my doll's hair and made her skirt into trousers so that she -- I mean, he -- could kiss my other doll."
"That would've certainly caused a scene," Anne said, nodding her head as the girl offered her a satisfied nod and a sympathetic kiss on the cheek before skipping off. She stared off into the reception for a couple minutes, letting her eyes wander aimlessly over the people with their faces downcast, talking in hushed morose tones and sharing stories about Matthew with each other.
"Anne," she heard somebody hiss. She looked over to find a seething Marilla motioning to the people in front of them. "Please be polite!"
"Good morning, Anne. My condolences," Gilbert said politely, offering her an impersonal smile.
She returned it with a curt nod. "Thanks, Gilbert. How do you do, Bash? How about you, Hazel? How is sweet Delphine coping? I guess Marilla will have to be the one to show her the goats now." She was a million times friendlier with the latter two, and they both pretended they didn't notice.
"And I thought it was cold outside..." Bash commented, whistling lowly. Hazel smacked him upside the head with a disapproving nod, wrapping Anne up in a tight hug.
"I am so sorry, dear Anne." The girl was taken by surprise but returned the affection with fervor. In Hazel's warm arms, she felt how her soul melted molten with the urge to crumble into it, to wallow forever and sink into the depths of Earth and see if anyone would care. She had to go before she could succumb to it.
"If you'll excuse me, I'd like to use the privy." Anne stepped back and pushed in between Bash and Gilbert. She exited the building briskly, and Gilbert, ever aware of Anne, saw her brush back a tear using her mitten. He didn't bother with an explanation before bounding after her in quick strides.
"Anne," he murmured in a hushed tone, trying to grab her attention. "Anne!" She turned to look at him with her eyes cast down.
"If you've come to tell me that you never want to speak to me again, don't bother. I know myself well enough to discern when I've crossed a line. You can go back to your life now. I'm sure Christine would be pleased enough to see you again."
"What?" he said, his eyebrows furrowed.
"Don't you hate me, Gilbert Blythe? Don't you wish you had never met me so that you could forget all the terrible and hateful things I've said to you? Don't you wish you would've gone with Winifred when you had the chance?" she spat, crossing her arms over her chest.
"Of course not," he said, shocked she'd even think so. "Anne, I could never hate you. You could hurt me a thousand times, and I could never hate you."
"Of course you don't," she huffed, hanging her head and groaning with the tired frustration of an ancient creature rather than a girl at the delicate age of sixteen. "Even though I deserve it, you don't. Please, spare me the act. I miss Matthew and I feel like a hellish demon, so if you don't mean it, don't say it."
"I mean it, Anne," he said softly, staring down at her with tenderest of eyes. He brushed a piece of errant hair behind her ears. "I just don't understand why you're pushing me away. I did the same thing when Dad passed, it didn't help. I thought you were comfortable enough to talk to me about these things. I-Is it me?" he asked helplessly, wishing he could do something other than stand there like a fool.
She was positively appalled. "You? Oh, you foolish boy, of course it isn't you, that's the problem! You can't handle all this, Gilbert, all of me. You can't handle my tongue, and you certainly can't handle being hurt by me over and over and over. So I advise you to go find another more sensible girl to court."
Instead of a wordy poetic argument like she was expecting, he refused her with an adamant "No."
"Excuse me?"
"No," he repeated, shaking his head. "I'm not letting you drown in your own self doubt. You're hurt, so you push everything away. You're pushing your feelings away, and you're pushing our family away." He didn't realize that he said our until he saw the look on her face.
"Did I offend you?" he asked quickly, his mouth pressed together in a tight lipped frown. "I'm so sorry, Anne. I didn't mean to-"
She cut him off with something that should've happened a long time ago, something that she had been neglecting for a week. Her body had decided it was time to stop neglecting the hollow feeling in her core and replaced with something a hundred times worse but somehow relieving.
Rippling emotion shook her through. She couldn't say if it was pain or anger or sadness, but it escaped her through a stifled sob, a lone tear marking a path for many more down its cheek.
"I'm so very sorry," she cried helplessly, as he tried to alleviate her pain and assure her that there was nothing to be sorry for, that she was never going to be in his bad graces. Slowly, as if to ask for her permission, he wrapped his arms around her carefully, rubbing her back soothingly.
"Is this okay?" he asked her softly. She nodded in his arms. "I love you, my perfect girl."
Bash looked out the window to see what was taking them so long when he saw his brother holding the shorter girl tight in his arms. He smirked besides the situation and remarked, "I'll say they made up."