HOME | Gilbert Blythe

PROLOGUE | THE TIME TRAVELER

WHEN Jacquelyn Birch was fifteen, she had found the most peculiar thing while researching for a school project. She sat alone in the public library, buried in the town archives, searching for even a modicum of information on how people lived during the 19th century. Her AP US History class was honestly kicking her butt, and she needed to have as much detail as she could for her presentation.

It was hidden in a dusty photo album, just another picture among the many others. In fact, she might not have even noticed it if it weren't for the sickeningly familiar face sticking out quite sorely. Her eyebrows had furrowed as she pulled it out of its plastic slip, studying it carefully, front to back. It couldn't be!

In the picture stood two people: one boy who seemed so familiar, and then—her. Or an imposter who looked like her. The same lanky limbs, somewhat crooked nose smattered with freckles, brown hair... only in the picture it was much longer and Jax wouldn't be caught dead in the dress from the photo. She rubbed her eyes. The resemblance was still really uncanny, right down the slight hunch she had whilst standing--something her mother always bothered her about. The two in the photo stood next to each other awkwardly, the boy's hand sitting on the small of her back, the girl standing with her hands to herself, seemingly wringing them behind her buttocks. Despite the wearing of the photo and the lack of any colorful hue, they seemed to be outside, dressed in their Sunday best. Both the boy and girl were forcing a smile, the awkwardness able to emanate through the picture even through its age. It seemed as if they wanted to be anywhere but with each other, forever trapped in the confines of the timeless photograph.

A pit formed at the bottom of Jax's stomach. She didn't feel anxious--more perplexed than anything. She felt a sense of familiarity in what she saw before her, as if she personally experienced the situation--the awkwardness and tension in the air, the feeling of the boy's hand on her back. But it really couldn't be. Her mind raced as she rotated the photo in her hands to read the back, which only deepened the pit in her stomach more.

Jax and Gilbert, Avonlea 1896, it read in a faded cursive.

She gulped. Jax, not even Jacquelyn. She had discovered over her fifteen years that no girl wanted to nickname themselves Jax, it seemed to always be Jackie. She could only assume that it would be the same for the 19th century, as names were understandably more old-fashioned, like Beth or Susan. It felt as though Jax should be a more modern nickname, something that that would stand out a little too much in the sexist and misogynistic 19th century. And Avonlea? She had never heard of such a place! These were her town's archives, shouldn't all of the pictures be from the area?

She glanced around the room, checking to see if anyone was around before stealthily shoving the picture into her pants pocket. Of course she knew stealing was wrong, but this situation felt special. The discovery was felt too dire to leave behind to rot amongst the town archives once more. There was an explanation for this somewhere. Maybe, just maybe, her mother, Michelle, would be able to ease her mind.

But after she was picked up and sat in the car with her mother, she struggled with how to put her experience into words. They sat in a comfortable silence, but there were questions itching to be released from Jax's racing mind.

"Mom," She started slowly, and Michelle glanced at her suspiciously. "do I have like a  great grandparent or great great grandparent that has the same nickname as me?"

"Nope." Michelle was quick to shoot down the question, her eyes trained on the road. "The name Jacquelyn was your dad and I's decision. We came up with it ourselves. As for Jax, however, that was all you. You used to hate it when we called you Jackie or Jacquelyn, so you insisted on coming up with something else." Her mother laughed at the faraway memory, feeling quite nostalgic.

"Oh." Was all the girl could muster out in reply, tightening her grip on the picture in her pocket.

Over the next year, she let the photo collect dust in her desk drawer, writing it off as some strange coincidence. If she had no relatives with the same name as her, the girl must be someone else. But deep down, she wondered why Gilbert seemed so familiar yet so far away, and why the photograph seemed to have some sort of gravitational pull. Little did she know, her life was going to changed forever, and soon she would understand the mystery of the photograph.