Another Tumblr prompt, this one a thank you to On the Right Road for finding a favorite fanvid of mine. Loved writing this one!

For weeks since coming home, Timothy had begged his father to let him walk home from school. Perhaps to encourage his son’s desire for independence, or due to his heavy call list that Friday afternoon, Patrick finally agreed. Shelagh would meet Timothy at the gate to the schoolyard and they would walk home together.

The short walk home did not seem to do Tim much good, however. By the time they were home in the sitting room, his mood has deteriorated sharply. He snapped at Shelagh about the tea, complained heartily about the extra school work he was getting to catch up with the class and wanted nothing to do with talk of the upcoming wedding.

A tense quiet descended over the room, and Shelagh made for the kitchen. There was always something to be done in there.

“Don’t go, Shelagh,” Timothy pleaded. “Sorry for being such a bear.”

Shelagh turned back. As usual, she found it easy to forgive him. “That’s all right. Difficult  day?”

“Yes. Horrible.” He rubbed his eyes, and Shelagh smiled at the gesture, so like his father’s.

“Here. I think I know the problem,” she soothed. “I’m sure your legs are aching you. Let’s get these old calipers off, and  I can rub out some of those cramps for you.”

He nodded in agreement and awkwardly settled on the sofa. “Race you!” Shelagh teased. Laughing, they both worked the leather strapping free, and in the work of a moment, Tim’s legs stretched out before him.

“They almost look like before,” he mumbled. His thin legs had slowly regained some of the muscle mass he lost in the early weeks of his polio. Without the calipers, his legs almost looked as if the last few months had never happened.

“And they’ll be fit before you know it,” she told him cheerfully. “Now sit back and close your eyes. Do you want music today?”

He shook his head, and Shelagh knelt on the floor beside the sofa. In the quiet room, her skilled nurses hands began to massage the sore muscles of his calves, careful not to get too close to his heel. Timothy was terribly ticklish there, and a quick movement would only increase his pain. She was quite skilled at this by now, and it didn’t take long to help Timothy into a more relaxed state.

“Do you want to talk about why your day was so horrible?” She watched as his face started to close up. Offering him a subject, she asked, “Are your legs hurting more than usual? No, don’t worry. I’m not going to tell your father we can’t walk home from school anymore.”

She watched as Timothy wrestled with his thoughts. He would say what was bothering him, she knew, it just took a little while. He took a deep breath and started. “They did ache a bit, yes. I played ball for a bit during recess, and I shouldn’t have. Mrs. Kelly told me off, and said I wasn’t to go outside again until I brought in a note from Dad saying I can play.” His frown deepened. “I don’t want to be coddled! I know how to take care of myself. I’m quite good at it by now. I didn’t do any damage, and I stopped when I knew I had played too much!”

The angry words struck a chord in Shelagh. There was something else bothering him. She continued to rub his legs, working the ligaments at his knees and waiting. As she finished with the right leg and began on the left, Shelagh looked up. Timothy’s face had grown mottled. “Dearest,” she spoke quietly. “Tell me. Let me try to help you.”

Timothy would not meet her eyes. “They did a Mothering Day project in class today.”

Shelagh let out a sharp breath. So that was it. She should have realized. The poor boy. He had been given so many trials already in his young life, and with so many changes recently, he was bound to be feeling the stress. Did he need more time to prepare for the wedding and all the changes that would bring, as well?

“Shelagh, do you still miss your mum?”

Surprised, Shelagh answered honestly. “Yes, Timothy, I do. Sometimes I miss her dreadfully.” A bit stunned by the turn of conversation, her breath grew a little ragged and she prepared herself for a very tender, difficult conversation. “It’s all right for you to miss your mother, dearest.” He looked like such a wee boy, she thought. It was all she could do to prevent herself from taking him into her arms. Realizing he needed to hear her confirm his own feelings, she continued. “I don’t think it ever goes away. When I was a child, it was always there. It probably didn’t help that I was such a shy child. And my father just couldn’t manage. He never talked of her to anyone.

“You know, I was always looking for her. In a crowd, or…in church sometimes. I thought maybe it was all a mistake, we’d been wrong and she’d be back soon.” She smiled, her face tight with sadness. “That’s even happened to me as an adult. Now I know I won’t see her, but I look anyway. I think I just want to pretend for a moment, do you know what I mean?”

He nodded, fighting back tears. Shelagh continued massaging his leg, her face turned away. She could feel tears start to slide down her cheeks, and the sight of them would upset him more. “I was always searching for someone to fill the space, too. I used to,” she paused, looking for the right word, “‘borrow’ my friends’ mothers. I think I spent as much time with them as I did my friends. I loved being around older women. I would listen to their talk, or watch them do “mother” type things. Oh, I used to love watching them put out the laundry to dry! And they were so soft. Their hugs, their scent.” She had stopped massaging his leg, her hand still resting on his knee. “It’s probably a big reason why I went into the Order. I wanted to serve God, but I needed something, too.” She turned to look at him then, a watery smile on her face. “I’m sorry,” she laughed. She got up and retrieved her handkerchief from her handbag. “The last thing you want to see is me crying.”

He shook his head. He shifted his legs, sitting upright on the couch. “No, it’s…I’m glad you’re telling me this. So…do you think Sister Julienne is like a sort of…substitute mother for you?”

Sitting next to him, Shelagh took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. “Yes. My first day- I was just a postulant then- she took me under her wing. She supported me; helped me make the transition into the Order. She became the person I thought of when I had troubles, the one I wanted to tell my good news. I wanted to help her in any way I could, be the one she could depend upon. She was the person I spoke to when I was trying to decide what path I wanted this last year.” Her face wiped dry of tears now, Shelagh smiled a happier smile at Timothy. “I still miss my own mother. But I know she’d be happy that I’ve found someone to help.”

Timothy sat quietly, nervously fiddling his thumbs. Again, Shelagh smiled to see the father in his son. “I miss my mother, too. But sometimes, I can’t remember what she looks like. I can see her, but sometimes I’m just remembering the photographs we have of her. I can’t see her moving, or playing the piano.” He sniffed loudly and dragged his shirtsleeve across his face. “Am I starting to forget her?” His eyes sought Shelagh’s, scared and lonely.

“No. Oh, no.” She moved closer to him. “Those visual memories are just  there to help make sure our loved ones find a place in our heart. That’s where it really matters. But talking helps. Whenever you want, tell me about those times. Tell me what she looked like at the piano, what her hands looked like, how did she move her head? You can tell me that, and it will help you remember.”

Timothy nodded. His tears had stopped.

“Let me get you something for your face,” Shelagh teased gently. “I’m afraid my hankie won’t be of any use to you.”

“Dad keeps a box of tissues in the cabinet under the window. Under the big ship,” Timothy sniffed.

Shelagh returned with the entire box. Timothy grimaced. “I’m not that bad,” he grumbled.

Smiling, Shelagh said, “They’re for me, silly boy. I’m afraid you’ve opened the floodgates. Now, how about some tea?”

Timothy nodded. As Shelagh turned towards the kitchen, he called, “Shelagh, wait. There’s something else.”

She sat down again and looked at him curiously. He seemed to struggle for a moment, then rushed on. “Will you be my Sister Julienne?”
Shelagh’s brow furrowed in concern. “I’m not sure I know what you mean, dearest.”

His face was very serious. “I do miss Mummy, really I do. But I love you, too, and I want you to be my mum, not just Dad’s wife. I know it might hurt Granny Parker’s feelings and I’m sorry about that, and I’m not sure how Dad feels about it, he told me I had to decide on my own, but I think Mummy would be glad about this. I think she’s glad, up in Heaven, that I have you. You take care of me, you know what I need even before I do. I think maybe Mummy even helped send you to us.” His eyes pleaded with her. “Could we do that?”

Shelagh felt all the breath leave her body. “Oh, Timothy.” Tears started again and her voice was strained. “I’d truly love to be your mum.” Her hand reached out and squeezed his. After a moment, she gently blew her nose, and they laughed. “Now how about that tea?”

Entering the kitchen, Shelagh called, “Biscuits or toast?” Something caught her eye and she turned to the hallway. Standing there, just shy of the sitting room door, was Patrick. Swiftly, he came to her and took her in his arms. His eyes gleamed, and he rested his forehead against hers. “Thank you, Shelagh,” he whispered.

Shelagh wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing as close to him as she could.

Through the hatch, Timothy grinned widely. But enough was enough, he decided. “This is all very well and good, but I am a growing boy, you know. Tea would be nice, Mum.”

---

Mothering Day had become Shelagh’s favorite day of all. She preferred it above her birthday, Christmas, and even their wedding anniversary. Patrick adamantly refused to be on call. He was senior enough, he said, that he could insist on a few things in the practice. Timothy wouldn’t make any plans with friends (no small feat for a seventeen year old boy) and Angela’s talent in watercolors meant that there would be a lovely addition to the growing art collection on the kitchen wall.

It was the one day she pretended to have a lie-in, giving up any authority in the preparation of breakfast (though somehow she always seemed to be needed for the clean-up), and came down to a full English fry-up. She stood in the hallway, watching her family work and laugh together, and was overwhelmed with love. Sensing her in the doorway, Patrick looked up and held out his arms, “Morning, sweetheart.”

Beaming, Shelagh stepped into the place she most belonged.