Here’s a link to Part One, if you’re looking for it.
The morning soon became afternoon, without a break from the steady stream of home visits. I ate my lunch in the car, as was my habit. Early in my marriage to Shelagh I tried to stop at home for my midday break, but I soon found that the demands were too great on my time. If there were any hopes of being at the dinner table of an evening, I would have to push through the day. This past week, I hadn’t been home for dinner once.
My practice could easily take up all of my time, and I could feel myself sliding back into the long hours I worked in the past. I knew how to be Dr. Turner. I could heal the sick, or at the very least could offer comfort. I knew my path.
When I first came to Poplar, no one asked any questions. The smoke still lingered from the war, and there were wounds that needed immediate attention. I threw myself into the work with a vigor I thought long gone. There was no looking back, the way was forward.
I met Marianne during this time. More than one date was cancelled at the last minute, but she always seemed to understand. Even during our marriage, she would refer to my practice “the other woman.” There was an easy way about her that I found soothing.
My throat tightened guiltily at the thought of her. Had she realized how much I had kept from her? From the beginning, there had been a tacit understanding between us not to discuss the war. I knew as little about her past as she knew of mine, and neither questioned it. An idea began to niggle at my mind. Why were we content to settle for only part of each other?
“Last one,” I promised myself as I a lit another cigarette. I inhaled deeply and glanced about the car. My flask of tea stood empty on the dash next to an uneaten sandwich. The full ashtray gave testament to how I had spent this break. I’d have to empty that before I went home. The last thing I needed was for Shelagh to see how much I’d been smoking lately. Trapping the cigarette between my lips, I climbed out of the car and made my way up the stairs to my next call.
The flat had the well-scrubbed look of better times gone by but not forgotten. Sunlight gleamed through the clear glass windows, brightening the furniture veneers polished thin. A vase of fresh flowers called from the corner by the window.
A cheerful spot, at first glance. But there, in the back of the flat, the dark corridor seemed to pinch away at the hard-earned cheerfulness of the public rooms.
I squatted beside the threadbare sofa and peered into my patient’s throat. “I must say, Mrs. Babbish, young Billy seems to have passed through his bout of measles quite nicely. He’s past the point of danger, and this rash is well on it’s way to fading.” I tousled the young boy’s head, smiling at him. “You think you can take it easy if I let you go out to play tomorrow?” I asked him.
The boy’s cheer filled the space. I laughed, glad to be able to give good news.
“Hush, Billy,” his mother warned, her lips tight. Her eyes flashed towards a closed door down the hall. “You’ll wake your father.”
I could feel an instant tension bloom in the room. My eyes followed hers to that door.
The doorknob rattled, then the door opened to reveal William Babbish. I knew him to be a well dressed, supercilious man on the streets of Poplar. The man before me pressed against the door frame, his clothes rumpled from the bed. He cleared his throat with a rough, phlegmy sound and growled, “I asked for quiet!” The bloated face, once handsome, reddened in warning.
I drew his attention to me. “Your son’s recovered nicely, Mr. Babbish,” I told him cheerfully. “Right as rain in no time.”
Babbish noticed me in the room for the first time, and turned in my direction. He stood taller, and walked towards me with a slow, practiced stride. The anger evaporated as he focussed his eyes on me.
“Doctor.” His greeting was formal, and when he reached out his hand I saw the alcoholic tremor shake his arm.
“Your wife’s done an excellent job of managing things.”
The man stood with a studied balance and nodded, his eyelids heavy. “Thanks to you, too, Doctor.” His tongue slogged through the words.
“William, dear, I’ve put the kettle on. You go back and lay down, it’s been such a long day for you. I’ll bring a cup in for you in two ticks.” Mrs. Babbish’s nervous laughter set my hackles up. Her young son didn’t make a sound.
Babbish moved as if underwater. He took a deep, chest-expanding breath and nodded a farewell, then let his wife lead him back down the darkened hallway.
I took the moment to pack up my case, giving them the illusion of privacy. Murmured voices, the rattle and click of the doorknob, and she returned. The tight look about her lips was gone, replaced by a cordial, if distracted, smile.
“Tea’ll be ready in a minute, Dr. Turner. Billy, why don’t you finish that puzzle you’ve started?” Her hands smoothed back her tidy chignon.
The rapid change in mood revealed more than any long consultation. Today was simply part of a long parade of days driven by William Babbish’s alcoholism. His wife began to chatter, filling up the air so there was no room for questions. Her son was on the mend and she had no need for my medical expertise. As long as the bedroom door remained shut, Mrs. Babbish could pretend their life was normal.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Babbish,” I answered. Time spent over tea would be wasted. Any help I could offer would be rebuffed. I would have to wait and let this drama play out.
After the tense brightness of the Babbish home, the dark stairwell offered me a moment of privacy. I lit up another cigarette and leant back against the tiled wall. My headache was drifting down to my shoulders, coiling in knots of tension. To ease the pain, I stretched my neck, trying to work the strain from my muscles. Shelagh’s small hands always knew how to relieve the tightness there.
The pressure intensified between my eyes, and my fingers moved to pinch the bridge of my nose. I couldn’t ask Shelagh for help. My throat tightened and the image of her face this morning got past my guard. Bloody hell, I made a mess of things.
For some unfathomable reason, she chose me, left the life of service to God to be my wife. Despite the many reasons not to, she promised herself to me for always. Now she knew how damaged I was, Shelagh would stand by those promises. I would go home tonight, and every night, and she would be there. She would care for me, help raise my son, be my partner in old age.
Shame broke through the cracks in my guard. Those buried months pushed at me, looking for light. I pushed back. I’d manage things, I knew I would. Just as before. Soon, I could put this behind me. Shelagh and I would find a way to be.
There was no solace in that knowledge. We would manage, but I knew I would remember the wonder I had let slip through my fingers.
I crushed my cigarette into the concrete floor and went back to work.
My Little Yellowbird 