Category Archives: The Emerging Butterfly

His Safety Net

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Author’s note: This fic is set at the end of Series 4 Episode 5. Patrick has begun his recovery from his near-breakdown, and Shelagh has found resources within she hadn’t known existed.

I’m going to give this a Three Kettle rating, primarily because of the story’s setting (a bath). However, I think the kettles better reflect a level of intimacy rather than steam, which I think is actually kind of hot.

***   ***

It was like they were courting again. Walking together along the cobbled streets, lit only by street lamp, Shelagh couldn’t remember a time in recent months when they had walked alone together, no children in tow, no hurry to be somewhere. They walked together, happy and relaxed, as they talked about the whirlwind of events of the last few hours.

Serious conversation would come later, in private. For now, they just enjoyed each others company. Shelagh smiled softly as Patrick shifted his medical bag from his right to left hand, and edged more closely to him. A flash of memory passed before her eyes, of another time walking with Patrick, their hands so close, yet not touching. How confused she had been then, uncertain of her feelings and afraid of what her tortured thoughts might mean.

She moved an inch closer and threaded her fingers with his. Together, they took the long way home.

 

It wasn’t so terribly late when they returned to the flat. Timothy greeted them in the hallway, his sister in his arms.

“That’s my girl,” Patrick cooed as he reached out for his daughter. The bleak lines of fatigue faded from his face as he held his baby to his heart.

“It’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type,” Shelagh countered. She reached over and kissed Timothy’s cheek. “Thank you for managing without us, dearest. You’ve been so completely dependable, and we’re very grateful. Your father and I have spoken about it, and we can’t ask you to do so much. We’re going to have to work out some sort of arrangement with Mrs. Penney if this is going to work for everybody.” She smoothed his shirt across his shoulders. “ Have you eaten?”

Glancing around the bounty of food left as thanks during Patrick’s illness, she asked, “Well, it looks like I won’t have to cook for quite a while, certainly. What will it be tonight? Steak and Kidney pie or pasties?”

Patrick followed her. “I’m starving, I can eat anything, even that frightening looking pan from Mrs. Everett, if no one else wants it,” he grimaced at the offending casserole. “Eating that well-meaning yet revolting mess is the least I could do after all you two have done for me. I owe you both so much.”

“It’s alright, Dad. Just remember this when it comes time for me to borrow the car.” The boy stretched.  “I’ve eaten already. Mostly Mrs. B’s cake, but I’m fairly certain neither of you will kick up a fuss about it. I’m for bed. Taking care of Angela is exhausting!”

Timothy started out the door and turned back. “I like the uniform, Mum. It suits you.”

Shelagh hummed  the gentle lullaby she used to coax her daughter to sleep each night, and began to shed her uniform. The steps were logical and short, and she found herself remembering another uniform from another time. The fine cotton replaced the worsted wool, but the starched cotton smelled just the same.  She found a home for the uniform in the wardrobe and slipped into her nightclothes.

Silently closing the door on her sleeping child, she moved to check on Timothy. His light was out, and for once he was not sitting up late with a book. The lad had surely put in his time this week. They would need to find a way to make it up to him. Perhaps a day trip to the seaside. The family would have to miss Church, but she doubted Timothy would mind.

The poor boy had been such a responsible young man these last few days. Shelagh knew she hadn’t been able to keep all of her worries to herself, and Timothy seemed to read her distress so clearly. But he trusted her, and had faith in his father. Timothy’s unwavering belief in his father had given her strength, too. She pressed a light kiss to his forehead, grateful for her son.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and she nudged it open. Patrick stood before the mirror over the sink, his shirt discarded and vest tossed in the clothes bin, braces hanging loosely at his sides. He lathered up, and looked back at his wife over his shoulder.

“I thought I’d get cleaned up. I’m not sure when I last gave myself a decent shave.”

“That’s alright. I like you a little bit bristly.” Shelagh moved to draw him a bath. “You should have a nice long soak, too. Just the thing to help you sleep.”

Patrick turned to face her. “You take the bath, sweetheart. It’s been a long few days for you, too. Or better yet…” his eyebrows wiggled suggestively.

Shelagh pressed her lips together, feigning a prim expression. “Really, Patrick. After all Timothy’s done for us, the last thing that boy needs is to be awakened by us splashing in the tub like a pair of selkies.” She ran her hand under the tap to check the temperature. Satisfied, she placed the stopper, then teasingly flicked a few drops of water in his direction.

With a grin, Patrick turned back towards the mirror. For a moment, Shelagh regarded his long back and the way his shoulders flexed as he shaved his face clean of the care of the last days. She stood and walked to him, pressing herself against his back, her arms wrapped about his waist. “I will wash your hair. though,” she murmured into his skin. “I’ll get you a towel. They’re still in the basket waiting to be folded.”

When she returned a few moments later, Patrick was in the bath, his head tilted back against the rolled edge. He looked tired, she thought, but the bone-weary exhaustion seemed to have left his face.

Opening one eye, he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to join me? No monkey business, I promise. I’m not even sure I could, I’m so tired.” He held his hand out for her to grasp.

“We’ll make sure you get some good rest tonight. No surgery tomorrow-” she held up her hand when he began to protest. “One more day off, Patrick, There’s nothing so pressing right now, and you could use a day. We all could. Let’s get out of the city, go for a drive, have a picnic. Some time as a family.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Yes, Nurse Turner. Whatever you say.”

Their eyes held for a long moment, understanding passing between them. Shelagh stood and turned away.

“I thought you were going to wash my hair?” he complained.

“I am.” Shelagh slid the pretty blue flowered dressing gown from her shoulders. “You’ll see.”

The nightgown joined the dressing gown on the hook on the door before she motioned for him to move forward. “Make room. Just to keep my clothes dry, mind you.”

A breath of laughter escaped from his lungs. Shelagh knew she was certainly a far cry from the shy, self-conscious bride of their early months of marriage. She stood before him confident in their love and partnership, happy to revel in the closeness they had built together.

He slid forward in the tub and she slipped her slight form in the space behind him. The water was warm, but not uncomfortably so, considering the warmth of the night. She shifted, and let her body surround his.

They lay together in the soothing water, each releasing the stresses built up in their bodies. Slowly, Shelagh wrapped her arms about his shoulders and pressed her face against his neck. “Hand me the soap, if you please,” she requested politely.

A deep chuckle spread through his chest and he offered the white bar to her. “Yes, Nurse Turner,” he repeated.

Shelagh began to create a lather across his chest, but stopped to ask, “Patrick, did you mind me not telling you?”

He rested his head back, turning slightly to see her. “Mind? Why should I mind? You know my feelings about your nursing skills.”

She scooped up water to rinse his skin. “Yes, I know, but it…changes things. It makes a bit of a statement.”

“I’ll say. If I hadn’t had a desperately ill patient waiting when I saw you in uniform, I would have taken you into my office to make that statement. In fact, I’m fairly certain that several of the patients in the waiting room had a pretty good idea what was in my head at that moment.”

She blushed. Turning his head away, she poured a dram of shampoo in her hand and began to lather his head. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Wearing that uniform says something about my identity, who I am in the community.” Her fingers began to rub his scalp, finding the spot, just behind his ears, that he always responded to.

“I know. It says ‘Nurse Turner is here to take care of you,’” He groaned slightly as her fingers rubbed a bit harder. “Shelagh, if you want to go back to nursing, we can find a way. We’ll solve the childcare issue, and make a place for you wherever you want to be. We can do this.”

Her hands slid over his soapy head. “Rinse,” she ordered. He slid even farther front and lowered his head in the water before her. For a quick moment, their eyes met before he closed his eyes and she pushed water over his hair, rinsing away the last remains of sweat and Brylcreem and exhaustion.

“All done,” she tapped his shoulder. Rising to the surface like the selkie he had promised not to become, he shook the water out of his eyes. Automatically, he reached out and she placed a fresh washcloth into his hand. He dried his face, and then returned to his relaxed position against her.

“I’m not crushing you, am I?” he asked, He sighed deeply and ran his hand over her knee.

“I’m fine. I like you pressing against me.”

Shelagh’s hand moved up to his hair, and her fingertips began to comb through his unruly locks. She preferred his hair a bit longer, his fringe askew across his forehead, though she knew he struggled to control it. Now, with his hair smoothed back from his forehead like that, he looked different. No one else saw him like that, she thought possessively. He was hers.

She knew she belonged to him completely, as well. Her fears for him had waned, but she knew that even if he had not emerged from his…depression, she would have been just as tightly tied to him as she was at this moment.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders again and pressed her face into his neck. She couldn’t say the words in her heart, but he must have sensed them. He turned his head towards her, “Shelagh,” he whispered.

She looked up, then took his lips with hers. They kissed slowly, tender kisses that spoke more of devotion than passion. Her hands slid over his chest, stopping to rest over his heart. He shifted on his side slightly, his own hand cradling her head. As they pulled apart, he whispered, “I’m so very lucky to have you.”

She pressed her forehead to his cheek. “We’re lucky to have each other, dearest.”

He let out a small breath, a crooked smile crossing his face. “I don’t know what I would have done if not for you, sweetheart. I’m certain I wouldn’t have taken a break when I should have done,”  His face grew very serious. “It would have been so  much worse without you. You understood what I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, admit. Shelagh, without you I could have lost everything.”

“Pish,” Shelagh scoffed. “All you needed was a good rest.”

“No.”  He lifted her chin, meeting her eyes. “I needed more than a rest. I needed a safety net. I have that now, because of you.” His fingers tangled in the hair pushed behind her ear. “I’m better now.” He stopped abruptly, some old memory flitting across his face. He shook his head ruefully.

“I think I’ve said that before.” His eyebrows climbed up his forehead, wrinkling his brow. “I should say, I’m getting better. It’ll take more than just a few days off,  I’m afraid. I’ll need to make some changes. I’ve got to learn to say no sometimes.”

Shelagh smiled. “One day at a time, then?”

He nodded. “Yes. We’ll start with tomorrow. A trip to the seaside, perhaps?  A nice family day.” he settled back against her. “I think I’m going to like taking it easy.”

“Yes, well don’t take it too easy, if you please. You’re starting to get heavy, and it’s getting late. Time for you to get some sleep.” She pushed at his shoulders. “Bath time is over.”

Later, after Shelagh cleared the mess, she slipped into their bedroom. Patrick, full of hopes for the evening only minutes ago, lay sprawled on his back, asleep and already snoring. A quick look at the baby assured her that she, too, was in the land of nod.

Shelagh slid under the covers next to her husband and wrapped herself around him. He was still cool from the bath, and his scent filled her head. Patrick had once again returned from that grey place of isolation and fear, and once again, he was stronger for it. Their marriage would be stronger, too. Trust had taken its place beside their love.

 

 

Writing Her Own Rules, Chapter 4

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Previous Chapter

Hours later in the quiet flat, Shelagh put the last of the dishes away. With a tired sigh, she looked around the pristine kitchen, then took off her apron. She could hear the bathtub drain as Timothy finished in the bath, his night nearly over.

Patrick would come home after a difficult night and would need something in his stomach to help him sleep. She set the tea try, leaving a slice of her ham and egg pie under a dampened serviette to prevent it from drying, and left the kitchen.

The sight of Timothy, fresh-faced and pink under the blankets on his bed, made her smile tenderly. His hair was still plastered wetly to his head, and his pyjama top was misbuttoned. It was at times like this it was easy to see the young boy he was so rapidly leaving behind.

Picking up the towel  left on the lid of his clothes bin, she chuckled. “There now, you’ll catch your death going to bed with a wet head like that. Sit up, I’ll dry it for you.” Settling on the side of his bed, she waited as he shifted into position.

“There’s some doubt now that being cold actually causes a cold, you know. A cold is caused by a virus, Mum, and a virus isn’t looking for a cold spot. Going to bed with wet hair is highly unlikely to give me a head cold.” In one sentence, the emerging adolescent reappeared.

“Well, it will certainly give you a wet pillow, young man,” Shelagh laughed as she vigorously rubbed at his head. “Be still for two minutes and make your mother happy.”

She finished with a flourish, and reached for the comb on his bedside table.

“Mum,” Timothy complained. “I can do that.”

“If you’re sure,” she teased. She ran her fingers through the lightly damp hair falling over his forehead. “Don’t stay up too late tonight. The medical world needs your insight.”

The flat was quiet again, and Shelagh returned to the sitting room. No matter how hard she tried, she didn’t seem able to keep ahead of the mess in there. Laundry spilled over from its basket, a pile of school books scattered across the table, and Angela’s toys were simply everywhere.

Starting her clockwise turn around the room, Shelagh organized books into Tim’s school bag and signed a forgotten permission slip. The laundry was next, a never-ending task that made Shelagh long for the new-fangled machines they were seeing in the paper.

“I doubt those machines will fold and put away,” she muttered. “But if a man were in charge of … Oh, for goodness’ sake, Shelagh! Will you stop with that today?” She sat down on the sofa in frustration and rested her chin in her hands. Why was she in such a mood? she wondered.

Today wasn’t so different from most days. She spent her time caring for her family, and she loved it. She relished in the fact that Patrick needed her so, and her family was everything to her. Daily life certainly wasn’t glamorous, or even exciting sometimes, but there were moments of such joy.

Shelagh stood and rolled her shoulders back. Just under the curio cabinet she could spy that giraffe they’d been searching for since dinner.

Finally finished for the evening, Shelagh sat at her vanity brushing her hair. Her thoughts travelled back to her conversation with Trixie. She would have to check back to see if she had been correct in her diagnosis of Mrs. Young. Humility aside, she was certain she had not been mistaken.

For years, she had been the midwife called in for the rare and difficult cases, and she felt the glory of God through her work. Now, her life in midwifery seemed so far away, and so intrinsically tied to her former life as a nun. Perhaps that was why she had never considered continuing her work once she left the order.

She shook her head. No, she thought. When she chose her new life, she was deciding not just to marry, but to be a mother to Tim, and any other babies God would give them. Her heart tugged for a moment for that lost chance. She had been so hopeful.

God had found another way to answer her prayers, and she was truly grateful. Angela filled in her heart, just as Timothy and Patrick did. Placing her hairbrush on the table, she moved to the cot next to her bed.

No matter how many times she put Angela on her back, her daughter always found her way into her favorite position. Shelagh ever-so-lightly ran her hand down the length of the little back, coming to rest on the little bottom jutting up in the air.

“Precious Angel Girl,” Shelagh whispered. The baby sighed and found her thumb, settling back to sleep. Shelagh sat on the edge of the bed, her head resting on the cot’s rail. “How could I ever consider leaving you, even for a little while?” Her hand caressed the downy pale hair that covered the baby’s head. Just two short months ago, there was so little, the baby still appeared bald, and in another few months, it would be long enough to curl about her ears.

There were so many changes ahead. Baby to toddler, toddler to child; Shelagh didn’t want to miss a moment. She was completely certain that nothing could bring her the joy that her family did. But there was still that nagging feeling, just in the back of her mind. Not quite a thought, just…a feeling. A feeling that there was something else to consider.

Shelagh smiled knowingly. Life had taught her that she would need to heed the call of her subconscious. Ignoring her feelings before had only led to heartache. As in the past when she had denied her growing need for a family and Patrick to share it with, or buried her fears that Patrick was holding himself  back from her, her problems would not disappear because she pretended they did not exist.

Only by facing these questions had she found peace. For now, she would love her family and focus her energies on them. But these questions would need answers.

It was time to decide exactly what the questions were.

Epilogue

The Paper Anniversary, Epilogue

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For a week, Patrick was a cheerful non-smoker, perhaps even a bit smug. The family was amazed at his determination and positive attitude. He would pontificate largely on the wonders of his sharpened sense of smell and  taste, how he felt free from the tyranny of the cigarette.

“Since medical school, Tim. Over thirty years,” he reminded his son more than once. “I was a smoker for over thirty years. Kicked it straight off.”

Even a supportive son has his limits, though, and Timothy started spending a bit more time outside.

Shelagh was made of sterner stuff, and was happy to hear Patrick’s tales of conversion. His cough hadn’t stopped completely, but was improving enough to ease her worries.

However, the sense of triumph may have blinded her to what was to come.

The eighth day cigarette-free, Patrick seemed distracted. During clinic he was subjected to a stern lecture from Sister Evangelina on the merits of paying attention to a patient. On his calls, old Mr. Talbot had to remind him twice that it was his leg the good doctor was there to see, and not his ear.

By the time he arrived home for dinner, even later than usual, Patrick was a bit irritable.

The tenth day, Patrick woke late, forgot he was to make calls at the London Hospital, and picked a fight with Timothy about the length of his pants.

Shelagh reminded Timothy that the road ahead would be a bit rocky, and his father deserved their patience.

Even Angela was not immune to his irritation. After a week and a half of no cigarettes, Patrick became less understanding of the infant’s night time waking habits.

Through all this, Shelagh was the soul of patience. She had asked a great deal of him, the very least she could do was fulfill her promise to stand by his side.

So, how to help? Obviously, Patrick needed some distractions. She brought him some gum to chew. She encouraged walks. She thought of projects to keep him busy. Patrick would succeed, she was determined.

By the second Saturday, it seemed as if nothing would help. Home early from a slow day at the surgery, Patrick was tired, bored and cranky. And apparently, looking for a fight.

Shelagh knew better than to rise to the bait, but Timothy…Well, Timothy was a growing boy, after all, eager to prove himself a man.

After a lunch featuring sniping and passive-aggressive arguments, the poor woman had had enough. She dressed Angela in her warmest sweater, wrapped her in the favorite pink blanket and announced, “Timothy, it’s time for you to take your sister for a very long walk.”

Normally, Tim would balk at such a task on a Saturday afternoon, but the idea of spending the day working on his history theme as his father prowled about the flat was enough to make the boy jump at the chance to get out.

“Can I go to Nonnatus? See if anyone’s there?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. Here’s a bottle just in case. She’s changed and fed, so you should be fine for at least an hour.” Shelagh glanced back down the hall. “Yes. I’ll need at least an hour. Maybe two. Trust me, Tim. I have a plan.”

She returned to find Patrick still at the table, drumming his fingers on its surface. “Don’t start, Shelagh. He was just as difficult as-”

“Yes, dear,” Shelagh interrupted. “I know. You’re a wee bit out of sorts today.” She smiled brightly at him. “You just need a distraction, that’s all.”

Patrick’s head craned to the ceiling, his eyes rolling in disgust. “Shelagh, I am not fixing another squeaky hinge or helping you transpose another tenor part for the choir. If you think-”

“Shh. I know,” Shelagh stepped closer to him and cradled his cheek. She bent down and placed a warm kiss on his unresponsive lips.

“Shelagh,” he complained. “I will not be manipulated like this. If you think you can…what are you doing?”

“Nothing, Patrick. Certainly not manipulating you.” Her dress fell to the floor.

“Shelagh!”

“I promised I would help, Patrick. So I’m helping.” Placing one foot on the chair across from him, she unsnapped the suspenders to her left stocking and slid it down her leg. “Don’t you want my help, dearest?” she asked innocently.

For a long moment Patrick stared at his wife. Then he closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, releasing the bad mood with it. His hand reached over and glided up the length of her calf.

“So everytime I want a cigarette you’re going to seduce me?”

“Is there a problem with that?” Standing before him, Shelagh’s innocent smile became rather saucy.

“I don’t know,” he answered. He swiftly flicked the suspenders on the other leg and tossed the stocking on the floor with its mate. “I smoked for a very long time, Shelagh. I think I’m going to need a lot of distractions.”

Pulling him to his feet, Shelagh wrapped her arms around his neck to bring his face to hers. “Whatever it takes, Patrick. A girl has to do what a girl has to do.”

The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 6

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A/N: The direct connection between lung cancer and cigarette smoking was proven in 1957 by the Medical Research Council, near the time of the terminal diagnosis (as per my head canon) of Patrick’s first wife. We now know that lung cancer can be the actual source of several other cancers, including brain, liver, and bone. For the purpose of my story, I have made medical understanding of the nature of lung cancer metastasis unclear at the time.

True to her word, Shelagh had not mentioned the subject of cigarettes since their last discussion. She knew she he needed time and could be patient, for now there was a sense of inevitability regarding the topic. Her concerns were out in the open, and as much as Patrick preferred to bury his own problems; he wouldn’t ignore her fears. Shelagh was willing to wait, and in the meantime, if the air was a bit awkward each time he lit up, neither mentioned it.

Settling on the sofa, she wrapped her cardigan closer and watched as Patrick paced in front of the mantle. Shelagh tried to tamp down a feeling of unease. Patrick was not comfortable with uncertainty, she knew, but she had only recently discovered her own dependence on his confidence.

He turned away, pacing to the window. “Marianne was a smoker, did you know?”

She nodded. “I remember.” While not a regular fixture at clinics, there had been occasions when the vibrant and healthy Marianne crossed her path. To the shy young nun, Marianne Turner had seemed confident and sure of her place in the world. Even as the cancer withered her, she was brave and strong for her family. Shelagh thought it had been no wonder Patrick and Timothy had been devastated by her loss.

He drew a shallow breath. “I think that’s what caused her illness.”

“Patrick, I helped nurse Marianne a few times. Her doctors diagnosed bone can-” Shelagh stopped, stunned. “It metastasized,” she whispered, the realization making her pale.

“Yes. We didn’t know then. All her symptoms were related to her back, so that was her doctor’s focus. The pain, the weakness in her spine; her symptoms all pointed toward bone cancer. We didn’t know then that it likely spread from the lungs first.

“After she…died…I needed to do something. I felt so useless.” He moved to the sofa, taking his place next to her. His eyes glittered as he met hers; the lines on his face had somehow deeper. She reached out and gripped his big hand in her small one.

Patrick’s lips twisted in a sad smile. “I convinced the doctors to let me see her files. I poured over them every night, trying to figure out what had happened, what we missed. She was so healthy, Shelagh. She never got sick. We used to joke that she couldn’t, that I had too many patients already.

“One night, I was reviewing her first set of x-rays again when I…I noticed something different. There was one film of her upper spine where a bit more of the lungs showed. I’m not sure why I even looked there.

“I could make out, just barely, a lesion on the lower left lobe. God, Shelagh,” he rasped. “I’d never thought-even after the MRC report. We never suspected that the cancer started in her lungs.”

His hand turned in hers, squeezing it, holding on tight. “I never saw it. Who knows how long the tumors were growing inside her before we noticed anything? Even the back pain, we just thought…her grandmother had a bad back. We thought, maybe it was just that. She didn’t tell me, but she must have had pain for months and never said.”

Gathering herself, Shelagh spoke gently. “She didn’t want you to worry, dearest. You, yourself said Marianne thought the pain was nothing out of the ordinary.” Her free hand slipped up to caress his cheek. “Patrick, you know lung cancer can go undetected for a very long time. Marianne had no symptoms; I remember. No cough, no breathing difficulties, nothing. There was nothing to point you in that direction. Even if you had guessed when the back pain started, it’s likely it would have been too late.”

Patrick pulled his hand away and rubbed at his forehead, struggling for words. He dropped his head in his hands, and silence grew loud in the room. Then his voice came to her, muffled. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s not what I wanted to say. I don’t want you to think-” he stopped abruptly.

The sting of a hidden fear spread through Shelagh’s heart. She knew she wasn’t his first love. He had loved and lived with another before her, made a child with her. She feared Marianne would somehow always be between them.

Uncertainty froze her mind. She wanted to soothe him, to offer words of comfort, but couldn’t. Patrick was opening a part of his heart, but she wasn’t sure she was welcome there. Would his life with Marianne always be behind another barrier? Had she found the limits of his love? An unwilling tear slipped down her cheek.

He stood again, moving to the table as if this were a typical Sunday tea. She watched as he carried out the ordinary steps to pouring out. His back still towards her, he continued, “I didn’t tell you this. After I learned of the lung cancer, I tried to quit again. I did, actually, for three days. But there was Timothy to raise, and work, of course, was so… I had to smoke. It was the only thing that would help.

“Maybe I felt guilty. I was the one that survived. I was the one that would go on, watch Timothy grow up; I would continue my work. It didn’t seem fair that I could use her second chances, that I was given the opportunity to learn from our mistakes.” His shoulders slumped, weary from carrying so much.

“Shelagh, when you became ill… that whole terrible time when I thought I would lose you-” he turned finally, and she was devastated by the agony in his eyes. He crossed to her in two swift strides and knelt before her. “Marianne let me go. Before the end, when she was conscious so little of the time, she told me to keep living, not just for Timothy, but for me. She made me promise to join the world.

“It was hard, but I let her go, too. I didn’t set out to find someone else. When I finally realized what my feelings for you were, I let myself fall in love with you.” He smiled ruefully, a soft laugh escaping his lips. “I don’t think I could have stopped it. I…I just surrendered to it. I never imagined we would be together, not then. It was enough to know that even if I could never be with you, I could love you.” His hands gripped hers even tighter.

Shelagh felt a twinge of shame. She had no idea he had wrestled with his feelings for her. His letters, his confessions since that misty road, had described his acceptance of it, and his concern for her difficulties. She never thought that perhaps Patrick had fears of his own. How selfish she had been from the very start.

His grip tightened convulsively. “When you went to the sanitorium, your lungs could have… You came back to me, healthy; I had a fresh start. But then Timothy…” he stopped, remembering that unbearable pain, and his voice became derisive. “I kept smoking through it all. Oh, God, Shelagh, I kept lying to myself. How many signs will I ignore before I finally face the truth?”

Shelagh’s heart softened. This man had taught her so much of herself. His heart had such deep capacity for love. He was a brilliant doctor, with a great depth of medical knowledge, but it was his compassionate heart that made him a healer. She had to show him the way to accept his flaws and love himself. And love would give them strength to move forward.

She cradled his cheek, her fingers running through the black strands more silver than the year before. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, Patrick. You feel things so deeply, you know of pain, yet you push on. I’m so very proud to be your wife. You’ve supported me through so many trials, and you never ask for anything. But I mustn’t be selfish anymore, Patrick. It can’t be all about me. You have to trust me, and I have to open my eyes to you.”

Patrick looked up at her shining face, stunned. This glorious creature accepted him, despite his weaknesses, perhaps in part because of them. He watched as her cheeks flushed with emotion. Her freshness of character and form reminded him that he was too old already. They already had too little time. There would never be enough time. How could he shorten their years together?

“Shelagh, what if I can’t? I’ve failed before.”

“You were alone before, dearest.” Her eyes gleamed with happiness.

He smiled as he felt fear lift from his heart. “Now I’m never alone. I’m married to you.”

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The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 5

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The late winter sun washed over the steps of All Saints Church, warding off the chill as Sunday services let out. Somehow, Timothy was very nearly the first one out, despite playing the piano as the choir sang the recessional hymn. He sat down on the bottom stair, next to his sister’s pram and waited as his father joined him.

“Mum lets you run out like that? You don’t need to stay for the talk afterwards?” Patrick shifted the blanket before lowering Angela into the pram.

“No. She said it’s the least she could do after ‘convincing’” -his fingers went up in a simulation of quotation marks- “me to stay with the choir until after the summer. Besides, she’ll have plenty to tell me at home.”

“Poor man. A small price to pay for her cooking, though, isn’t it?” Patrick smirked.

That smirk came back at him. “Not to mention always having clean clothes, Dad.”

“You wound me, son.”

From behind, a voice called out. “Doctor Turner! Always a pleasure to see you here!”

The Turner men turned to see Old Mr. Gipper climbing down the steps one at a time towards them.

“Mr. Gipper!” Patrick answered, swiftly meeting the man and offering his arm. “You should be using your cane when you walk out. We’ve discussed this before.”

The old man waved the arm away. “When I can’t get meself to Church on my own two feet, I’ll be needin’ more’n a cane.”

Arriving at the bottom, he peered into the baby carriage. “That is surely one beautiful baby you’ve got there, Doc. As pretty as yer wife.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure to tell Shelagh you said so.” He glanced over to his son, gesturing with his eyebrows.

Quickly, Tim stood up. “Hello, Mr. Gipper. Would you like me to walk you home?” Patrick smiled proudly.

“Morning, Tim. Lovely job with the choir today. Though I’d reckon not your favorite thing, eh?”

“It’s not so bad, sir. Better than sitting with Dad and Angela. She always fusses for Mum when she hears her sing.”

A wheezy laugh passed through the old man’s dentures. “Can’t say as I blame ‘er, young Tim. Yer mum has the voice of an angel. Funny, that.”

“What’s funny, sir?”

“Yer mum. She’s got a way of healing about ‘er, no matter what she does, doesn’t she? Back when she was a midwife, me grand-daughter used to say she always felt safe when Sister Bernadette was near. Now, she’s a nun no more, but she still finds a way to heal us all. I hear her lead the choir and me own troubles go away for a bit.” He placed his cap back on his grizzled head. “Must do you fellas a world o’ good, too. Well, I’m off. Thanks fer the offer, Timothy Turner, but you’d just slow me down.”

They watched as the elderly man made his way up the street, jaunty despite his slow pace. His words echoed in Patrick’s head. He could never measure the amount of good Shelagh had done for them.

“Hello,” Shelagh surprised them. “How is Mr. Gipper?”

“Quite an admirer of yours, I must say.” Patrick placed her hand in the crook of his arm. “Tim, push your sister, please.”

Timothy must have been as affected by the old man as his father, for he gave no argument and turned the carriage towards Nonnatus House.

Patrick and Shelagh slowly strolled towards the weekly luncheon, as Timothy avoided the ruts in the old cobblestones.

Quietly, Patrick confided,”You were right, you know. About the other night.”

Shelagh smiled up at him, teasing. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that, dearest. I’m right so often.”

Patrick exhaled a quiet laugh; his smile crooked. “That does seem to be the case, love.” Noticing Timothy was getting farther ahead of them he called, “Not so fast, Tim. It’s a pram, not a Jaguar!”

Timothy turned back with a look of impatience. “Well, come on, then. I’m hungry. If we don’t get to Nonnatus soon, Sister Monica Joan will eat all the pastries!”

Shelagh giggled. “You’ll have to tell me later how I was right, Patrick. It won’t do to let Timothy get the hungry grumpies.”

Quickening his pace, Patrick laughed. “Heaven forbid!”

“Angela always naps so well after a day at Nonnatus,” Shelagh announced as she returned from the nursery. Looking around, she asked, “Where’s Timmy?”

Patrick glanced up from the files he was reviewing. “Something about a big game of Sardines. We won’t see him ’til dark.”

“Well, then, how about some tea?” Shelagh twitched the tablecloth straight.

“Just a cup. Mrs. B’s cake filled me up.”

“You mean two pieces of Mrs. B’s cake filled you up, Patrick.”

Relieved she hadn’t noticed the third slice, he agreed. He followed her into the kitchen, watching as she set about the homey chore.

“I don’t know how you stayed so slim, living there,” he noted.

“Probably because I never let myself have the third piece, dearest.” She placed the kettle on to boil and turned to wink at him.

“Caught!” he laughed and pulled her into his arms. “I thought you didn’t notice.”

Shelagh’s hands played with the buttons of his waistcoat. “I notice everything about you, dearest.” She slid her arms up around his neck. “Now, what to do while the kettle boils?”

His warm lips answered her question, pressing softly against hers. Time stopped for a few moments before they were interrupted by one steamy whistle.

Grudgingly releasing her, Patrick moved to the cupboard for cups and saucers.

“What were you going to say earlier?” Shelagh asked over her shoulder.

Distracted by the sight of his wife’s dress clinging to her hips as she reached up for the tea tin, Patrick had to be asked twice before his mind came back to the kitchen. His face grew serious.

“Patrick? Is something wrong?” Her forehead creased in concern.

“No, nothing’s wrong.” His thumb caressed her “worry crinkles” and he smiled ruefully. “I have a mea culpa; that’s all.”

“Oh, dear. That sounds ominous.” Shelagh’s voice was light. “More serious than the cake?”

Patrick’s finger rubbed against his thumb nervously. “Yes. Shelagh, the other night, when I got so angry with Tim, it wasn’t because he got caught in mischief with Gary and Jack.”

Shelagh turned back to the teapot. She hadn’t expected Patrick to be the one to broach this subject at all, especially so soon. She spooned the tea leaves in, making the tea strong to his taste. “No?”

“No. Tim’s got a good sense for trouble. He knows better than to make such an obvious mistake.” He noticed his twitching fingers and ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Let’s bring the tea into the sitting room. Then we can have a chat.”

Next Chapter

The Paper Anniversary, Chapter 4

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As Shelagh prepared for bed, she tried to ignore the coil of tension she felt growing in her body. Patrick sat up in bed, reading, or at least, she thought, he wanted her to think he was reading. As much as Patrick wanted the discussion closed, she knew it couldn’t be. She wanted to please him, but she could not pretend the matter did not exist.

She pressed her lips together in frustration as she brushed out her hair. It would be much easier if the evening followed her plan. Timothy’s near miss with trouble had added a layer of complication she would have preferred to avoid.

Nervously, she stood to remove her robe and slid into their bed beside him. Almost immediately, Patrick closed his book and reached to turn off his lamp.

“Good night, love,” he said.

Shelagh was not deceived by his light tone. Her husband was starting to build up an invisible wall around himself, one she could almost physically feel. Her mind went back to the dark days of  last autumn, when it felt as if everything was going wrong. Once her own anger subsided, Patrick had slipped into a polite coolness and so much seemed to be lost.

She sighed quietly. She had felt so helpless during the dark weeks of their estrangement. Patrick retreated so far away from her that she worried they wouldn’t find their way back. Her efforts at reconciliation went unheeded, until one night he came home, ready to let her back into his heart. Somehow they had managed to reach across the barrier to find each other.

It had been brave of him, she knew. Now it was her turn to be brave.

Shelagh slid under his arm and pressed herself against him, her head on his chest. Trying to find a crack in his armor, she willed him to accept her gesture. After a momentary pause, Patrick responded and tightened his arm around her. Relief began to ease her stress.

“I’m sorry, Patrick. I didn’t mean to upset you.” she told him. “I hate it when we argue.”

She heard him exhale, his tension unwinding a bit as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I don’t even know what we were arguing about. I think the drama with Tim just wound us up, that’s all. A good night’s sleep and everything’ll be right as rain.”

“Yes,” she answered quietly. “I suppose so.” She rubbed her nose against his chest, breathing him in. Her fingers gently stroked his pyjama top, its soft cotton soothing her.

“That’s my girl,” Patrick murmured.

She’d always loved his pet name for her, how it made her feel cared for, adored. Those first weeks after leaving the convent, when she so felt so desperately adrift, it had given her a place in her new world. Patrick loved her; she was his girl. They belonged to each other.

She loved how he made her feel safe. His self confidence and his ability to take charge had always impressed her. Patrick was a man others turned to for guidance, and he was used to others following his advice.

Shelagh’s brow began to wrinkle. His soft words struck her differently tonight. He almost sounded paternal. Her heart skipped a moment. Is that how he thought of her, a beloved ingenue to be indulged? Did she make it easy for him to slip into this role with her? Is that what he wanted of her?  Is that what she wanted of him?

Shelagh breathed deeply, gathering her strength. “We have to be able to talk of difficult things, dearest. We promised each other we wouldn’t hide behind silence.” She could feel his body go rigid again, the wall getting thicker.

“Shelagh, we’re both tired. Save it for another time.” Patrick’s voice was chilly.

She wanted to heed his words. She wanted to hug him to her, forget her worries. They were so happy. Why let this come between them? He worked so hard, had so many worries. Perhaps she should let the matter rest.

“See, better already,” Patrick’s voice interrupted her thoughts. He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips.

Shelagh pushed up, resting her forearms on his chest. “Patrick, dearest,” she began nervously, “I’m sorry, but it’s not better. We’re simply brushing this aside.” She could feel her courage falter as she met his gaze.

His eyes clouded over, shielding his thoughts. “Shelagh-”

She could see him resisting her, unwilling to open up. He never got angry with her, indeed he rarely showed even mere annoyance. But was there a false safety in that?

The wall between them became unbearable and Shelagh let instinct take over. Above all things, the barrier must come down. She slid up higher on his chest and pulled his head to hers. Her lips pressed to his softly, caressing. She could feel his resistance and pushed beyond it. Between gentle tugs on his lips, she whispered, “I love you, Patrick. Don’t go away from me. Please let me in.”

His mouth softened under hers and she deepened the kiss. She pressed tighter to him, needing to be closer, and her hands slid down his neck to grasp his shoulders. Resistance gone, Patrick’s arms wrapped around her and he turned, pressing her body into their bed.

Later, Patrick chuckled into her ear. “You always surprise me, sweetheart.”

“Hmmm. It’s no surprise, dearest.” Shelagh opened her eyes and smiled. “I love you so very much.” She stretched, her soft body against his, her feet pressing to the tops of his.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, though,” she admitted.

Patrick picked up her hand from his chest, intertwining their fingers. “I’m glad it did.”

She nodded, watching their hands. “Yes. You were so far away.” She released him, pushing up on his chest to meet his eyes squarely. “We have to be able to disagree, Patrick. Wait-let me say this and then we can let it rest for a bit, I promise.”

He sighed heavily, sitting up higher against the pillows.

Shelagh sat up as well. On her knees, she sat just even with him. She took a deep breath and looked him squarely in the eyes. “I think your cough is a problem, dearest, and I think you do, too. I think you were so angry tonight because you don’t want Timothy to smoke, ever.” Patrick made to interrupt. “No, let me finish. It’s the one area you don’t lecture your patients on, but you know as well as I do how very harmful it can be.”

She reached out and placed her hand on his cheek. “You know how much I love you, Patrick. I don’t want anything to harm you. Just consider it, that’s all I’m asking.”

Patrick’s eyes ran over her, taking in the tousled hair, her swollen lips, the sheet pulled up as modestly as she could and nodded. “I tried once. To quit. After the war, after-when I came home. I thought if I could stop smoking, it would be another way to leave it all behind me.” He smiled crookedly. “I reckon I can be a bit thick.”

Shelagh smiled back at him and pushed her fingers through his hair. “Perhaps a bit. Patrick dearest, trust me. Don’t hold it in. If we need to, someday we’ll have a full stop shouting match. And we’ll survive.”

Reaching out, he pulled her onto his lap, a tangle of sheets and pillows. “Hmmm,” he groaned into her neck. “Especially if we can make up so nicely.”

“That’s a promise we can definitely keep, lovely man.”

Patrick lifted his face, suddenly serious. “I can’t promise about the smoking, though, Shelagh. It’s been a long time. But I will consider it.”

Her arms slid back around his neck. “I know. And I promise not to nag about it. Just as long as we keep talking.”
“Shhh. You talk too much,” her husband murmured.

Next Chapter

Unexpected Intimacies

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The pre-dawn light was only just beginning to break through the heavy curtains, a sliver of grey in the deep darkness of the bedroom. Wide awake, Shelagh lay as still as possible, listening to the even, deep breaths of her sleeping husband.

She stared at the ceiling, unsure of what to do. For her entire adult life, she had begun each morning with prayers and devotions. These last few mornings since their marriage, however, she had awakened to find Patrick watching her. She smiled as she remembered the look in his eyes, their invitation easily accepted.  Prayers had come later.

This morning she found she lacked the concentration necessary for prayer and Shelagh turned her head to watch her husband’s face as he slept. He looked different, younger. The lines were smoother, his face tranquil. He looked content. She liked to think she knew the reason for this; that she was the reason for this.

During their extended courtship Patrick had shown a tenderness and patience with her, giving her the time she needed to become comfortable with the physical side of their relationship. Ignorant of passion for so long, she had been too preoccupied with the dawning awareness of her own desires to note his response.

Since their marriage, she was more aware of his eagerness for her and finally understood how he must have held back. His desire for her gave her a sense of power she never expected. It excited her, made her feel things she never had before. Patrick needed her, and she was happy let him take fulfilment in her.

He stirred, and the movement drew her eyes to the column of his neck. She watched as his pulse throbbed rhythmically, her breathing growing heavier as she imagined pressing her lips there. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she tore her eyes from that spot. The path they took along the length of his throat, shadowed by the night’s growth of beard, only increased the growing urgency she felt and was unable to ease.

She closed her eyes again, willing her body to calm. If she could just focus her mind on her meditations, she thought, she could get these feelings under control. It had worked in the past, those long months when she tried to deny her feelings for Patrick, and even during their courtship, when she was learning the physical symptoms of her love.

She resisted the urge to stretch her legs, recalling the delight of the unexpected intimacy of the soles of her feet pressed to the smooth skin at the top of his. She was surprised by the things that triggered her response to him. The feel of the sharp wings of his scapula under her fingers, the long plane of his back, even the sound of his exhale after he drew on a cigarette made her body thrill. His voice would hit a certain timbre, and suddenly her heart would pound.

Trying to calm herself, Shelagh breathed deeply and inhaled his scent. His body, so close, warmed her. Her eyes flickered open, and she shyly studied the firm rounded muscle of his shoulder, the smooth contours of his chest. If he were awake, she knew he would reach for her, make her aware of his desire and gratify her own.

Would he be shocked if he knew what she was feeling right now, she wondered. In the pale light, she blushed at the thought of initiating lovemaking. She couldn’t. Not yet. For so long she had sublimated physical desire into meditation and prayer, service to others. She wasn’t ready to consider this new role.

“Good morning,” he whispered. His hand came up to tangle in her hair, tilting her mouth up for his kiss.

Shelagh exhaled, a sigh of relief, and followed his lead.

Trying To Hear God: Chapter 4, Honesty

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Previous Chapter

At last! The final chapter!

 

Before long, her self-confinement became stifling, and she ventured out of her room. Still unwilling to join in with the others, she turned to the outdoors to find solace. Soon the gardens became her favorite spot. The moment she stepped out of the building breathing became easier, her head came up higher. In the garden she could finally open her mind.

Each day she would follow the outer circle of the parterre. The repetition of movement required no concentration and she welcomed the return of activity in her muscles. Guided by the low dark green shrubs, the white stones reflecting light back at her, she felt her body relax and gradually she felt her spirit unclench. The garden became her chapel.

As layers of tension began to unravel in her mind, she could sense her faith resurface. Long buried under the weight of her anxieties, but never truly gone,  she began to again feel the presence of God. The fog of fear and confusion that had consumed her mind cleared and she realized with a grateful heart that she had not been abandoned by Him, after all.

God was with her, all long. His voice had been there, calling to her. Lost in the wilderness, she had stopped listening. Perhaps because of strange new emotions, she had closed herself off from solace when she needed it most. Opening her heart to Him again, she knew should would find her answers.

God had provided her comfort and purpose in her life. His love had consoled her in her grief and helped her understand and forgive the transgressions of others. It was those acts of forgiveness which formed the very foundation of her faith.

Forgiveness. The word crossed in front of her eyes like a banner headline. God’s love was forgiveness. She had seen enough of forgiveness to recognize its power for good, and the pain caused by its absence. Christ taught that forgiveness was the most important gift one could offer and that one must forgive oneself. She knew this, believed it. Surely, then, she must learn to forgive herself?

The weight lifted from her shoulders and she grew stronger.

As the summer began to wane, she shifted her route, her path creating an arabesque. The regular but intricate path skirted the fountain, passing by the fragrant knots of lavender and sage, the glossy green holly. As her feet learned the path, her mind explored her rediscovered faith.

God had not abandoned her. His voice was there, but she had not listened. Losing her way, she allowed feelings of confusion and guilt  blind her to the choice God had placed before her. Guilt which did not come from God, but rather from within herself. Confident in her faith, she shook the guilt off and allowed herself to see the truth.

She had come to a crossroads. For many years, her life had fulfilled her. Caring for others had been her joy. But if she were completely honest with herself, she also knew that with her vocation, she had allowed herself to remain on the fringes of life. She could be of service to people who needed her, but did not have to risk anything of herself. Now, she realized, that was not enough.

Her life was her own and she would devote it to God’s service. But was staying with the Order the only path to do so? The work of a home was just as much God’s work as the religious life. Free from the fear that had frozen her mind, she allowed herself to consider her heart. She had never thought to be a wife and mother, yet now she felt pangs of yearning for that life. To know someone most intimately, to be the focus of their life, was that what she sought? To be a part of life, in all its messiness and passion?

What was it she wanted of her life, then? She thought of the pile of unopened letters in her drawer, hidden away. The strange connection she felt with the author confused her. Were her feelings simply a result of  human attraction? The physical response she felt towards him, while deep, could as yet be temporary. She could not consider them, not until she knew where she was going.

Serenity crept up on her, unnoticed, that autumn.

She welcomed the chill in the air, just enough to stir her blood as she ambled randomly through the garden knot. The last burst of scent from the lavender and sage filled her lungs, and she caressed the glossy leaves of the hollybush. She remembered back to her early days at the sanatorium, terrified and lonely, refusing to join the world and was grateful for her journey.

The path led her to the fountain today, as it did every day, now. She sat upon the stone ledge and drifted her fingers along the surface of the cold water. A cricket chirped nearby, and she suspected that a small frog was peeking up at her from beneath the water lily.

A lazy water bug scooted by, and she thought of Timothy, how he would pepper her with questions, or try to impress her with new-found knowledge of the insect. The young boy was smart, and so curious as to ensure that his mind would always be first rate. Smiling, she felt proud and something else she would not name, yet.

She considered where the path would take her now. God had placed her here to find herself, to decide where she belonged. If she stayed with Nonnatus, she would know His love but not His joy.

It would be difficult to leave the Order. She would hurt many for whom she cared deeply, and would leave behind all she knew to be safe. But this was the path she had chosen.

No matter where this path took her, she was on the right road. She was not sure of whom she would become, but today, she decided, she began to find her way.

It was time to call Nonnatus House.

It was time to become Shelagh Mannion again.

Trying To Hear God: Chapter 3, Guilt

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A/N: Many thanks to This Unruly Heart for her guidance with this chapter. This is a subject that could easily slide into melodrama, and I thought our poor distraught friend deserved more than that. Unruly’s help has given me new insight into what I’ve been trying to do all along here.

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For the first several weeks, she rarely left her room. Nausea and other side effects of the therapy made her weak, unable to do more than lie in her darkened room and sleep. Gradually, as her body grew used to the strong antibiotics of her treatment, the nausea dissipated. She became less tired and more able, though less willing, to participate in the society of her new world. For the first time in her life, hibernation became her preferred state. Claiming to be too weak to leave her room, she remained in seclusion long after necessary.

Unable to concentrate on much and eager to repress her wayward thoughts, she began to notice the details of her temporary home. The room was cheerful with its bright floral wallpaper and sunny window, a window she had for some reason avoided. The warm space was intended to welcome her, make her feel at home. It was so different from her small cell at Nonnatus, yet even after ten years that room had never felt like her own, either. In both places, the rooms had been furnished by others, designed to meet her needs, but showing little of herself.

Her life was not her own. As a nun, she had turned it over to the religious life she vowed to honor in service to others and God. Adjusting to the life of a sanatorium patient should have come easily to her. The doctors had strict rules regarding patients’ activities, offering little individuality. While in earlier years this would have garnered little resistance from her, now she inwardly rebelled.

She swallowed the uncomfortably large pills.  She withstood the painful jabs, the countless blood draws from the collapsed veins of her pale arms, even the prickling rash that spread across her torso. All these afflictions were borne without complaint. She was the model, if taciturn, patient. All attempts to draw the quiet nun out of her shell went unrewarded.

She paced the carpet of the room, trying to understand what had become of her life this past year. Doubts and questions had struggled to the surface despite her efforts to subdue them. Foolish thoughts took the place of her prayers, displacing discipline and structure and she flushed in shame at their memory. She knew ways to redirect such feelings, and yet she had not done so. She was weak to fall victim to such corporeal desires. They would not offer true relief to her soul. Why could she not rein them in?

There were other Orders, stricter, more removed from daily life, which demanded absolute obedience. Straying from the path called for self-punishment. Is that what she needed? Consequences so great so as to prevent straying in the first place?

She could not believe her mentor would demand such recourse from her. Her whole life she had believed in a God of love and understanding, one who recognized human frailties and offered forgiveness.

But forgiveness was only truly granted to those who sought to purge the sin. Perhaps the fact that she had not taken those steps was yet another indication that she wanted to stray.

She had known her feelings, and could put a name to them. In the weeks leading up to her diagnosis, she knew of their depth, had even recognized a glimmer of their return in his eyes. She knew, yet she did nothing but pray over them and for the first time, prayer offered no answers. Such a sign should have warned her that she was in too deep. She could not, or would not, confess her transgressions to Sister Julienne. To do so would have forced her from her stasis; her mentor would have required some action. She should have left Nonnatus on her own, putting all temptation away from her.

She did nothing, and continued in this state of disobedience. She rarely spoke to him, only working with him when required to do so, but this tacit acceptance of the status quo was nearly as bad as if she had shouted her feelings to all. And now God had sent her a forceful reminder to reconsider her priorities.

Surely she had brought this upon herself. This illness must be a direct result of God’s displeasure.

Part of her brain rejected this idea. She did not believe God was so unforgiving. All she had been taught supported the notion of a God that did not mete out punishments or vengeance in this way. Her illness was the result of exposure, she reminded herself. Isolation was a necessary step towards not only her own cure, but towards eliminating the disease from her community entirely.

Yet the feelings stirring in her heart reminded her of her complicity and guilt and fear won out. In the not-so-distant past, those lucky enough to have survived did so only through terrifying surgeries and years-long isolation from all they held dear. She had not removed herself from her temptations, so God would do so for her.

Her gaze was pulled to the dresser, a lone unopened envelope mocking her. She remembered the long, silent car ride from Poplar, the air between them thick with her shame. She could not so much as glance at him, for even then she did not trust herself to remain silent. Her stiff response to his attempts to reassure her was all she could muster. She knew he was not blind to her weakness, that his empathetic soul would try to heal her even then.

She should tear the letter up. His gesture of friendship would not soothe but exacerbate her pain. All contact must be stopped. God had shown his displeasure.

Guiltily, she took the envelope in her hands, caressing the very places he must have touched. Was this letter a test? Did her penance demand its destruction? Long moments passed, her mind lost in indecision. The light in the room changed and the late afternoon sun poured through the window, warming her face. She looked up and felt her lungs fill with air. Opening the top drawer of her dresser, she slid the letter underneath her sole box of personal items.

She would not destroy the letter today.

She knelt on the cold hard floor and tried to pray.

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Trying to Hear God: Chapter 2, Confusion

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Her body ached with exhaustion. The long night had required all her stamina, and at its end she felt as if layers had been stripped away. There had been difficult births over the years, too many to count, and she had experienced such joy at the display of love and human perseverance each time. For too long now she left the birthing room feeling empty, with less and less desire to ever return.

Kneeling at her bedside in her narrow cell, she sighed deeply and clenched her hands together. Focus, she needed to focus. But the deep breath did not help to clear her mind, it did not soothe her body. The prayers would not come. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead to the edge of the bed and struggled to keep from vocalizing the pain she felt. She was broken, lost and forgotten, and it was her own doing.

A sob shook through her small body, stifled in the covers of the hard mattress. Even after her mother’s death she had never felt so abandoned. The long, terrible illness had given them time to prepare, if one could in fact prepare for the death of a beloved mother. While devastated and stunned when the inevitable finally happened, there were loved ones to share her pain. There had been no reason to hide.

There was no one now. Even God seemed to have forsaken her. Desperate for the comfort the love of God had afforded her, she recited the prayers, recalled the Bible passages that had always refreshed her faith. She worked harder, longer hours than ever and made every offer of help possible. Through service she had hoped she could return to her previous state of serenity, but somehow, she still felt empty. Purple-gray shadows appeared beneath her eyes and she began to fade from view.

There was no one to listen, no one to understand. If she spoke, there would only be condemnation and abandonment. She had tried to reach out, but each time was prevented by circumstance. Perhaps that was for the best. How could another understand when she could not understand herself? Even more, would her confusion be seen as a rejection of all the promises she had vowed to honor?

Shaking, she rose from her knees and slid into bed, hiding her face in her pillow. Why had this happened? She wasn’t even sure what this was, she simply knew there was something there. She had been solitary for so much of her life; it had been many years since she had felt the need to connect with another. Her sisters afforded her the love and quiet companionship she thought was enough. Even Sister Julienne, her mentor and guide, did not arouse a need for more.

Now her heart ached for it. The warm friendship enjoyed by the nurses evoked a slash of envy. They were not much younger than she, confident in their belief that the world was their oyster, while she could have been an old woman, separate as she was.

She tossed in her bed, attempting  to stop her thoughts from taking what was becoming a well-worn path. In the religious life, she told herself, she would move beyond friendship; the spiritual state she could find by devoting her life to God would supercede ordinary relationships. By not singling out a few, she could devote herself to all. She reminded herself of this again and again, and understood the truth of it. Yet she still could not deny her loneliness.

“You don’t always feel lonely,” a voice beckoned in her heart. A tear slipped out of eyes squeezed shut and her shoulders spasmed. In recent weeks, the whispers that spoke more loudly than her prayers threatened to overtake her. If she could stop their echoes, she could return to the way things were before.

These whispers had changed of late, confusing her even more. While still longing to join in with the others, there was another whose company she preferred, one whose nearness alerted every nerve ending, one who roused an interest she could not ignore.

She knew when he entered a room before she saw him, or even heard him. His weary voice tempted her to soothe his worries. Hadn’t she taken it upon herself to mend his lab coat? To help his lonely son? It was not purely her own empathy for the boy’s motherlessness that pushed her to befriend him and give the comfort of a womanly voice.

She had always respected and admired the devoted doctor who gave so much to the community they both served. Attending so many births together over the years, they had developed an understanding of each other, an ability to anticipate the other’s moves and needs: a connection that made many of the positive outcomes possible.

Last night had been such a delivery. The strange nature of the Carter family, their resistance to medical intervention, and the intensity of the delivery of the twins had required all the resources they could muster to save mother and child. She still trembled at the memory of the lifeless form of the infant in her arms, unable to takes its first breath. Knowing he was there with her gave her strength, and she tried a technique that surprised even her. When the infant’s lungs filled the room with the shrill cry, she lifted her eyes to him in shared joy.

Afterwards, she felt an exhilaration she hadn’t felt from a delivery in some months. Perhaps that was the source of her unexplained, bold behavior later as they prepared to leave. She cringed at the memory. To some, the sharing of a cigarette was simply a result of a professional camaraderie, a normal denouement to a harrowing experience, and she had pretended to herself at the time that it meant nothing. But she knew otherwise. They had shared more than a cigarette. She revealed a private memory, wanting to forge a deeper connection with him, and found she needed to know more of him.

With him, she longed to be herself, someone she hadn’t been in many years. She wanted to talk about the world, her life, learn about him. The hodgepodge she knew of his life was not enough and she felt a pull towards him that was becoming difficult to ignore. With him, in those moments they were alone together, she did not feel alone.

The last rays of light streamed through the tiny window of her cell as finally the demands of her weary body took over and gratefully, she slept.

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