Hello and Happy Easter!
I had planned to publish this story in April, because it's set in early April. And then, I decided on a whim to check when Easter 1920 was, and it was on April 4, which worked with this story perfectly, so the story is set on Easter Monday. In the first section of the epilogue, we learn that Matthew "was two months behind where he would have been if he hadn't slipped on black ice on the front step one morning in early April on his way to work. Strict bedrest for a week, due to a concussion; confined to his chair for another due to dizziness. Then, slowly, carefully allowed up, but only with crutches, at first only when Phillips was with him. Gradually, he had graduated to using his sticks. It had been massively frustrating. Then, when after a month, Yardley and Coates, who had come himself to York to evaluate him, had approved him to resume his regime, he had had to rebuild his muscles and strength that had weakened due to the restricted activity, Phillips had been coming four days a week to work with him. A hard slog." So this is how it happened.
April 5, 1920
He opened his eyes. At least, he thought he did. Mary? Was it three Marys? Four? How was that possible? "What happened?" At least, that's what he said in his head. He closed his eyes.
Mary looked down at Matthew, holding his hand, cupping his face, Bates and her father hovering close by the bed. Where was Clarkson? The hospital had said he was leaving immediately. "Darling, please, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. Please, please, squeeze my hand."
His eyelids fluttered, then opened, looking at her, and yet somehow not. His lips moved, but the sound he made was unintelligible: "Waaunh . . ." Then he closed his eyes.
.
Mary and Nurse Blake rose as Matthew began to stir, opening his eyes, squinting in pain, his mouth moving as he attempted to speak, only managing to mumble inarticulately.
"I'll inform Dr. Clarkson that he's awake," the nurse nodded, hurrying out.
Mary sat down on the bed, squeezing the hand she had held throughout her vigil. "I'm right here, darling."
"Whahappen?" he murmured.
"You slipped on ice on the front step, as you left for work this morning, and gave your head a nasty crack when you went down. Fortunately, you didn't crack it open," Mary said with a tender smile that belied her worry, combing his hair with her fingers. "But you do have a concussion."
Matthew frowned. "Ice?" He tried to concentrate. "Buh . . .iss. . .Easser." He closed his eyes. God, his head hurt.
"Yesterday was Easter, darling. Today is Monday."
He forced his eyes open. "Monnay?"
"Yes, Monday. Yesterday was Easter Sunday."
"Easser . . . We wenn . . . to . . . to . . . you know . . . you know . . ." He gave up.
"Church, yes, we went to church, and it rained all day and into the evening, and the temperature dropped last night below freezing. The front step was coated with ice, and you slipped. Carson is beating himself up that he didn't think to check."
He had no memory of the fall. "Iss . . . not . . . his . . . his . . . his. . . his . . ." Why couldn't he think of the word?
"Not his fault?" she guessed.
"Fault . . . I should . . . have noticed." It came out: Faw. . . Ishuh . . .hanotiss.
Mary tried to tamp down the anxiety she felt at the slurred, slow speech; the inability to retrieve the right word. "I don't know that you should have noticed—it was black ice, and anyway, who'd expect ice in April? I guess it's barely April, though. But yes, it's not Carson's fault."
"I don . . . member . . . "
Mary nodded. "Dr. Clarkson said it's very normal not to remember."
"Howlaw . . . havibeow?"
"I'm sorry, darling, I didn't understand," she smiled apologetically.
"Ow," he tried again, and when she still didn't understand, he began to get agitated, something Clarkson had warned her about. "Ow. Ow! Howlawhavibeow? Howlaw?"
She shook her head, trying to calm him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-oh! How long have you been out?"
"Mmm," he sighed in relief, relaxing visibly.
Mary glanced at the clock. "Except for a moment this morning right after it happened, when you opened your eyes and tried to speak, about five hours. It's a little after one o'clock, now."
"Issnigh?"
"No, not night? One in the afternoon."
"Buhiss . . . iss . . . dar."
Mary puzzled over what he was trying to say. "Dar? Yes, it's dark. The curtains are drawn and the lampshade," she inclined her head to the bedside table, "is covered. It's standard with a concussion."
Matthew tried to look around the darkened room, but it hurt to move his eyes. "Buh . . . where . . . am I now?"
"The hospital, darling. When we couldn't wake you, Clarkson had you brought in."
He tried to absorb the information. "An . . . an . . . an . . . there was ice on the . . . on the . . ."
"The step. Yes, there was ice on the step."
"On Easser?"
"No, not on Easter. That was yesterday. Today is Monday."
"Monnay." He frowned again. "Office is closed Easser Monnay."
"Yes," Mary nodded, pleased that he remembered. "It is closed Easter Monday, which is today. But you wanted to drop off papers today, because Mr. Phillips is coming—was coming—tomorrow. He usually comes today, Monday, but because it's Easter Monday, he's coming tomorrow . . ." Her voice trailed off as she realized he wasn't really following.
"Mm," he said, trying to cover that he had lost the plot. He thought a moment. "Ice . . . in April?"
"Yes, darling. The temperature dropped below freezing after last night's rain," Mary explained again patiently. Besides agitation, Clarkson had told her to expect confusion, and that he likely wouldn't remember the fall; that he might perseverate, asking the same question over and over. "There was ice on the step. You slipped and hit your head. You have a concussion."
"Ah, righ, righ. An I'm . . . where am I? In hospital?"
"Yes," she nodded, encouraged that he had managed to remember without her prompting.
He was silent for over a minute, and when he spoke his voice was a bit stronger, clearer, "But where are the other . . . the other . . . the other . . .?" He gave up, again, saying, by way of explanation, "It's so quiet."
Mary realized with a pang that the only time he'd been here as a patient was in a ward with other soldiers. "The other patients? You're not in a ward. You're in the same room I was in, when I was so morning sick this summer, and later this fall when I had the contractions."
"Ah." He closed his eyes. When she was morning sick. The contractions. George. He opened his eyes, trying to focus. "You should go home. George . . . will need you."
"I'll go when I need to nurse." She glanced at the clock, relieved that his speech seemed to be getting better the more he spoke, and that he had mentioned George on his own. "That's not for a bit. Your mother and I have been taking turns sitting with you, and I went home to nurse him a couple of hours ago. So, you can't get rid of me yet," she smiled.
His mouth quirked. Then he frowned. "I don't remember what happened."
Mary nodded. "Dr. Clarkson said to expect that."
There was a knock at the door, and the doctor himself entered. Mary started to rise, but Clarkson motioned for her to stay seated on the bed, as he went around to the other side.
"Mr. Crawley," Clarkson smiled, "I'm very glad to see you awake."
Matthew tried to concentrate on what Clarkson was saying, but his head was pounding, and his back was a searing spasm. "Mmm . . . sorry . . . wha?"
"I'm very glad to see you awake. You've been out quite some time." He lifted Matthew's eyelids, examining his pupils,
"I don't remember what happened . . . there was ice on the step?"
"Yes, and it's quite normal with a concussion not to remember the incident," Clarkson reassured him, then raised his hand. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
"It doesn't matter. I'm seeing double."
Mary's looked at Clarkson in alarm. "What?"
"That's not surprising," Clarkson stated. "If it hasn't cleared up in a day or so, we'll patch an eye.
Matthew managed to squeeze her hand, his mouth pulling up in what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He started to fade.
Clarkson nodded. "So. We're keeping the room dark. We'll gradually reintroduce light, but no reading whatsoever. I want you in bed for a week. That means don't get up for any reason, including to relieve yourself."
That got Matthew's attention. "You can't mean a bed pan!" No. It might not be nappies, but it was too much like what he had endured after his injury.
Even thought she felt for him in his distress, Mary couldn't help smiling—he sounded so much more himself.
Clarkson considered a minute, finally deciding that he didn't want to risk Matthew getting up in defiance of his orders. "All right. Use a urinal, but, after today, we'll have someone take you in your chair to the WC when you need to evacuate, assuming your condition has improved enough. But" he added firmly," you are not getting out of bed today."
Matthew stared at Clarkson—at the two Clarksons. Finally, he grunted an assent.
The doctor continued, "I've consulted with Dr. Yardley and Dr. Coates. After a week, you can be up, but in your wheelchair." Matthew started to protest, but Clarkson held up a hand. "If all seems stable, you'll go to York for a thorough examination by Dr. Yardley and a neurologist. They will decide when it's safe for you to stop using the chair."
"What? Have I damaged my spine?" He moved his legs. "I can feel my legs—look, they work." He was beginning to panic.
"It's not your spine that's our main concern, Mr. Crawley. The fall has injured your back, certainly, but not in a way that should affect your continued recovery once the strained muscles heal. No, it's your head. You've had a serious concussion—there's issues of dizziness and balance that can take time to resolve. Both Yardley and Coates said to expect to use crutches again for a time, then sticks."
"I haven't used crutches for months." His chest began to heave. "I'm not going to wear the braces again."
"No one is saying anything about braces," Clarkson reassured him. "I know, Mr. Crawley, this is a blow, a setback to your progress, but it should be a temporary one."
Should be should be should be. The words banged in Matthew's head. "What do you mean, 'should be?'"
Mary glared at Clarkson, who realized how careless his words were, and he tried to repair the damage. "In fact, Dr. Yardley said that he would expect you to be able to resume your regular therapy routine in a month or so." It wasn't a lie, Yardley had indeed said those words, but he had added: Of course, that's if all goes well—and there's no reason at this point to think it won't. But, as I'm sure you know, double vision, dizziness, balance problems do often linger—head injuries can be so unpredictable. "All right, let's check your blood pressure." He pulled a blood pressure cuff out of the pocket of his white coat, then tugged up the right sleeve of Matthew's pajama top and wrapped his arm with cuff.
Matthew said nothing and, suddenly exhausted, closed his eyes. He felt the cuff inflate and the cold bell of the stethoscope on his arm; heard Clarkson's "Good;" then felt the bell on his chest, as the doctor listened to his heart and lungs. Then the covers were pulled down, and each leg was lifted in turn, and he felt the tap of a hammer just below his knees, then at his ankles.
"Good," Clarkson pronounced again, pulling the covers up, and Matthew forced his eyes open. "Your vitals and reflexes are strong, Mr. Crawley." He made some notes in the chart, as Mary breathed a sigh of relief. "Don't be surprised if you continue to have trouble with your memory, these next days, and experience confusion. Are you nauseated?"
"Yes."
"Also common after a concussion." Clarkson inclined his head toward the bedside table. "There's an emesis basin at the ready. Nurse Blake will be with you when Lady Mary or your mother are not." He patted Matthew's leg. "I'll check on you again in an hour or so. Lady Mary," he nodded, as he left.
Mary started running her fingers through his hair again. "I'm so sorry, darling," she said softly.
Matthew raised an eyebrow. "Why? What happened?"
"Oh, Matthew," Mary shook her head, trying to hide her dismay. "Darling, you slipped on the ice and hit your—."
His mouth tugged up, and he gave her hand a little shake. "I'm joking."
She stared at him, sitting back. But he was chuckling, and Mary couldn't help it, she started laughing, too. "You!" She swatted his arm gently. "That's nothing to joke about!"
"It's better than feeling sorry for myself." He smiled ruefully. "And I'm afraid I am feeling rather sorry for myself at the moment."
Mary pressed her lips together, her eyes filling. "I think you can be forgiven for that, darling," she said softly.
He exhaled heavily. "I just . . . can't quite believe it. After all the work, almost a year, and I'm flat on my back again."
"It's very hard now, but it will get better." Please, please, she prayed, let that be true.
"Keep telling me that." He smiled wanly. "Well, you know what they say."
She shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't."
"Yes, you do." He frowned, concentrating. "What's that expression? Everyone knows it. April . . . Apr —." He stopped and swallowed. "Oh, God," he choked, "where's that thing? I think I'm going to be sick."
Mary grabbed the basin, lifting him up and supporting his back, as he leaned over and vomited twice.
"Any more?" she asked anxiously.
He shook his head, then collapsed against the pillows, panting.
Mary set the basin on the bed, then filled a glass with water from the carafe on his bedside table. "Here, darling, rinse your mouth." He took a sip of water, then swished it around, as she raised him again, holding the basin under his chin, so he could spit it out. Then she took a flannel and wiped his mouth.
Matthew's breathing began to slow. "I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry you had to see . . . had to do that. . . sorry."
Mary pressed a kiss to his forehead. "It's perfectly all right." Her throat got tight. "And it's not the first time, after all."
"No, it isn't." He squeezed her hand. "I do remember that," he whispered. He raised his other hand, lifting his index finger to tap her nose, but hesitated. "I don't know which is . . you," he laughed.
Mary reached a hand out, covering his left eye.
"That's better." He tapped her nose, then traced her lips with his fingers. "You need to go home. George needs you. You need to rest."
She brought his hand to her cheek. "I'll go when your mother comes. She'll be here soon."
He nodded, then sighed, his lids slowly closing, and her fingers started to card his hair again.
Suddenly, his eyes flew open.
"April showers bring May flowers," he stated triumphantly.
Mary exhaled a small laugh. "They do, darling, yes, they do."
And we do know from the Epilogue that things did get better! Thank you so much for reading-reviews are like a basket of dark chocolate!