They had been home three days when Shelagh couldn't take it anymore. Timmy had been nothing but helpful and caring, eager to make her laugh, to erase the hurt he could see settled in her bones. Mirroring the time they had spent together last winter in the hospital, he sat with her for hours, working on puzzles, playing games, discussing his school work. He'd fetch her tea and biscuits, memorize jokes the other boys would tell him to gleefully recite, even practice his piano without complaint when she asked. Patrick too was a model of support. He managed to get Timothy out the door to school and Cubs and brought dinner home every night from the shops. He kept his doctor's eye on her, often laying his hand on her forehead. In their bed, he cautiously wrapped himself around her until the weight on her chest was too much and she had to wriggle away from his grasp to breathe. By the third night all she could stand was to keep her hand in his as they lay side by side.
They had both gone, to the surgery and to school and it was the second day she had been truly up on her feet. She paced aimlessly through the empty house, up the stairs and back down again, this quiet, empty, dead house. Dead as my hope. Panic and bile leapt into her throat at the thought. What is happening to me? Her heart thumped erratically in her chest and she felt the weight there grow again. The restless energy in her limbs compelled her into movement. The more she paced, the louder the silence became until she had no choice but to push her arms into her coat, slam a hat on her head, and shut the front door so hard the pane of glass rattled.
She couldn't have recounted her journey if anyone had asked but when she finally stepped off the bus, the tang of the salt in the air made her gasp. It was a short, uneven walk to an unpopulated portion of the rocky shore, the pressure in her chest growing and growing as she clambered over the uneven ground towards the roaring sound of the sea. She was glad there were few people around and none of them near although when she would think about it later on, she suspected that even the presence of other people wouldn't have prevented the keening wail that exploded out of her as she reached the shore's edge. Out it went - her sorrow, her mourning - into the thundering grey. She sucked in the briny air, tears rolling down her face, hugging herself, feeling the pressure of her hand on her barren center. This time the keen was furious, rage at her broken self, at this senseless waste. She heaved heavy, loud, ugly sobs and when she could see again, she bent down and scooped up one of the fist size rocks at her feet and flung it into the surf with all her might. She picked up another and another, hurling them as far as she could, accompanied by an ancient and guttural howl. Her arm muscles burned as she sank finally to hands and knees and her breathing started to even.
Her hand was on the doorknob when Patrick pulled it open with such force that she stumbled. The frantic, panicked energy of his eyes made her tear again and she could do nothing except step forward into his arms. He held her tightly as she pressed her face into his chest.
"Are you alright?", he whispered. His arms tightened a fraction as they stood in the ticking quiet of the house.
"Yes, I think I am."