It was quiet now, on the ward. Patrick's head had drifted towards his shoulder and his eyes had closed some time ago, though he still held her hand in his. Timothy was also asleep, still desperately pale with grey circles under his eyes but breathing deeply and evenly. She watched their chests rise and fall almost in unison and felt her own breathing slow in the quiet. The trouble was, when she let go, let herself relax, the ache in her solar plexus returned. The steady burn of guilt, shame, anger, and, just at the edge, a wave of self-pity.
She tried not to think about it, that she should be in her grey dress. That they should be back at home already, that Timothy should be tucked in, safe and healthy, away at Granny Parker's, that she and Patrick…she felt the flush heat her face and another wave of guilt rose. Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it. She shut her eyes and tried to turn inward. All those years of prayer and song and the Word of God and she couldn't think of a thing to say, a thing to ask to smooth her roiling insides. The presence she had so often felt, in her old life, seemed unreachable, so very far away. She pulled in a slow, deep breath and opened her eyes again. She must have shifted in her chair because Patrick slowly blinked awake and he stretched his legs out before his eyes met hers.
"Shelagh", he whispered groggily, "you can't sleep here. It's so uncomfortable."
She giggled quietly, almost a sigh. "Patrick, you were doing just that a moment ago."
He gave her a sad, sideward smile, which she returned and she felt the weight on her chest loosen, just a little. He squeezed her hand. "No, no, we have to get you home." She stilled at the word 'home'. Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it.
"Please, if you're going to stay, I'd like to stay for a little longer. I don't want Timothy to wake up and us not be here. It's-" the word caught in her throat and she swallowed, "Christmas. It's almost Christmas. Of all the times for us to stay longer…"
Patrick let the silence sit between them as he watched her. She felt her face flush again and was suddenly certain that he could see right through her to the awful wilderness in her heart.
"Dear", he started haltingly, "Dearest. My dearest. I would be undone without you here. Things have been so –", he paused, in the silence someone shifted in their bed and the night nurse turned a page in her log, "upside down. Truly, everything is so turned around but here we are together." He stopped again and ran his free hand through his already disheveled hair. "I'm sorry." He met her eyes again and she could do nothing about the tear that crawled its way down her cheek. "I'm sorry, we were supposed to be married today, I know…I know…I know." He repeated the phrase almost to himself as a meditation, a chant, a prayer. Shelagh sniffled and Patrick sighed. "I'm sorry. We will make this right. I don't know when. I can't promise you anything at all except that we will make this right."
She leaned closer to him and laid her hand on his face gently brushing her thumb across the roughness of his cheek. He laid a light kiss on her palm and they sat in the silence, in this awful truth of their sick boy. Of their lives upended. Shelagh took a steadying breath. "My own, how do you know to say the only things that make me feel like myself again? I know that we will make this right."
Patrick kissed her hand again and she slid her chair closer to his so they sat now, knee-to-knee, shoulder-to-shoulder, fingers interlaced, together in the quiet.