Basically a fic that explores what could have happened if the misty-road scene had been a rainy-road scene instead. Enjoy!
"And I'm coming back to Poplar." Her words kept bouncing around Patrick's head as he drove towards the sanatorium. He gripped the steering wheel of his MG with such force that his knuckles turned a ghastly white.
"I'm on my way to catch the bus." Was the woman mad? She could not, she should not travel thirty miles by public transport. In fact, Patrick wasn't even sure whether she should come back to Poplar at all, at least for a while. The air there was thick and vile. Sometimes, he had trouble breathing there himself, and his lungs had not been scarred by a debilitating illness.
Of course, it did not mean that he did not long for her. His heart had beaten away madly in his chest when he heard her breathy voice on the other side of the line; he wanted nothing more but to find her, wrap her in his arms, hug her to his chest and never let go.
"There are procedures to be gone through." He could not remember the last time words had impacted him so much. The last few months Patrick had forced himself to be patient, to show restraint. He had tried to pack away every sliver of hope to prevent them from becoming razor-sharp fragments that would dig into his heart when she would decide that her love for Another was greater than her feelings for him. Still, when the night was darkest and the house gripped by an almost super-natural stillness he found his thoughts wandering towards her time and time again. He tried to be selfless, to give her all the time and space she needed to make up her mind, but could not deny that his deepest wish was to be allowed to love her openly. Sometimes, he had vicious nightmares in which the TB had hollowed her out, feeding away on her till she could no longer cling to life. He would awake bathed in sweat, reaching out to the other side of the bed. His mind, blurred by the fog of dreams, expected to find her there. When his fingers encountered only cold sheets he could not stop himself from weeping.
He had to find her.
"Does Sister Bernadette know that we're coming to pick her up?" asked Timothy. Patrick had almost forgotten that his son sat in the car with him.
"I don't know," he answered truthfully. Timothy frowned.
"How do you know she'll still be at the san-sana…"
"Sanatorium."
"That. How do you know she'll still be there when we arrive?" Patrick's gut clenched.
"I don't." They were silent for a while.
"Dad, I think it is going to rain. Isn't that dangerous for Sister Bernadette, with her being ill?" Timothy asked. Nausea crawled up Patrick's throat.
Oh God no…
"Let's pray she's still there," he muttered. He refused to let his mind be taken hostage by the twisted thoughts lurking in the back of his mind.
She should have taken greater care when she boarded the bus; maybe she would not have gotten lost then. She had been too consumed by her own thoughts to pay much attention to anything. She had hardly felt the autumn wind nipping at her through her thin coat, had hardly noticed the curious looks her fellow passengers gave her clothes. She had known that her suitcases were old and battered, that her purse had been water-stained and old-fashioned, but she could not care. Shelagh had been too giddy to pay heed to anything apart from the thought that she was going home.
To him.
She had told Sister Julienne that she was not sure where her home was, or ought to be. She still wasn't, but she had hope. His friendly voice and the soft rhythm of his speech had fortified her. She felt as if an invisible thread tied them together, now pulling them closer and closer till she would be in his arms.
It was only when she heard names of bus stops she could not remember reading that she had realised that she had not boarded the bus that would take her home. Shelagh had done the only thing she could think of: gather her belongings and get off at the next stop. She had reasoned that the proper course was to walk back to the sanatorium- surely the distance was manageable- and take the right bus from there.
Unfortunately, she had not taken the weather into account. A thick mist lay on the land like a downy blanket, obscuring everything more than a few feet away. Still, she would not be defeated by such little things as the wrong bus and a bit of fog. She had battled worse demons, and conquered them. The idea of Doctor Turner had given a spring to her step as she walked along the dreary country road. The mist would be her veil, the pearls of moisture beading her hair her crown, the forlorn stalks of corn her bouquet.
I'm coming home.
"Stay in the car," Patrick commanded as he flung the door open and almost sprinted towards the sanatorium. He didn't have to look to know that Timothy rolled his eyes at him.
No one was waiting for him outside the sanatorium, but then again, the weather was very cold and autumnal. He shivered as the wind tugged on the lapels of his coat, plastering multi-coloured leaves against his trousers.
He pushed the door open and briskly walked to the reception. The woman behind the desk gave him a disapproving look from behind her horn-rimmed spectacles.
"I'm looking for Sister Bernadette," Patrick said.
"Good morning to you," the woman said stiffly.
"Good morning. Now, Sister Bernadette, she's a nun. She was discharged today. I'm coming to collect her."
"And you are?"
"Doctor Turner. Her GP." Her future husband, if she's willing, he mentally added. The woman pursed her lips and looked over the stack of papers in front of her. She started to flick through them with what Patrick felt was intentional slowness. He resisted the urge to grab the papers and look through them himself. Instead, he drummed with his fingers on the desk, unable to hide his annoyance. If she wasn't here, he had no time to lose.
"Could you hurry, please? It is of vital importance that I find Sister Bernadette," he pleaded.
"You mean the little nun? Though she was dressed into something other than her habit this morning." He spun around as a blonde nurse with a friendly smile approached him.
"Yes."
"If you've come to visit her, I'm afraid you are too late: she was discharged this morning."
"I know. I've come to pick her up, give her a lift home," Patrick said. The nurse knit her brow.
"Curiouser and curiouser," she mumbled, looking him over as if he was hiding something from her.
"Why's that?"
"She left for the bus over an hour ago. It was the strangest thing; I thought she was a nun, but she wore normal clothes when she left, though they were dreadfully old fashioned. I don't think she knew you would come to collect her. I advised her to stay, said we could call a cab for her because of the bad weather, but she insisted. She seemed to be in a hurry."
"Thank you!" Patrick didn't wait for her reply, but spun around and ran back to the car.
"And?" Timothy asked.
"She isn't here," Patrick answered. As he started the car a fat raindrop landed on the windshield, splitting in a dozen tiny droplets.
Oh God.
Shelagh had somehow imagined that she and Doctor Turner were linked, that there was a compass inside her heart that pointed to him. It would restore her to him and only him. Now, she had to admit to herself that this compass, like her sense of direction, was faulty. She had been walking for what seemed like hours, and the sanatorium was nowhere in sight. In fact, there was nothing here that seemed even remotely familiar.
Her shoes had started to pinch and her suitcases felt rather heavier than before. Still, she had trusted herself well enough until the rain had started.
She had told herself that she had imagined the first few drops. They were simply the kisses of the mist sliding along her cheeks. However, she could no longer deny that the weather had taken a turn for the worse when the soft drops of drizzle became larger, colder, harder.
Shelagh put down her suitcases and looked up to the sky. The rain stung her cheeks.
"Dear Lord, no," she whispered as the mist scattered around her, fleeing for the onslaught of bad weather.
"Damn her Scottish stubbornness, damn her selflessness, trying not to be a burden on anyone, damn it all…" Patrick muttered as they drove along what seemed to be endless winding country lanes.
"You are not allowed to say 'damn'," Timothy remarked. Patrick made a guttural noise in reply. The windshield wipers flung aside the rain as it pelted their car. There had been moments when he found their smooth movement soothing. Now, they just inspired agitation.
"Dad, what will happen if Sister Bernadette is caught out in this bad weather?" Timothy whispered after a few minutes of silence. Patrick rubbed his eyes.
"Hopefully she has a raincoat and an umbrella with her, and she'll only get a bit cold," he answered. He refused to entertain any other thought. The knot in his gut twisted and coiled and tightened.
"There is something there," Timothy said, and pointed to a speedily increasing dot in the distance.
"It could be anything," Patrick said, not daring to hope.
"But we've not seen another person till now," Timothy rightfully pointed out. The dot took on colour and shape as it came ever nearer. Soon, it became apparent that it was a lonely figure, walking through the rain.
"Dad, it is a woman. She's in the wrong clothes, but I think it might be her!" Timothy exclaimed, almost bouncing off his chair in his enthusiasm. Patrick swallowed. There was an audible click in his throat. His eyes weren't as sharp as those of his son. He daren't hope, yet he must.
This is what hell must be like, Shelagh thought as she trudged on. She had lost all sense of time; for all she knew, she could have been walking for days.
Her feet hurt. She had stumbled a few times, once falling and scraping her hands bloody. At least the rain washed the blood away.
Her hands hurt, both from the grazes and the cold. She had trouble feeling her fingertips, clinging to the slippery suitcases. She knew that she could not pick them up again, were she to put them down.
Her head hurt. It was a blunt pain, a throbbing pain that matched the fluttering of her heart. Not even the cool rain on her forehead could alleviate the burning inside her skull.
Her lungs hurt the worst, though. Every breath was agony. Pain flared in her chest. She wondered how she could feel so cold even though her lungs were clearly on fire.
This is your punishment for your arrogance, she thought. She should have listened to the doctors. Instead, she disregarded their advice, going out even though the weather promised to be inclement. Like she had disregarded the subtle symptoms her body had send her to show her that she was ill. She had endangered her patients by being so stubborn, never mind that she had not yet been contagious.
Arrogance, vanity, gluttony. Sin.
Would she be forced to walk this god-forsaken road forever, with only desolate fields with brittle stalks empty of grain as her companions? She had not seen a single soul since she left the bus stop.
Yes, this was hell, being forced to walk along a never-ending road, thirsting for solace she could only find in the arms of another human being.
Tears mingled with the rain.
"I don't think I can take much more," she whispered to the sky. Her words didn't soar, but got beaten down into the mud as the rain increased in vehemence. She stumbled, putting down her suitcase to prevent herself from falling, then tripping over it as her momentum did not allow her to stop. The other suitcase sprang open and vomited her habit and wimple on the road. Her stockings ripped. Mud splashed over her skirt and coat, peppering the soaked fabric with dark stains. She sat down, too tired to get up, letting the rain wash over her. The droplets might as well have been little bullets; every single one stung. Iron fists squeezed her lungs shut till her breathing came in short, wheezing gasps. She shut her eyes.
The lonely figure stumbled, tripped over the suitcases she was carrying, then fell. She didn't get up. Patrick didn't know whether he wanted this to be the woman he loved with all his heart, or just another person he didn't know, lost in the rain.
"Dad, it is her!" Timothy shouted and pointed to the navy habit that had fallen out of her suitcase. Patrick felt his heart clench painfully. He flung the door of the car open. Timothy made to leave the car as well.
"Stay here!"
"But, dad…"
"Do as I say!" he barked, the depth of his anguish making the words sound harsher than he intended. The rain was icy and made him shudder, even though he wore several layers and a thick coat. Patrick ran towards the still figure of Sister Bernadette.
Only she's dressed like an ordinary woman, he thought as he knelt beside her. She had her eyes closed. Strands of her hair had escaped the intricate knot she had made and lay plastered against the marble of her face. Patrick wanted nothing more than to touch her, but now he feared what his fingertips would feel. Her breaths came in short, laboured gasps.
"Sister?" She didn't respond.
"Sister Bernadette?" He felt her forehead. Her skin was clammy and hot to the touch.
Oh God no…
"Sister Bernadette, you need to get out of the rain. You're burning up." Panic laced his words and pumped through his veins. He took his coat off and threw it around her. She opened her eyes.
"Are you really here?" she whispered.
"Of course."
"It seems to me I've been on this road forever, thinking you were here when you weren't." Her eyes were fever-bright. Patrick pulled her against him, cradling her in his arms. He hardly even felt how his clothes got soaked; all his attention was on her icy hands and the shivers that trailed through her body. She felt fragile and strangely ethereal.
"I came to the sanatorium, but they told me you had left. I thought you would take the bus."
"I got on the wrong one." She laughed. It was a throaty sound that made all the hairs in his neck rise.
"You stubborn Scot, walking without a coat in the rain," Patrick whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She started to sob.
"I'm so, so sorry. And I'm so, so tired." Patrick rocked her, making soft sounds in the back of his throat.
"Don't apologise."
"I didn't want to be a burden," she whispered. Her breathing came in high, squeaky gasps now.
"How could you ever be a burden to me? I've longed for you with all my heart."
"You don't even know my name." She placed her hand on his chest. He placed his hand over hers, feeling the bones under her skin.
"No," he agreed. She smiled a little.
"It's Shelagh."
"Patrick."
"There. We've made a start," Shelagh said. She smiled again, a beatific smile that made her seem more ethereal than ever as her breathing stopped.
"Shelagh?" She didn't respond.
"Shelagh?!" Patrick clutched her tighter, pressing her against his chest and cradling her head with his hand.
"Shelagh, darling?" A sob threaded through his desperate calling of her name, over and over again, as the rain ceased its merciless pounding.
Patrick shot up and nearly toppled out of the bed. His breathing was very fast, his pyjamas and hair plastered to his skin.
"Shelagh?" He felt for her, but the space next to him in the bed was empty.
"Shelagh?" Panic laced his words. He scrambled out of the bed, eyes wild and wide with worry. Where could she be? She couldn't be gone, she had to be here, she…
"Patrick?" She stood on the threshold of their room, eyes small with sleep, honey-blonde hair delightfully mushed. Patrick exhaled the biggest breath he had ever held. With three big steps he was with her and hugged her to him with such force that they nearly fell over. He pressed his nose in her hair, inhaling her scent, letting it comfort him. Tears pricked behind his eyes.
"Patrick, is everything alright?" Her hands wound around his chest.
"I dreamed that you were gone, and then I woke up and you weren't there."
"I'm sorry. I had a nightmare, too. I got up to drink a wee bit of water," she admitted. Patrick couldn't help himself; tears ran along his cheeks and sobs racked his body.
"I dreamed you were dead," he managed to get out between strangled gasps. Shelagh rubbed circles on his back.
"I'm not dead. I'm here, where I belong," she whispered. She held him tightly and hummed a lullaby whilst his grief subsided. Exhausted, he sat down on the bed, still holding his wife as if he intended to never let her go.
"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be a burden."
"Don't apologise, you silly man. How could you ever be a burden?" She threaded her hand through his hair and placed a soft kiss first on one eyelid, then the other. Patrick didn't release her even as they laid themselves down on the bed. He was still afraid of her disappearing, of waking up again and finding that his nightmare had become his reality. Shelagh's steady breathing reassured him a little.
"Did you say you had a nightmare, too?" he whispered.
"It's not important. I hardly remember what it was, really. I just know it seemed as if I walked on an endless road, never quite arriving where I was supposed to be," Shelagh explained.
"That sounds awful."
"I woke up in the end, and when I saw you, I felt as if I was exactly where I was meant to be. Now, we should really try to get a bit more sleep." Patrick smiled.
"I love you."
"I love you, too." Patrick closed his eyes. This time, the only words bouncing around in his skull where those he wanted to hear: I felt as if I was exactly where I was meant to be.