"I know you so little but I couldn't be more certain."
"I am completely certain…I don't even know your name."
"Shelagh."
"Patrick."
"There. We've made a start."
Shelagh had always loved that memory. When she was still a bride-to-be, lying awake at night at her lodgings across town, she'd play it over and over in her head, until she had every detail and sensation memorized – the way Patrick had appeared out of the fog and wrapped his coat around her like an embrace. He never took his eyes off her, not even when Timothy called out from the car. It was first day she'd be been free and able to love him. The day when everything had begun.
Now, it mocked her. I know you so little – she didn't know him at all. He wouldn't let her. She stood by the kitchen hatch, stirring her now-cold tea, and listened to Timothy pick out Mozart on the piano, as snippets from the afternoon's disastrous interview played in her mind.
"You must understand," he said. "It – it was the end of the war. I was medical corps. Trying to save lives at the front –"
"—you were an inpatient at Northfield Psychiatric Hospital," the interviewer countered. "For five months. While you were being treated for war neurosis."
Shelagh felt suddenly as if all the air had been sucked out of the room and she gasped for breath. She hadn't known. She didn't know anything. She glanced over at her husband, and he looked like he was drowning, too.
Oh. Oh Patrick. If you had told me, if you had said anything….
But he didn't tell you.
And the interviewer knew it. Her final words cut Shelagh to the heart.
"We believe a child should be placed in a home where truth and trust are central to that home."
They'd argued after the adoption counselors left.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't think she'd go through my entire history!"
"She is placing a child, she needs to know who she is placing it with – so do I." She stepped closer, ready to embrace him, support him, whatever he needed. "What happened to you?"
He sighed. "I – I can't talk about it."
The words stung like a blow. He'd always talked to her, through every terrible case, every time a patient died, when Timothy had gotten ill – they'd talked. Why wouldn't he talk to her now, when he was so clearly in pain?
"If you think we can forget this, you don't know me. I won't live with this between us, Patrick!"
"I manage! I manage by keeping it behind me."
"How can you treat others when you so clearly cannot treat yourself?"
She wiped a tear away with her index finger and set the pans from dinner in the sink to soak. She shouldn't have said that - not in that way. He run from her then, his face crumpled in sorrow and hurt, and hadn't come back.
It'd been almost four hours. She'd made dinner, she and Timothy had eaten, she'd sent Timothy to practice his piano, and still, Patrick hadn't come home. Or called. Where was he?
Timothy's face appeared through the opening of the kitchen hatch. "I'm done practicing," He frowned. "Dad's still not back?"
"He's just gone on – " Truth and trust, the counselor had said. "He went out. I'm sure he'll be back soon."
"Can I put on The Lone Ranger?"
"Have you finished your homework?"
"Yes – well, except math."
"Finish it, please. And then have your bath."
The boy heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes but went to his room with his schoolbooks.
Left alone again, with her hands idle, the house felt too still and quiet. She went to the sitting room cabinet, opened the small drawer where Patrick kept extra cigarettes and matches, grabbed her cardigan and went out on the back step to smoke. There at least she had the sounds of the street traffic and the distant river to soothe her jangled nerves.
After a few deep draws of the cigarette and the crisp autumn air, her head began to clear, and she felt able to really think again for the first time since that afternoon.
It was true; she had entered marriage with little knowledge of her husband or his history, but the unknown hadn't bothered her. Over time, she would learn him – she'd been a very eager pupil, right from the start – and Patrick had been open and patient. They'd had their shy, awkward moments, of course, especially at the beginning of their courtship, but there had been nothing hidden between them. No lies. No secrets.
Except this one. If he has just told her, at any point in their marriage, she would have understood. She was sure he'd been prepared to lie to that interviewer. Worse, he'd made her look like a liar, too. Angry tears sprang up in her eyes and her hands shook as she finished the cigarette.
Why wouldn't he tell me? Surely he knew he could trust her to listen and to understand? After all, she'd confided and trusted in him.
Last Christmas, during the bomb evacuation, the first place she'd wanted to be wasn't the rescue center or even Nonnatus House. It was his home, because it already felt like her home – and she didn't care what the neighbors might say. He made her feel safe. Since then, she'd shared her hopes, her fears and her pain with him freely.
It hadn't always been easy, learning to share her life. She was used to quiet, the stillness of her own thoughts, early mornings, and neat and tidy surroundings. Quiet, neat and still were not three adjectives often used to describe the Turner men, she thought with a wry smile. And as for early mornings…well, she still had those to herself.
She'd had to learn to trust in other ways, too. She'd never even held hands with a man before Patrick – not in that way. Her desire for him thrilled her, but at the beginning of their marriage she'd been shy, and unsure of how to be with him once they were alone. Patrick, for his part, was a tender and careful lover, and she adored him for it.
And yet, there had been times, when it felt like he was being too careful, even distant. He took her hand, rather than embrace her. He kissed her cheek, instead of her mouth. Even when they'd been alone lately, he'd take the seat across from her, rather than next to her, where she wanted him.
Just last week, he'd pushed her away, while they were sharing sandwiches in his office during the lunch hour.
"There was an article about the procedure in a recent copy of the Lancet. I was meaning to show Sister Julienne, if I can find it again," he said, taking a bite of his ham and cheese and wiping his mouth with a napkin.
"Have you checked the bedside table? That's where you left the last one." He'd missed a smidgen of mustard on his lips. She bit back a giggle.
"I looked there last night – what?"
"Um, you've still got mustard on your mouth."
"Where?" He picked up the crumpled napkin from among the piles of textbooks and medical notes and furiously swiped at his top lip, completely missing the smudge.
She sighed. He was a mess. But he was her mess.
"Come here." She leaned over to wipe the spot off with her thumb, then thought better of it, and kissed him instead, delicately licking the errant mustard from the corner of his mouth. He shuddered and she pressed closer to deepen the kiss.
He put his hands on her shoulders and gently set her away.
"Shelagh," he breathed, his eyes wide and wondering. "What if a patient arrives? The waiting room door's wide open."
She glanced through at the empty surgery lobby and raised an eyebrow in challenge. "So close it."
His breath hitched, his eyes sparked with something familiar and wonderful, and for a moment she thought she'd won. He'd close the door and they'd have ten blissful, stolen minutes alone together in the middle of the day (it had happened before).
But then she'd seen wall coming down in his mind and the spark in his eyes dulling, and he turned back to his desk.
"I'm sorry." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I can't – not today. I've got so much work – and really, we shouldn't here. If someone came in –"
"It's all right, Patrick." She smiled to hide her disappointment – but he wasn't even looking at her. "I understand. I'll leave you to it." She gathered the remains of her lunch and left to finish it at her own desk.
At the time, she'd convinced herself it was work that kept him from indulging with her, or that he had stopped her because he knew how important it was to her to maintain professionalism and respect among patients and nurses. He set her away because he cared.
But perhaps that wasn't care, but fear. Distrust. He kept his distance because he was afraid she'd get too close, dig too deep and hurt him.
She wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself and began to pace the short width of the back step. Why? Why would he think that? What had she ever done but love him? When had she ever hurt him or set him at a distance when he needed her?
Her mind spun back through their time together.
There'd been the letters to the sanatorium that she hadn't answered, too afraid of what it would mean if she did.
And that kiss – their first kiss, in the kitchen at the parish hall. He'd reached out and she'd turned her back on him, then avoided him for weeks. Yes, his actions had been forbidden at the time, but she could have at least had the courage to speak to him. Maybe if she had they wouldn't have spent so much time confused and alone. Maybe they wouldn't be confused and alone now.
But both of those were minor sins, surely - they'd found each other in the end, right? She twisted the corner of her cardigan in her fist, and realized, they might not feel minor to him.
And when Timothy was ill and in the hospital – she walked away then, too. She'd left Patrick alone by their child's bedside, because she was so scared Timothy might die, she hadn't known what to do with her grief. It had taken prayer and comfort from Sister Julienne before she found the strength to go back and face the awful possibilities by his side.
And she'd walked away now. She'd walked away the moment she'd decided not to run after Patrick.
The sky was nearly dark and she squinted at her watch. He'd been gone almost five hours. Her heart stuttered in a brief panic. He'd been away longer on calls before, of course, but then she always knew where he was.
Now she had no idea.
Her chill increased and her teeth chattered. Where did he go when he wanted to be alone? The surgery? A pub? A park? The river? She didn't even know where to start. She could ask Timothy, but she didn't want him to worry –
There – what was that? The door? She turned back and went into the house. She heard the swish of his coat on the rack, saw his tall familiar shadow in the hall and felt all the anxiety leave her in a shivering rush. It was him. He was home.