4. A New Dress
Well, it had to happen sometime.
She's been noticing it for a while now, just in the little things, but she's been afraid to admit it to herself. She's very, very good at ignoring things which were of great importance, a fact to which her husband can attest. As she goes back over the past few months in her mind, she knows the signs have been there all along.
First, it was the tiredness, coupled with the sleeplessness, which she's been blaming on holding down a job and being a newlywed. Then, it was the quantity of tea she's been drinking (blamed in turn on the tiredness). On top of that, she's been quite cranky lately, even going so far as to snap at Tom for no reason at all (obviously, she's been drinking too much tea). She's come up with every excuse to try and deny the symptoms, but there really is no way around it.
This morning, standing in front of the mirror Tom bought for her, she's discovered that her dress won't close, no matter how much she tries. She can almost feel her mind turning, wrapping around on itself, as it attempts to come up with a reason for it. Perhaps she hasn't been walking as much when she's at work. Over the past five months she's gotten herself into a routine and doesn't waste time trying to figure out how to make things work efficiently. She's a real nurse now, not a nursemaid to drunken soldiers, and she knows her hospital like the back of her hand. Or perhaps it could be the way that her mother-in-law feeds her several slices of hot buttered bread with Sunday dinner. The weekly dinners at Tom's childhood home are very dear to her, but she always eats far too much of what Kathleen puts in front of her. Or even . . . !
But, no. It really isn't any of those things. There's nothing to do but admit it.
Sybil Branson is pregnant.
Methodically, she closes the hooks on her dress that she still can. Luckily, it's only the hooks around her middle that don't meet, and her apron covers the gap conveniently. She's just adjusting her handkerchief when Tom walks into the room.
"Are you ready yet? I'd like to arrive a bit early today; I've some catching up to do." Tom stops abruptly on his way out of the room, frowning a bit. "Are you feeling all right?"
Sybil forces herself to smile and say, "Of course. I think I might be coming down with something, is all." She adjusts the front of her apron a bit, then grabs her cloak and lets Tom button it around her shoulders.
"Well then," she says with forced cheerfulness, "I'm ready if you are!"
Tom rattles on about his new article the entire way to the hospital, but she can barely focus on putting one foot in front of the other, much less participate in his conversation. She can tell that Tom notices (he always notices when it's anything to do with her), but he knows better than to press the issue. He's still worried when he leaves her at the nurse's entrance, but he kisses her all the same and wishes her a good day.
Her day passes in a haze, and for the first time that she can remember, Sybil does not perform up to the standard that she's set for herself. The worst of it is when she's assisting a doctor with a young boy who's broken his arm. His mother stands in one corner of the tiny examination room, and all Sybil can think to do is stare at the woman's worried expression, wondering how long it will be before she herself is on that side of the table. She feels disconnected from her body, as if she's somewhere else, as if she's someone else entirely, and it takes a near shout from the physician before she snaps herself out of it.
By the time Tom comes to meet her for their walk home, she's started to accept that it's really happening, but she can't imagine how she's going to tell him. In deference to her mood, they've forgone their usual walk-home conversation, for which she's grateful. Otherwise, she's sure that she'd blurt it all out in the middle of the street for all Dublin to hear. Despite her best efforts, there are parts of her that will always be so very upper-class.
She wonders how her mother told her father about her own impending arrival. Does one tell their husband differently when they are expecting their first child? For that matter, was there a special way that one was supposed to tell their husband? Should she just come out and say it? Is she supposed to wait for a special moment? What if she waits until dinner, and then blurts it out over the peas? She grips his hand harder and leans her head on his shoulder.
Tom takes this as his cue, and he lets go of her smaller hand to lay his arm around her shoulders. They don't walk this way often, but it makes her feel so calm to have him wrapped around her as they walk home. She wonders how many more walks like this they'll have. She wonders how long she'll have before she has to leave her job. She wonders if she'll ever be able to go back . . .
They arrive home far too quickly, and Tom helps Sybil out of her cloak. She realizes suddenly that the moment is very nearly upon her; her apron was bloodied today, and she's wearing her friend's spare one over her dress. The borrowed apron does not cover her dress as well as her own does, and the deficiency in her dress is very apparent now.
Tom doesn't understand, and when he fingers the gaping fabric at her waist, he tries to make light of the situation. "Feeding you too well, are we? Always knew you'd take to Irish suppers!"
When she doesn't respond, his smile fades and he squints a bit at her. "Is this what you've been feeling so ill about these couple of days? You've got to know I think you're beautiful, Sybil." He says it with such honesty, with such fervor that it brings tears to her eyes.
Tom takes her into his arms. When he sees the tears start to fall, and he tucks her head under his chin.
"There now, sweetheart. It's nothing to cry over. We'll have someone take the dress out a bit and all will be well."
Sybil sobs in force now, though she's not sure precisely what she's crying for – her dress, her job, or Tom's sweet words. Tom leads her to their bedroom, where they sit down on the bed. He doesn't say much, just lets her work out whatever she needs to with her tears. His patience with her is the worst part; she knows how excited he's going to be, she knows what a great father he's going to be. She just doesn't know how she's going to go back to being the sort of woman who's caught up inside a house all day . . .
She gathers herself, finally, and she pushes away from Tom, just a little.
" Just tell him!" she thinks silently to herself.
"We're going to have a baby." There. She's said it.
Her expectations are met. She can see it in the little, half-gasped grin he directs at her. Tom is thrilled by her news, if a bit bewildered by the suddenness of it all. It reminds her of nothing more than the night she'd finally made her decision. Yet again, he shows her why she made the right choice in running away with him.
"We can talk to Ma as soon as you like about taking care of the babe after she's born. I'm sure the hospital will take you right back." He says happily, beaming at his wife.
Sybil grins then, swipes a quick hand across her eyes, and throws her arms around Tom's neck. She never should have doubted. They're going to make this work, just like everything else.
She's so busy feeling so completely, perfectly perfect that it takes a long minute for his words to sink in.
"Wait just a moment, Tom Branson! What do you mean by 'she'?"
HUGE thanks to my beta, MrsBates93 for wrangling my fic into something a bit more readable! She's also fixed up the earlier chapters of this as well, so take a look back through if you're interested.
Please take the time to review – I'd love to hear what you think!