Don't leave me this way

"Shelagh, Shelagh", Timothy shouted from afar. Shelagh, who had just gotten herself a bottle of water, turned around. She stood at the table where cake and cold beverages were available and for the first time on this busy afternoon was able to take a short break and have a drink.

It was the annual summer fete of Nonnatus Mission, to which all employees and partners and their families were invited as a means of thanking them for their support. Timothy ran towards Shelagh and, when he stopped in front of her, breathed heavily. "The three-legged race is about to start and I can't find Dad anywhere. Would you run with me?"

Shelagh smiled at the boy. She had always had a soft spot for Timothy. Since his mother had died, he had to accompany his father more often than before and she had formed almost a friendship with the child.

"Of course I will," she announced. "Let me just have some more water, I haven't had anything to drink all day." She quickly drained her water and went with the boy towards the start line.

Shelagh had been so busy helping Bee with preparing food that she had not had any time to mix with the visitors. She only had spotted Dr. Turner from a distance once or twice all afternoon.

Secretly, she was happy to run the race as a favour to Timothy. Shy as she was, she would not have put her name down by herself, but if she was coaxed into activities like this, she happily agreed.

Timothy and Shelagh took their position, impatiently waiting for the signal. Meanwhile, Patrick had returned to the garden of the mission from inside the main house where he had been on the phone with one of his lab technicians. There had been a power cut at the hospital – which per se was nothing unusual; they had power cuts almost daily. But this time, the emergency power at one of his labs had failed and a freezer containing samples for an HIV vaccination study had set off an alarm.

Luckily, the technician could fix the issue last minute and Patrick had been able to track down Delia Busby, the doctor overseeing the study, who was now on her way to the lab to check on the issue in person.

Patrick noticed people lining up for what seemed the three-legged race. He sighed; he had promised Timothy to run with him and hurried to look for his son. When he arrived at the start, he saw Timothy and Shelagh already running and leading the field. He ran next to them behind the spectators and cheered them on. He happily shouted "Yes!" when they crossed the finish line as winners, only to topple over and find themselves on the ground.

Patrick hurried to congratulate them. "We won!" Shelagh exclaimed happily, beaming at Timothy who was already trying to get up, almost causing Shelagh to topple over again.

"Timothy, stand still!" Patrick scolded and extended his hands to untie the band that held his son and Shelagh together. Seeing Shelagh twitch at his movement, he froze and watched her slender fingers quickly untie the knot.

Timothy jumped up and ran off towards some other boys he knew from school. Patrick noticed that Shelagh's glasses had fallen down and handed them to her while both got up from their kneeling positions. When Shelagh reached out for her glasses, Patrick remarked: "You have hurt your hand."

Shelagh looked at her left palm where a cut near the wrist was bleeding, sending a few drops into the gravel that had broken her skin.

"I am sure there is no need to amputate," she replied curtly. Then she turned and hurried inside the main house. Patrick felt numb. Why would she run from him? What if it was not just a cut, but a more serious injury? He decided he should follow and check on her. She might need his assistance, he told himself, ignoring the fact that as a nurse she was perfectly capable of caring for her cut herself.

Patrick found her inside the equipment room, where she stood by the sink, cleaning her wound under the running water.

"Do you want me to have a look at that?" he asked gently and noticed her wince almost invisibly when she heard his voice. But she turned and held out her hand towards him.

"Yes," she exhaled.

Patrick slowly approached her and took her injured left hand, cool and wet but surprisingly soft, into his left hand. With his right hand he began to slowly caress her wrist, just above the cut. He felt his whole body tense and suddenly, all what mattered was that he was here with her, holding her hand in his, admiring her delicate wrist and the intricate pattern of blue veins shining through her pale skin.

He had never been as close to her as right now and it felt so very intimate to hold the hand she had given to him. Patrick could not help it. He very slowly raised her hand to his mouth and placed the softest kiss on her wrist. Her skin felt warm and he felt her pulse on his lips. She faintly smelled of ginger, washing detergent and something he could not quite name, but it made him dizzy.

His lips had hardly touched her skin when Shelagh snatched away her hand and turned away from him. Patrick gasped. What had he done. "I am sorry," he muttered. "This was unforgivable."

"Who is it who decides what is forgivable and unforgivable," she said, her voice shaking.

Patrick felt like a rock hit him right into the stomach. He had grossly abused her trust; he had forced himself on her. He was devastated. He stood still, his hands clutched together above his heart, the place where he held her so dearly.

"I did not turn my back on you because of you," she continued, her voice still weak. "I –" she paused. Patrick waited for her to continue but she just stood there, not moving and not saying a word.

He opened his mouth to apologize again, but no sound would come out. Any word he could think of sounded wrong and he was so appalled at himself that the only action he could think of was to leave. He turned around and almost fled the room.

Patrick hurried outside and went to look for Timothy who was playing soccer with a few boys his age. "Timothy, we have to leave, can you come, please?" he shouted.

Timothy came running to his father, his expression angry. "But Dad, we only just started to play and I –"

Patrick interrupted. "No argument, Tim, we are going."

Timothy grumbled angrily and followed his father to their car. Patrick did not even bother to thank the mission staff for the invitation or say goodbye like he normally did. All he could think of was leaving the place and clearing his head somewhere else.

The drive home took only fifteen minutes during which Timothy did not stop complaining. "You said we would stay until dinner and have barbecue there. And I did not even get to pick up my medal. There is an award ceremony just before dinner and Shelagh and I are supposed to go there."

Patrick remained silent. He cursed at himself internally. Not only had he ruined whatever he had even faintly hoped to develop between himself and Shelagh; would they even be able to work together anymore? What's more, he had also let down his son. Again. He was such a failure.

When they arrived at their house, Timothy went straight into his room and turned on his small stereo rather loudly. Just before, he had announced he did not want to see his father again that day.

Patrick went to the kitchen, took out a beer from the fridge and quickly drained it.

When he put down the empty bottle at the worktop, he felt even worse than before. Not only had he disappointed the two people he cared most about in his life. Also, this was the second time in a short while that he had to have a beer to wash drown his anger. And he used to make a point of saying that alcohol did not solve problems.

"You stupid bloody idiot," he muttered to himself. Then he went to the bathroom and splashed a few handfuls of cold water into his face. He took several deep breaths and decided that before he could think of anything else, he needed to make amends with his son.

Patrick returned to the kitchen and rummaged through the freezer until he found two steaks. Then he took out a container of ready-made potato salad and a cucumber out of the fridge. After Marianne had died, he had needed quite some time to learn how to do their shopping. Thanks to Teresa who had provided him with meticulously compiled shopping lists and Timothy, who went along with him to the supermarket, Patrick had eventually learned to keep their fridge and freezer well stocked.

He went outside and fired the grill. Then he went inside again, took a bottle of Fanta from the fridge, opened it and went to Timothy's room. He knocked the door and when he did not get an invitation to enter, he slowly opened it.

"Tim," he said gently. "I am sorry. I know you are angry at me and you have all good reasons. I acted like an idiot." Patrick held out the soda bottle. "Here, I brought you something. Little peace offering. And I started the grill. We can have our own barbecue tonight."

Timothy grimaced but lowered the volume of his stereo. "This is a lame substitute," he complained as he took the bottle from his father. After a pause, Timothy asked: "What ever was the matter with you?"

Patrick bit his lips and hesitated. He could not tell the truth to his son – that he was in love with Shelagh, that he had kissed her out of some selfish reaction and that he most likely had ruined whatever relationship there had been between them.

Instead, he said: "I sort of got into an argument with Shelagh. Nothing bad, but I am afraid I made quite a fool of myself."

Timothy looked at his father intently. "Don't you keep telling me to not run away from problems? Why didn't you apologize to her then instead of making us go home early?"

Patrick shrugged. Why was his ten-year-old son more mature than him? "I don't know. I do feel bad about it though. You see, just because I am an adult does not mean that I am beyond mistakes." He sighed.

"I like Shelagh. It was cool that she ran the three-legged race with me. And I think she likes us, too. You should go and apologize to her, Dad," Timothy reasoned.

"I will, son, I will," Patrick replied. "But now we should check the grill. Time to put on those steaks, I'd say."