He has four episodes in the next three days; all fairly small, hardly disruptive, but still, he is obviously haunted by them. Everywhere he is, the war lurks; around every corner, it is there. Every path contains a shell, every loud noise is an explosion, another death. Every bit of red liquid is the blood of those he has killed.
No, it won't leave him alone.
In that time, the bullet wound is pronounced healed enough to proceed and his leg is carefully plastered. "We'll get you up in another day or two," Clarkson promises, and Matthew is conflicted. In a way, it will be a good thing. He is going stir-crazy, confined to bed, not supposed to move his leg. On the other hand, it is terrifying, to leave the safety of his bed, to go out and face this new and changed world he isn't sure he can handle.
Mary comes to his bedside a few days later with a pair of crutches in her hand. "Would you like to try these out?" she asks.
He slowly nods. "I'll have to eventually, why not now?"
She smiles, a bit nervously, but bends down to help him move his legs over to the edge of the bed. "Alright. I'm going to help you get up, but you're going to have to balance on one leg. Just lean on me."
"I will," he says softly, almost to himself.
Mary links her arm with his and carefully helps to pull him up. A sudden bout of dizziness, however, hits him, and he falls back onto the bed.
"Sorry," he mutters. It is a deadpan apology but she can see that he is embarrassed thanks to his furious blushing.
She sits next to him on the bed. "It's fine. You've been in bed almost two weeks, naturally you're a little weak. Just tell me when you're ready to try again."
He glances at his legs, one hanging normally, one sticking straight out, wrapped in hard plaster. He glances at the wall in front of him, blank and clinical. He glances anywhere but at Mary, because that is too hard.
"What if I'm never ready?" he asks. He doesn't expect an answer, because his question is so vague. He doesn't even know what he's asking. Really, he's just scared of what's ahead.
Mary, as expected, doesn't answer him. Instead, she questions him. "What do you mean?"
He blinks and stares at his legs again. "When I was young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, I decided that I had my whole life planned out. I would go to Oxford, earn my degree in law, and work in that until I was old and had children and grandchildren to care for me in my old age. Naturally, somewhere along the way I would find a wife, and we would live in a comfortable but modest house somewhere in Manchester and she and I would be perfectly happy and I would be content to be a solicitor the rest of my days. Perhaps I would rise in the ranks, because well-known and trusted, perhaps even head up a firm. But my life, as I imagined it, would be uneventful and yet productive. I could help people, leave a little mark on the work that allowed it to be a better place. Of course, I never anticipated becoming the heir. I never anticipated the war. I never..." he almost says anticipated you but he stops himself. "I suppose my dream, my perfect little life, died the day I got the letter. You think I'm ridiculous probably. You see it as unambitious, as practically ...boring. I never sought adventure, I never sought any sort of higher calling. I knew what I wanted from the time I was very young, and it seemed to be within reach. It should have been. But even if Patrick hadn't died, even if I wasn't the heir... the war still would have happened. And I would still have gone and fought. Anyway... this is hard for me. Not just the shellshock or the injury, although of course that's difficult. No, the worst is the uncertainty. That's what I can't handle. We go up to this house in Scotland and maybe the war leaves me, maybe it doesn't. Maybe my leg will heal, maybe it won't. Maybe... I don't know what's ahead, Mary. That's what terrifies me the most."
Mary stares at him, not blinking. This is surprising, because he has never been this open with her. She isn't sure why he is choosing to be this open now. But she knows that she has to help him. And so she will. She will give him strength and certainty."You know what's almost completely certain?"
"What?"
"In an hour, you'll still be here. Here in England, here alive. I don't know if you'll believe that you are, but I can tell you with certainty that you will be. Now after that hour, I can tell you that in the next hour, you probably still will be here. Take everything an hour at a time, and uncertainty doesn't seem so daunting. Take everything a day at a time, a week at a time. Certainty will come eventually, but until then, just wait." Mary keeps her eyes focused on him, hoping he will accept this.
Matthew sighs. "It's so difficult."
"I know it's difficult. I'm not certain at this point in time either. I'm not certain whether I'll ever be able to show my face in London again. I'm not certain that some of my friends are my friends anymore. But I'm going to keep living. I may not have some of my friends anymore, but I know I have you for sure. I have Sybil, and Mama, and Papa- even Edith. And of course, Carson, and many others I know will stay by my side. And that certainty, for me, is enough."
He finally looks up and into her eyes, suddenly drawn in by their sincerity as well as their beauty. "I'll always have Mother. And I'll always have you…and the rest of the family, you're all so good to me," he finishes awkwardly.
She nods. "Are you ready to try to get up again?"
"I think so."
She holds him under the arm and they both stand up together. He leans heavily on her but he makes it, and she helps him slip the crutches under his arms. Mary faces him, holds his arms, and smiles. "See, you're ready."
"Maybe."
"You are."
He has a little bit of physio in the hospital, enough to get him comfortable with using the crutches to move around. Any more, Clarkson says, would be impossible until he can bear weight on his leg again.
After a few more days, and maybe four more minor episodes of shellshock, Clarkson decides that Matthew is well enough to be released into Isobel's care. "Now, I wouldn't allow something like this with any patient," Clarkson says, "but because I know how much you love your son and I recognize how excellent you are at nursing, I am allowing it." He frowns. "Still, I don't think this a wise decision."
"I recognize that," Isobel says quietly, glancing at the discharge papers before her, "but I know my son. I know how his mind works, what he does when he's afraid, what triggers him, how to bring him out of certain moods... And he most certainly needs someone who knows that. And because I know my son so well, I also know that he needs to get away from everything to truly recover. He is generally quiet, and thoughtful, and introverted-a loud convalescent home is not going to help his stress or his anxiety."
Clarkson nods. "You are his mother. You may well be right. However, I want you to keep a close eye on his physical condition. His leg appears to be healing decently but of course there is the risk of the infection, and he must also ensure that he does not use it, or else it will not heal properly."
"I understand. And Dr. Warren understands the situation as well. He trained at an orthopedic hospital so he knows what he is doing."
The doctor hands a pen to Isobel. "I wish you the best of luck."
"Thank you," Isobel says softly. She signs the papers.
"He's all yours."
Isobel forces a smile. "Sometimes, I wonder if he is anymore. But I'd like to think so."
The train to Scotland doesn't leave until the next day, so Matthew spends the night on a makeshift bed at Crawley House. There aren't any downstairs bedrooms in the house, and nobody wants to let Matthew navigate the narrow stairs on crutches, especially as he's already quite unsteady, so Isobel piles sheets onto the long, comfortable couch in his old study.
It is quite eerie, being in his old study. The books sit, long untouched, dusty and cold. Matthew sits on the edge of the couch. He is not unfamiliar with sleeping on it; oftentimes, instead of going upstairs, he would simply lie and sleep on the couch while working late. But now, it is different. He is not working, and he doubts he will be able to work for a time... maybe not ever. That thought causes him to swallow harshly; what will he do with his life if he cannot work?
Isobel helps him get settled onto the couch, placing a couple pillows under his injured leg in order to elevate it. "Is there anything else I can get you? I'm sorry it's not quite so comfortable."
"It's fine," he murmurs, although she's right. It isn't very comfortable. But he supposes, as a young man he spent many a night on this couch, he can survive one more.
His mother places a kisses on his head. "Well, don't hesitate to ring if you need anything at all."
He nods blankly, staring at the wall.
"Are you sure you're alright? Or do you want me to stay in here?"
"I'll be fine," he says, his voice almost dead.
Isobel sighs and shoots him one last concerned look. "Good night, then." She blows him a kiss, walking slowly out the door.
As soon as the door closes, Matthew wishes that he had asked her to stay. The room is dark but he can't get up very well to open the curtains. The little bit of light that does stream in casts shadows on the wall that strike fear into his soul. They look like people, some of them. Like Germans, waiting to attack.
He shivers, and reaches for anything he might be able to defend himself with. The only thing he can reach is one of his crutches, and he brandishes it. If one of them attacks, maybe he can fend them off.
He hears footsteps, and he tightens his grip on the crutch. He is fully sitting up now, in a position that is painfully stretching his leg but he can't bring himself to care. They are here, and he is supposed to fight them. To kill them. That is what he has been trained to do; to kill.
Suddenly, everything is becoming real; the walls are disappearing and in their place he can see the desolate landscape of the battlefield, a harsh wind blowing over dead trees, killed by the shells that are everywhere. He takes a step, brandishing his gun- it is a gun now- and looks around everywhere. He sees so many of them and yet none of them, and his heart constricts tightly. Where are they? Are they playing a trick on him?
A light breaks from the clouds, and one of them appears.
He begins to scream, because there is nothing else he can do but wait for help. His gun, it seems, is useless, lacking ammunition.
The German steps toward him slowly, seemingly unwilling to just kill him and end his miserable life already.
His useless gun is taken out of his hands.
The German's hands... they come around his shoulders.
He hears crying from the soldier. Odd, but...
He begins to cry too.
Isobel holds him, as tightly as she can without hurting him. "Shhh, Matthew, it's just me. Shhh, you're alright."
He buries his face in her chest and his cries make her heart break. She isn't sure if he is back to himself or not, but she holds him tight. He tries to say something, but his choking sobs prevent him from shaping words.
"I'm here, you're okay," Isobel whispers, over and over again. Her hands run through his hair and she holds him as if he was a little child again. She misses her innocent little boy, but there is no way to go back. "I love you so much, Matthew. And I'm so glad you're back here in England, and you're going to be okay. We're all going to be okay."
Matthew seems so young in that moment, so small. It painfully reminds her of the day that Reginald died, where her teenage son completely broke down and became like a child again. Now is much the same, and her heart constricts at the thought.
It is almost surprising to her when he lifts his tear-stained face off of her chest and she can see the aging that the war has brought upon him. He is so young and yet so much older. He is thinner than he used to be, more muscular, and while it is not a bad look on him, Isobel misses her cherubic young son.
She holds herself together. She wipes the few tears from her face and kisses the top of his head. "I'm here now," she whispers again.
He nods, finally almost himself again. "I thought..."
"I know."
"I can't be alone," he says, his voice utterly of terror. "You can't leave me alone, or else they'll come back. I can't defend myself. My gun doesn't work. I..."
"Matthew," Isobel interrupts gently, feeling her throat get tight. "It wasn't real."
He stares at her, unblinking, for several seconds. When he finally lets his eyes shut, Isobel can see him relax. He is back. "I know it wasn't real now..." he says, after several long seconds. He swallows thickly. "It was real, though. I remember it... I was stuck in the mud and my gun wouldn't work and they were coming to get me and then William saved me."
William. Isobel lets her mind ruminate for a minute on the poor young boy who had apparently saved Matthew's life. He had thrown himself in front of Matthew and had died in the process. Matthew has talked little about William since his death, but Isobel sees how hard the young man's death has been on her son. Sometimes, when he has nightmares, he calls out for William.
"He was a good man," Isobel says.
"He didn't deserve to die. Especially not while saving me. I don't deserve to survive while he died. I'm a mess, I can't be a productive member of society, I can't go a day without seeing the damn Germans all around me..."
Isobel wraps her arms around his head and holds him close to her chest. "No, William didn't deserve to die. But neither did you. And do you know? I'm so very grateful you're alive. I thank God and William for that every single day."
"I'm a burden on you now. You're dropping your whole life to go up to the middle of Scotland with me to see if you can make me less of a mess. Maybe..."
"Don't you dare say what I think you might say," Isobel warns. "You're never a burden. You're my son, it's my job to take care of you. Yes, I'm a nurse, but I'm a mother, first and foremost. And if that means dropping everything, then that's what I have to do. It isn't a burden, it's my responsibility, and I'm more than happy to do it."
She can feel Matthew's tears wetting her dressing gown, and she runs her hands through his hair again.
"How about Mary?" Matthew finally says. "What on earth does she have to gain from this?"
"Mary says she needs to escape from the story about her and Pamuk," Isobel begins. She pauses to see how her son reacts. "I assume she's talked to you about it."
"She has."
"And what do you think?"
Matthew sighs. "It isn't my place to judge her. I don't feel like I know the whole story. She was broken, I'm broken. It doesn't really matter to me anymore. All that matters is that I know why she rejected me before the war. It was because she was afraid to tell me, but she didn't feel that she could accept without telling me."
Isobel tries not to make her surprise obvious, but she can't hide it well. This is not something she had expected from Mary; when Mary didn't accept Matthew's proposal, she had assumed it was the question of money and status. "So you're not angry with her?"
"I could never despise her, mother, especially after all she's done for me."
Something hits Isobel, then. A realization. Something that had been so obvious, but that she had not pieced together. "She cares for you," Isobel says, softy. Her mid goes over everything Mary has done; nursing Matthew, calming him when he falls apart, helping him in every way possible, arranging the whole trip to Scotland... "She cares for you still."
"No," Matthew says firmly. "No, she doesn't. She can't. She's going to Scotland because she needs to get away from the story, and she's a very good friend and wants to help me."
Isobel shakes her head. She doesn't want to press him on this now, but a little shiver of delight comes over her now that she certainly knows.
"You really ought to get some sleep," Isobel says. "Would you like me to stay in here tonight?"
"Yes," Matthew replies. "And leave the light on."
Thanks to all my lovely readers for sticking with this! I'm glad to know at least some of you aren't annoyed by the pacing... pacing is so hard to get right. Anyway, you're all awesome and I'm so grateful for you support. If you'd be willing to leave a review, that would make me a very happy writer!