I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded; not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night. - Khaled Hosseini
January 25, 1921
Mater Misericordiae Hospital
"Kathleen, you must get some rest!"
Sybil stood in the doorway, watching her young sister-in-law with concern. Kathleen hadn't eaten or slept in the two days since they had found Deaglan. Sybil shook her head. All that time searching, and he'd been right here for more than a week. Not shot, as they had suspected, but drowned! Only Deaglan himself could tell them how he had come to be floating in the Liffey, and it was questionable if he would ever be able to do so. He was clinging to life, his lungs straining to provide the air necessary to breathe.
Pneumonia was a killer. There was little doctors could do, besides providing oxygen to the patient, to combat this disease that quietly claimed the lives of people of all ages. Deaglan's youth and health might have given him a bit of an edge, Sybil thought bitterly, if those people who had found him had not waited so long to bring him to the hospital. But that wasn't fair either, she admitted to herself. If that old man hadn't seen Deaglan fall off the bridge, and if his grandson hadn't kept trying to bring him round, he wouldn't have made it here in the first place. There was no use assigning blame; it was what it was.
Kathleen and Aislinn had barely left his bedside. When the nurses tried to get them to leave, they defiantly donned masks and refused to budge. While Aislinn had been compelled to return to work at the brewery this morning, Bernadette had bowed to the steel will in her baby sister and told her she could take as long as she needed away from the bakery. Kathleen had ordered a cot and had it set up in Deaglan's room, and there she stayed, holding his hand, talking to him, hoping for some sign of change.
"Please, Katie, you'll be no help to Deaglan if you get sick yourself!" Sybil begged her, but she knew it was no use. She remembered her own bedside vigil for Tom, and even though it had been blessedly short, she knew she would have stayed at his side no matter how long it took, and no one would have removed her. Sybil firmly believed, despite or maybe because of her medical training, that there were things out there that were greater than science. She felt that a patient could sense the presence of loved ones, could hear them somewhere deep in their fevered minds, and that concentrated love was the best—sometimes the only—medicine that worked.
Kathleen turned slowly to face her sister-in-law.
"He's better, Sybil. I think his breathing is easier, and I'm sure he hears me when I talk to him."
Her eyes above the hospital mask had dark circles beneath them, and her hair hadn't been properly combed in days. But she was beautiful, Sybil thought, lovely in her certainty that Deaglan would come back to her, that God would not take him after allowing her to find him again. Her heart broke before the naked hope she saw in Kathleen's eyes, and she knew that she could never do anything to destroy that hope, even if she didn't fully believe it herself.
"That's good, Katie. I know that Tom heard me when I talked to him; he told me so. "But," she knew she had to tread carefully here, "Deaglan needs his rest. He can't work at getting better if he's struggling to hear you. And you need to be ready when he regains consciousness, darling. Come, lie down and get some rest yourself, so you'll be there for him."
Kathleen sighed, and allowed Sybil to tuck her into the blanket on the cot. Within minutes, she was asleep.
Sybil remained for awhile watching Deaglan. He wasn't getting better. He hadn't regained consciousness since he'd been brought in last week, and his breathing seemed weaker and more ragged than before. The doctors were talking about trying a new therapy that had been moderately successful with pneumonia patients in New York and London, but it was a long shot and they didn't have a great deal of confidence in its success. If only he'd been brought in sooner!
January 26, 1921
Letter from Claire Branson to Cora Crawley
Dear Lady Grantham (Cora—it is still hard to call you that!),
It has taken me a long time to bring myself to pick up a pen and begin this letter to you, my dear friend. I was afraid you wouldn't be eager to hear from me, after…you know…after Patrick and your Edith. I feel guilty, though there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I have never understood the relationship between those two, but they seem bent on being together, so I have given up hoping that it is just something that will go its way.
I wasn't very nice to your daughter, Cora. When she came back. I was harsh, and spiteful. I wanted her to go away, leave my son alone and go back to you, so badly. I could see the hurt in her eyes, but what did she think? That we would just welcome her back with open arms?
When she left my son, he changed, and not for the better. I thought it would just take time, and he'd get over it. You see, Patrick has always been the one to leave. He had girls hanging around him all the time, and none of them meant anything so I never worried about them. And then he met your daughter, and I could see that this time it was different. He wanted to make something of himself—prove himself to her.
I thought she was just having fun with him, and that when she went home everything would return to normal—but I was wrong. He was broken. I'd never seen him like that…so depressed and down in the mouth. I hated her, Cora. I'm sorry, but I did. I hated your daughter for what she had done to my son. And I'll admit it…I was angry at you that you couldn't keep her over there and away from my family. I wondered why Lord Grantham couldn't make her stay in the world where she belonged! When you wrote and said that your husband didn't even know about them, and you told me how she had been so unhappy and you'd been so worried, I didn't care. I was just so angry when she showed up on my doorstep again at Christmas!
But I'm writing now because I see how it is with them—they love each other. Edith is not like our Sybil—that one wormed her way into my heart almost from the beginning, and my Tom was like a peacock around her, puffed up with pride and love. He wore his love on his face. Patrick never did that. He kept his thoughts to himself, and I never realized that his new happiness was due to her.
Like I said, Edith is not like her sister. She never tried to stand up to me like Sybil did, and I took advantage of that. I didn't want to get to know her, care about her. I ignored her as much as possible, even though I could see how it hurt Patrick the way I treated her.
She came to see me last week, by herself. It hurt me just to look at her, Cora. But she seems to have found a backbone, and she forced me to listen to her. She told me about how she had been afraid of Ireland, of not being accepted here. She looked me right in the eye, daring me to argue with that, and I knew that she was right. I was a part of that rejection. And then she told me that Tom had found her a job writing for his paper, and her eyes were so wide and happy! She was like a different person. She told me that she loves Patrick, and she will not give him up. She stomped her foot when she said that!
And I looked at her, finally, looked in her eyes and saw the truth in them.
So I'll try. I can see that I've lost this one, and if I'm cold to Sybil's sister it will hurt her, and Tom, and especially Patrick. It still hurts me, and it will take time, but every day I feel the anger and the pain slipping away a little more. I'm trying to find a place in my heart for your Edith, and I hope you can accept Patrick as you did Tom…because I very much fear that we don't have a blessed thing to say about it.
Please write soon and tell me that we are still friends, in spite of our children.
With great affection,
Claire
January 28, 1921
Mater Misericordiae Hospital
"He woke for a minute!" Kathleen reported to Sybil. "He's going to be all right!"
Sybil sighed, and stepped out into the hall. She walked the hospital corridor without seeing it, her mind in turmoil. How could she tell her sister-in-law that regaining consciousness momentarily did not mean that Deaglan was going to be "all right". On the contrary, he had been better off before, when his unconscious body was left alone to heal. His fever continued unabated, his breathing labored and painful to watch.
The serum therapy that was their last resort did not seem to be working. Each time he relaxed into sleep Sybil feared would be the last…but how could she tell Kathleen that? To Katie, all signs pointed to recovery. She had to believe, or she would break.
Sybil was exhausted. Dr. Walsh had freed her to assist Deaglan's doctor, but she didn't know how much more she could take. The naked hope in Kathleen's eyes was leaching the energy out of her. She could not look her sister-in-law in the eye for fear of giving away her own worry about the outcome. No one knew of the times she hid herself in the supply closet and gave way to tears—not even Tom. It was a part of the life she had chosen. Nursing meant loss as often as not, but when it was family, the pain was almost unbearable.
She shook herself and turned to move back down the hall toward Deaglan's room, passing Michael and Aislinn in the waiting room. Michael's head rested on the back of the couch, his eyes closed, and Aislinn was asleep curled up in a chair. Sybil moved past them quietly and reentered Deaglan's room. She had to be there…in case the worst happened. Someone had to be there for Kathleen, and for Aislinn.
Kathleen had fallen asleep in the chair next to Deaglan's bed. Days of watching and waiting had taken their toll, and exhaustion had finally had its way with the youngest Branson. Sybil moved over and sat in the chair on the other side of the bed. She closed her eyes and prayed for strength.
When she opened them, Deaglan was looking straight at her…his eyes clear and lucid. Sybil gasped and grabbed his hand, feeling for his pulse. Strong.
Beads of sweat shone on his face, and when she pulled back the sheets covering his body she saw that he was drenched in sweat. The fever had broken! Dare she believe? But it was true—his breathing was less labored, she was sure of it.
"Deaglan," she breathed, hope and relief catching in her throat, "can you hear me?"
"S-Sybil?" he croaked. "Wh' happened?"
Sybil could not answer him for the tears coursing down her face. Now she could say it, and mean it…he was going to be all right. She grinned at him, put her finger to her lips to signal that he was to remain still, and ran from the room.
Within minutes after the doctor had left after pronouncing his patient out of the woods, Aislinn, Michael and Kathleen had gathered around the bed. The atmosphere in the room had become celebratory, everyone congratulating each other on their good fortune. Someone had brought a flask of whiskey, and even Kathleen had a swig. The only one who seemed not to know what was going on was Deaglan. He stared at them all in bewilderment, wondering what all the fuss was about. He certainly didn't feel like celebrating; he felt like shite! What was wrong with them?
Sybil sneaked out and left the hospital to go home. What she needed right now, more than sleep, was Tom. She needed to be held in her husband's arms, to feel his love surround her like a warm blanket. She needed to cuddle her daughter, to share her joy with the people she loved.
Leaving Kathleen alone with Deaglan, Michael and Aislinn removed themselves to the waiting room. They sat across from each other, holding hands and staring into each other's eyes, each afraid to break the spell that had been cast by Deaglan's return from the dead.
"Aislinn—" began Michael, but she cut him off.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice trembling. "I was so stupid. I was just so worried about my brother, and I took it out on you. Can you ever forgive me for the horrible things I said?"
"There's nothing to forgive," he said simply. "You spoke the truth."
"No—"
He cut her off. "You spoke the truth," he repeated, his voice firm. "It was my fault. Oh, not what happened to Deaglan; that was an accident…but the rest of it…you were right. It's me and all the others who are spending our time looking for the next fight. It's never going to end, Aislinn…unless we end it."
She was staring at him, her eyes wide. "What?"
"I'm quitting the Volunteers. I can't end this war by myself, but I can do my part to stop the violence. I'm done." He looked down at their clasped hands, afraid to see what might be showing in her face. Was it enough? Would she forgive him if he quit, or was it too late?
"No." Her voice was so soft he almost didn't hear it. Then his head snapped up as the single word sank in.
"No?" Blue eyes looked into brown, confused.
"No, Michael," she said, her voice rising. You are not going to quit. Ireland needs her volunteers. It was selfish of me to act as if your sacrifice was meaningless. I said those things because I worry for you, and I was petrified for Deaglan. I was wrong to blame you for this war, I was just so afraid! I was brought up to believe in Ireland's right to be free, and I had no right to criticize you for fighting to protect that right! What you are doing is noble, and brave, and I don't think I could be any more proud of you than I am right now. Promise me you won't quit?"
Michael stared at her, his thoughts racing. Women! If he lived to be a hundred, which was unlikely since he apparently wasn't finished with the IRA, he'd never understand how their minds worked. And then he flushed. She was proud of him? She worried about him? Well!
He sat up, suddenly feeling taller. This day had turned out much better than it had started, for sure! A wave of tenderness rushed through him and he leaned forward and kissed her. It felt good, so he did it again.
"Hmmph!" came a voice. A nurse was standing in the doorway, glaring at them. "This is a hospital! We can't have goings on like this in the waiting room, where anyone can walk in, now can we?"
"No," Aislinn said, her lips twitching. "We certainly can not!" And she turned her back on the irritated nurse and leaned forward to kiss Michael again.
A/N: During the late 1800s and early 1900s, pneumonia was the leading cause of death due to infectious disease and the third leading cause of death overall. It was during this time period, before the discovery of antibiotics, that serious thought was given on how best to attack the pathogens and provide relief to patients. A novel technique called antiserum therapy was begun, and by 1913, antipneumococcal serum therapy was able to reduce mortality in a significant number of cases.
Pronunciation Guide:
Aislinn - ash + ling
Deaglan - deck + lan
