She awoke to Patrick listening to her chest with his stethoscope. She was very confused. How had she gotten into a bed? She was a nurse, she wasn't supposed to be in the beds. Those were for patients. And what was Patrick doing? She was fine, she didn't need—

"Shelagh, keep still, please," he said, and she stopped cold. There was real fear in his voice, and it brought her back to where she was. What had happened? It was a little hazy, but she remembered the clipboard, standing up, feeling dizzy, and then…nothing.

Oh no, she thought, panic rising in her breast as her husband attended to her, I fainted. Right in the middle of clinic.

Now Patrick was checking her eyes, checking pupil response. So much for this being behind us, she thought, with growing dread. She couldn't even meet Patrick's eye. She was terrified. What if the TB had never been cured? What if it'd just laid dormant for years and now it was back and she had infected her entire family?

"I'm sorry, Patrick," she said.

"You don't have to apologize for fainting, Shelagh," he said, giving her a sympathetic smile. "I'm just very worried about you, is all." He gave her hand a quick squeeze. "You gave me quite a scare when I saw you fall. You're lucky you didn't hit your head."

"I hope no one saw," she said, looking around. They seemed to be the only two behind the screens at the moment. "I don't want everyone worrying about me."

"You were lucky, there. Patsy just happened to catch sight of me lifting you into bed and I asked if she could hold the patients at bay until I got you stabilised."

He reached over to cup her cheek and she closed her eyes at the touch, wishing they could just stay here like this all day. No children, no patients, no Christmas. It hit her now that she was incredibly exhausted, had been for quite some time. Oh, how she'd just like a couple of weeks away, not an infant nor pregnant woman in sight. She looked up to see Patrick watching her keenly, concern creasing his brow.

"How did my chest sound?" she asked.

"Fine. No crackles. Not a one." She breathed a small sigh of relief and looked up to see her husband frowning. "Have you feeling alright, Shelagh? I noticed the other day you were looking a bit peaky, but I just thought you were tired." She closed her eyes, took a breath, and swallowed her pride.

"I've had dizziness, off and on for the past three, four weeks. Indigestion for longer than that."

"Nausea?"

"No, not really. Why? What did you find in your examination?" Her husband seemed to be thinking, mulling something over in his head.

"Heart rate was a little elevated, blood pressure a little lower than I'd like. It's probably why you fainted. Your respiration is up and your skin is flushed, but no fever, just slightly higher temperature than normal. Otherwise you're healthy as a horse." He was watching her as he listed his findings, waiting for it to sink in, make sense to her as it did to him. She could see that, but she had no idea—Oh. Oh, no no. She looked up at him in a panic.

"But they said it could never happen, Patrick," she pleaded. Oh, she couldn't get her hopes up, she had to know.

"I believe the doctor's words were that it was 'unlikely' to happen, Shelagh. Doctors know that there are no guarantees. And the human body's a marvelous thing. Sometimes it can surprise even the most hardened of us." He turned and picked up a Pinard, an instrument she had used so many times on so many women, but had never been used on her. "When was your last menstrual period?"

She shook her head, trying to remember back the months. "It'd been somewhat regular for a while, that's why I thought it odd when it stopped like that. But I'd never have dreamed—"

"When was it, Shelagh?"

"July, I think. It was around Timothy's birthday."

"And when did you start feeling symptoms?"

"Not more than a month ago, Patrick. I promise I'd have told you if I felt something was truly wrong. It was just light-headedness and heartburn. I didn't think anything of it." He nodded, appeased.

"Let's see that belly, then," he said, and the two of them worked to unbutton the front of her uniform and pull the silk slip up over her abdomen.

Shelagh gasped. Now, here lying prone on the bed, she could see a slight distension when she looked down. Maybe a little more than slight.

How had neither of them noticed it? That little rounding poking out below her navel. It was barely noticeable but to the trained eye, but then, that was what both of them were.

But they were also the busy, working parents of two very energetic children and there hadn't been a lot of time for much in the way of intimacy for a while. In truth, Shelagh had had hardly any time to spend on herself in the last little while either, as Angela became more mobile and the clinic busier. She'd missed it. They both had.

"Oh, Shelagh," Patrick said, a small smile blooming on his lips. She couldn't believe it. Had she really hit her head? Was this a fevered dream of the concussed? She pinched herself. Apparently it was not. Patrick had already gotten out the measuring tape and was determining her fundal height. She gasped as he pushed down on her pubic bone and ran the tape up over her abdomen.

No, this couldn't be real. She'd just done this to young Mrs. McMurchy, fertile and full of life, cheeks rosy and bright. Untouched by disease or misfortune.

Not like her, Shelagh Turner, barren by the same disease that had kept her in a sanatorium for months. Her insides eaten away. Damaged, scarred, unable to conceive a child and certainly unable to carry a child to—she took note of the measurement Patrick had made—twenty-three weeks' gestation?

"Twenty-three weeks, Patrick?" she felt faint. Five months. Five months she'd been carrying this child inside her and she hadn't even known? How?

"You haven't felt movements yet, Shelagh? No kicking yet?"

She shook her head. "I haven't exactly been paying attention," she told him, and he nodded. Then she gasped again as the cold Pinard pressed against the side of her belly. She could hardly breathe as Patrick listened.

She watched his face as he moved it around a little, and then—and he turned his head to look at her with such an exuberant smile she felt tears prick her eyes. He nodded, and the tears fell. She laid back against the bed as he finished, so full of emotion she couldn't even really pick one at this point.

She was pregnant.

"140 beats per minute, more or less. Fits for a 23-weeker," he turned and placed the fetoscope on the table, turning back to his weeping wife. "Shelagh," he said softly, handing her a tissue. "It's what we wanted, isn't it?"

"I know, Patrick, I know," she said, as he sat down beside her bed, grasping her free hand with his own. "I never thought it would happen. I'd prepared myself that I'd never give birth to a child. I thought our family was complete." She dabbed at her eyes as the guilt rose up, catching her by surprise in its intensity. "And what sort of mother doesn't even realise she's pregnant for five months? Tell me that!"

"I'd say a hard-working mother who spends all her waking moments either showering her two children with love or working hard to help women and the sick and infirm. And not to mention dealing with her nightmare of a husband on top of that." She laughed at that, a wet chuckle, and then promptly blew her nose into the tissue he'd provided her.

"Patrick?"

"Yes, my love?"

"Are you sure it's alright, the baby?"

"From everything I've seen and heard, you and baby seem completely healthy. You'll need more tests and…with everything that's happened I'd like to send you back to the gynecologist who did your surgery, just to make sure. That okay with you?"

She nodded. They would need to know the TB hadn't done any damage that would lead to complications down the road.

"And Patrick?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I…I'd like to keep this quiet for a little bit, okay? I know you'd like nothing better than to shout it from the rooftops," he smiled a little guiltily at this, "but if something goes wrong—"

"Shelagh, I can't promise you that nothing will go wrong, but the fact that you've gotten this far along without any complications is a very good sign. I read the report from the doctor. The damage was most pronounced in your fallopian tubes, which caused the infertility. There was some mild scar tissue in the endometrium that explained your irregular cycle, but as you said, your cycle had regulated in the months before you became pregnant, correct?"

She nodded, slowly.

"Your body's healing, Shelagh. Scar tissue can diminish with time. An egg was released, it was fertilised and found its way to the uterus where it implanted. Simple as that. We got lucky, but it's no reason to keep this a secret, especially from the staff. And especially as they'll be able to keep an eye on you when I'm not around. They're good at what they do, you know that."

"I know, but not…yet. I'd like it if I could take the children now and go home. I'm so very tired, Patrick. You finish up here, and we'll talk about it when you get home, okay?"

"Okay," he said, and she felt his warm hand lay itself on her still-exposed abdomen. She smiled, in spite of herself.

"Three children, Patrick," she said as he pushed gently against her belly. "How're we going to manage?"

Gently, he picked up her hand, placing it against the side of her stomach. "Wait for it," he said, and then she felt it—a little kick, a little fluttery movement against her hand. Her baby. Their baby. And now it all made sense. That movement that she'd thought had been gas or upset stomach for the past week or so. It'd been the baby kicking, moving about. Alive, despite everything.

Her and Patrick's child was growing inside her. They were going to be parents again. Angela would be a big sister, have a playmate nearer to her own age, a friend for life. Tim would be brilliant with both of them.

She smiled at her husband then, a big, toothy, exultant smile.

"I think we'll manage," Patrick said, in that way of his that was somewhat overconfident but also completely reassuring at the same time. Oh, how she loved him. It would be okay. It would all be fine. He leaned down and kissed her and she felt it again, that little fluttering.

Oh, this was a miracle! Truly. She could think of no other word for it.

"Take the kids," he said, standing. She buttoned the front of her dress back up, noticing now that it was just a little snug below her navel. How had she missed that? The pull of it against her belly gave her a little thrill while it terrified her at the same time. She could still scarcely believe it. "I'll see you after clinic," Patrick said, snaking his arm around her waist from behind and gently pulling her toward him. "Try not to worry too much, okay?" he whispered in her ear. She laid her hand over his atop her midsection, right above the place where their child currently resided.

"Okay," she said, nodding while her heart, betraying her, beat very quickly beneath her breast. He kissed her temple, gently.

"Everything is going to be fine, Shelagh."

She nodded again and smiled. "I'll see you later," she said, and stepped out into the hall, ignoring the looks she got. She picked up Angela and grabbed a protesting Timothy's hand, explaining that they were going home.

Tim helped her dress the baby, then got their coats. Ready for the December chill, she held the little girl closely to her as they exited the building and headed to the car. She heard Trixie calling the next patient to be seen by the doctor as they left, but only one thought repeated itself in her head as she got the children in the car.

Please, God, let everything turn out alright.