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Her eyes always fluttered open around the same time each day. The time between the first hint of light peaking into their room and the warmth of the sun finally hitting the window. The silence of the house gave her the opportunity for quiet reflection, and preparation for a busy day. There were often moments that she wished for a few extra hours of sleep, especially when she woke to find Patrick's arms around her. His face was usually the first thing she saw. A blurry vision though it might be without her specs, it was a sight that made her want to snuggle closer. To breath in his scent. The warmth of him–his head nestled next to hers– always made her smile in the low light. But no matter how much she wished for extra sleep, her brain would not be silenced. Old habits formed over a decade lingered still, and her internal alarm clock would never be unwound.
The instant her feet hit the cool floor, she began to pray. It was another habit that had endured beyond her years at Nonnatus House. The simplicity of life, along with the Compline and her 4am deliveries, were gone. But the praying never ceased. God was her rock, and always would be. Each morning, she'd send up a silent thanks for her family, and ask for the strength to carry her through the day. Through the hours in the surgery where only He knew what would take place, what stresses they would undergo and problems they might find ahead of them. She prayed for her colleagues and friends. And her children, always. She'd lift them up in her prayers until the day her heart quit beating.
Above all, though, she prayed for her husband. She looked at him now, peacefully snoozing away. The light was hazy, but she could make out the way his tussled hair fanned over his brow. In that moment, she prayed for him to have a steady hand in his work, for his skill to problem solve, for the wisdom that he needed in every patient's case.
The prayer, silently spoken, was specific— all-inclusive.
She shut her eyes for a moment. Breathing deeply, and feeling a peace wash over her as it always did.
With spectacles now resting on the bridge of her nose, her day had begun.
There were habits Shelagh would always recognize as her daily routine, and others that went unnoticed. That is, until the habit itself no longer took place. Something felt odd. No, she felt odd. It was a sensation that could be compared to as thirst, but not exactly the same. And for a long instant, she could think of nothing else. Nothing but that feeling. When it passed, she tiptoed to her vanity and settled on the bench.
Though always careful not to wake her husband as she dressed, she was even more careful not to wake Angela. The wee thing was such a joy in all of their lives, but a challenge to put to bed at a decent hour. The thought of rousing the child earlier than necessary made her cringe as she ran a brush through her hair.
As she reached for a hair pin, the sensation returned. An anxious flutter in her chest.
A cigarette, she dropped the pin, that is what she was craving.
A frown etched it's way into her features. This would certainly have to be ignored. She was not a smoker.
Choosing a cream blouse and a fitted, lavender skirt, she stood in the blueish-gray light of the bedroom. The skirt struggled slightly over the last two inches of fabric. They'd been overindulging themselves in food lately, a downside to making their home a tobacco free area. There had to be some other way of coping. She sighed a little in frustration. If it isn't one thing, it's another, she thought. A new dress was the very last thing she needed. The children were going through enough clothing already, with Tim growing as fast as ivy, and Angela at almost the same rate. A little huff escaped he lips; this was not ideal.
Putting it out of her mind, she took another look at her reflection. Her hair was, miraculously, laying just the way she liked. So, after pushing the hair pins aside, she chose a pair of grey heels to finish off her outfit. She wouldn't put them on now. Right now, she was content to wear slippers.
She went to the door, but the urge to give Patrick a light kiss to the temple was never one she ignored. He always wore such a soft expression while asleep. It made her wonder, she thought, clicking the door shut, if he actually was.
It was strange, she thought while making her way down the hall. Never in her life had she smoked more than twice–maybe three times– a day, and most certainly not at such an early hour. Yet, she craved it now. Perhaps they were more addicting than she realized, and perhaps the studies were correct. Maybe two a day was two too many.
But, she thought, it had been nothing to leave them behind after joining the order. Snitching a couple of Henley's as a girl was the equivalent of her tobacco intake now. Or, rather, of late.
So, what was the difference? In a way, Shelagh felt an overwhelming sense of relief. With the rising number of lung cancer patients, it felt as though they were dodging a bullet. It was better to be safe rather than sorry, she supposed, if the research proved to be correct. Patrick left out no detail when describing the lungs he'd seen. A shocking sight never has quite the same impact when received second-hand, but it must have been horrid. She had rarely seen him so pale.
But even with the facts, she felt melancholy, and that was what puzzled her.
•••
The sun was slowly beginning to fill the house with its warm, pinky glow as Shelagh prepared breakfast. Cracking one, two, three, four eggs over the frying pan, she watched each one fall and immediately hiss against the hot surface. Spatula in hand, she stood for what felt like ages; watching the pan. Thoughts wandering elsewhere.
A feeling of detachment still festered within her, like she had lost something. It wasn't the smoking, she knew that. If anyone should be struggling with this, it was Patrick. He had been smoking for 20 years at least. Technically, this should be easier on her, but the nagging feeling remained.
The sudden smell of cooked egg pulled her mind back to her task.
Flip.
Flip.
Flip.
With four slices of toast, she placed the eggs on a platter and started clearing away the mess she'd made. Holding eggshells always made her nose crinkle. Of all the bodily fluids that had been on her hands as a nurse, she thought it ridiculous that she considered egg to be the most appalling. But there it was, in all of its ironic sliminess.
Her hands sat hovering over the waste bin when a glimmer of light underneath a crumpled paper sack caught her eye. The egg was seeping between her fingers now, telling her to let go, but curiosity had taken over. Shelagh reluctantly placed the shells back onto the counter and rinsed the gooey dribble off her hands and wrists.
Removing the paper revealed what she was looking for, and her breath caught in her throat. Seconds passed, and all she could do was stare. The paper collapsing between her curled fingers.
It was Patrick's cigarette case.
There was no craving for what it used to hold inside, just a series of memories that flashed in front of her eyes like the films they went to see on the weekends. Vivid and clear, as though they only happened yesterday.
She sees him. The case is opened, and quickly shut. They are standing in the street. Of all places, the middle of a busy street. People pass by, going about their daily business. She sees his face, hair tousled and tie loose, offering her one. She then sees him in there living room. The case is there between them. It's there more than once, its there daily, the contents being shared. They may each have one. They may pass it back and forth, lips indirectly touching in the process.
She sees the intimacy.
She sees the closeness.
She sees, and she realizes that it isn't the cigarette, but the moment shared. Seeing this case empty, and in the garbage, was the closing of a door that had given her so many memories. Good and bad. Along with solemn moments, and those filled with laughter, but with the two of them always at the center. This was the source of her melancholy. It was silly—no, ridiculously sentimental. But it could not be helped. She had subconsciously created a link in her mind between the act of smoking and the man she was in love with, and the thought of that particular form of intimacy being taken away saddened her in a way she couldn't reasonably explain.
She pulled it from the bin, gripping it tightly, running her thumb along the edge of its metallic surface. After several moments, she slid it into her sweater pocket, mentally unable to turn it back over to the garbage.
It was time to get on. The children would begin to stir soon enough. Shelagh didn't have to look at her watch to verify this. She knew by the way the bright light filtered through the kitchen curtains. Sliding them open, the room practically gleamed. The sheen of her glasses always refracted sunshine, and she watched the tiny rays land on the wall in front of her. It seemed that everything was going to distract her today.
The sound of footsteps filled the hallway, but she didn't notice until a hearty "Morning, love!" brought her back to earth.
"Oh, good morning dear." She wore a tight lipped smile, which he noted, that resembled a young child caught doing something they oughtn't be doing.
"Are you alright?"
Patrick noticed (mostly) everything, which she normally appreciated. However, in this particular moment, she felt rather foolish.
"...yes, I'm fine."
He wasn't buying it.
"Now Shelagh," the gap was closed between with only a few steps, "I know that face. What is it?"
"You'll think me daft, Patrick." She smiled, but looked defeated nonetheless, as she slipped around him to set the table.
He said nothing, and her back was turned, but she knew the exact expression he wore. It was one that said "you could never be daft." Which would be false. So, she did not look.
As she set plates on the surface of the kitchen hatch, his arms slipped around her waist. No matter how long they had been, or would be, married, she would never grow tired of that. It always made her melt, and he knew it.
"You could never be daft." He whispered, placing kisses on her neck.
Eyes rolling at his predictability, she couldn't help but grin. Her free hand linking with his as her nuzzled her. His lips found her jaw line, and then her ear.
This man, she thought.
His fingers began to roam. They traveled from her waist to her hips, when suddenly he paused. Both were slightly short of breath. Patrick was looking at her with a funny, scrunched up face when she realized where his hand was.
Her hip pocket.
"Shelagh? What–" His head dipped down to get a better view.
Her face flushed red, and she stuttered. "Ah...well, I found it in the waste bin and I just—" He had already removed the object from its hiding spot.
"My cigarette case?"
She nodded.
"Why would you want this?" He seemed legitimately curious, until he quirked his eyebrows in that funny way. "Don't tell me you're going to revisit you're adolescence."
She playfully swatted his shoulder. "That's not funny, Patrick Turner."
"Why then?" He was grinning like a Cheshire Cat.
"I just—" She shyly ducked her head, twisting a button on his waist coat with her forefinger. "It has sentimental value, I suppose."
There was no reply. No questions. At least, not in spoken word. But it was there in his eyes, and she read them as if they were written there. "What's so sentimental about it? Won't you tell me?"
She released a tiny sigh. "It's silly, but there are memories attached to this little thing." The case was exchanged for his hands to hers. "And I don't know, I guess I can't seem to part with it. Or them.
"Do you recall that first cigarette we shared?"
That was something he would never forget, after all, the sight of a nun blowing smoke into the air would etch itself into anyone's brain. But that incident had not come to mind in a very long time, and the recollection made him chuckle.
"Yes, how could I forget? You opened my eyes that day, in more ways than one."
She giggled. "Cheeky."
"Patrick, I don't need the cigarette,truly. But I will miss it. The times we spent sharing a smoke together."
His features softened, a corner of his mouth slowly upturning. "I understand." his arms wound around her waist once more. "But, I think I have a solution..."
That familiar crease formed between her brow, speaking for her. "What kind of solution?"
He loved that crease.
Without a word he dipped down, closing what little space there was between them. Just as he closed his eyes, her brow softened. Their lips brushed. Tenderly and sweetly, and full of desire. She exhaled with the little moan that he always found extremely attractive.
Barely pulling away, he spoke against her mouth. "I'll just have to kiss you more."
They moved in unison across the kitchen floor, that is, until Shelagh backed into the counter. His hand reached to keep from collapsing on her, and landed directly into the pile of discarded egg shells, still as slimy as ever.
"What on earth!"
The look of Patrick's face as he pulled away was more than she could bare. A throaty laugh overtook her body completely. She tried to stifle it with a hand over her mouth, but that was useless. She continued to giggle as he made an exasperated "Ehck."
"Im sorry, dear." She was still suppressing a huge grin. "I forgot to throw them away."
He rid his hands of the tiny pieces of broken shell that had glued themselves to his skin. All the while, his nose was crinkled in revulsion.
"It's alright."
Shelagh wasn't convinced, and his next words proved her right, sending her into another fit of giggles.
"I just can't stand the feeling of egg on my hands!"