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Here's a story in the Centerverse that connects a "missing moment" from Center to a new bit of epilogue.

Moments of Matthew's early weeks after he was injured are revealed in various flashbacks throughout Center. In Chapter 35, Matthew, back at Downtown for a visit because Mary is pregnant, learns that a fellow patient at the clinic, Davis, has died from an infection because he had "mucked" with his catheter—he wanted to die. Mary asks Matthew if he had ever had thoughts "like that." The reader learns that he did, but that he can't talk about it to Mary. This story is what he couldn't bring himself to tell her.

"Did you ever . . . have thoughts like that? That you would be better off . . ."

He wanted to assure her he hadn't, but he was pretty sure she'd know he was lying. He chose his words carefully. "At the front, we'd talk about what we'd do if we were badly wounded, what kind of injury we thought we could live with, what we thought we couldn't. There was a calculus to it—could we work, would anybody want to marry us, could we care for ourselves—how crippled we'd be." He started to go on, then shrugged.

She nodded, but couldn't help asking, "And after you were wounded?"

He kissed her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "There were some very dark days, but that didn't last long, thanks to you," he said gently.

There were things he couldn't bring himself to talk about . . . How he'd not only thought—obsessed—about ending his life, but how close he'd come to trying . . .

.

Late August, 1918

First he couldn't fuck, now he couldn't even shit. Not that he'd had any control over it, when he could shit—he'd been a veritable sluice gate—and it had been a relief when the shitting had stopped. But apparently, that was a Very Bad Thing, not shitting for more than a few days, just the latest betrayal of this thing that used to be his body.

Clarkson had given him a sympathetic look that morning when he'd rounded on him. "I'm afraid it's a problem that's very common with complete paralysis of the lower body." He hadn't had time to explain much about the procedure, as he scribbled in his chart, before being called urgently over by a nurse to see to a patient three beds down. But Matthew had grasped the plot: whatever else they'd do to get the shit out, someone would be sticking their bloody fingers up his bloody ass.

Matthew's eyes scanned the ward, taking in the wounds of his fellows. However wounded, maimed, crippled they were, they were at least men. What was he? At the front, the men pray to be spared, of course. But if that's not to be, they pray for a bullet that kills them cleanly. Why had his prayer not been answered? Why? He'd rather be in the hell of the trenches than this, this, this . . . existence. That other paralytic, Ferrell, who had arrived on the same transport that he had, had died of sepsis the previous week, the lucky sod.

He still couldn't believe it. No. His mind, the very fiber of his being rebelled against what had happened to him. When he wasn't dreaming of the war, which he did every night, he often dreamed he was running, his legs pumping and feet pounding. And sometimes, when he was in that blissful state of semi-consciousness just before waking, he would forget his condition, but that only made it all the worse when sleep fell away, and he would jerk awake and remember who—what—he had become: an impotent, nappy-wearing cripple. And as each day passed, he began to see more and more clearly that there was only one way out of this nightmare. One day, he'd have the means.

He moved his hands under the covers, each gripping a thigh, his fingers curling, pressing hard, deep. Nothing. He pressed harder still, holding his breath, straining. Nothing. He fell back against the pillows, breathing heavily. The ever-present morphine-induced nausea grew stronger, and he tasted bile. He managed to bring the emesis basin, always present on his bedside table, under his chin just in time to catch the sick. There wasn't much, but he kept retching. Was it the morphine, or his disgust with himself?

Clarkson, a few beds down, hurried over as Matthew lay back, breathing through pursed lips. He signaled an orderly, who came over and removed the basin resting on Matthew's chest. The doctor picked up his chart and resumed reading through the notes, frowning. "Your wound is healing nicely, however, you need to be eating more. We can cut back on the morphine a bit and hope that helps with the nausea, while still keeping the pain tolerable."

"When can I get out of bed? In a wheelchair, I mean."

"Ah, it's early days yet. Much too soon to see if you can use a chair."

Matthew had learned that Clarkson often revealed more than he intended. "See if I can use a chair? What do you mean?"

Clarkson was clearly vexed with himself. "Captain—."

"Are you saying I might not be able to use a chair?" Matthew felt dizzy and his heart started to pound. "Are you saying," he continued his voice rising, his fists clenching his blanket, "that I might be bed-bound for life?"

"Captain Crawley." Clarkson stopped, and Matthew could see he was struggling with what to say and how to say it. "I'm sorry to have distressed you. I—." He stopped again.

"Tell me the truth," Matthew insisted, his eyes boring into Clarkson's.

Clarkson sighed. "Not every paraplegic is able to sit upright in a chair. It depends on the injury, you see. However, in your case, if we can rebuild your health and strength, I would expect you to be able to do so."

Matthew stared up at him, his mouth working. "But you can't know yet," he finally managed to say flatly.

"No, not until you're strong enough to try," the doctor affirmed, then added, "but I'm optimistic that you'll not only be able to sit in a chair but will eventually be able to maneuver it yourself."

Matthew frowned. "Maneuver it myself?" He shook his head. "I don't understand."

"I'm afraid these chairs are quite heavy. Not everyone is strong enough to push themselves." He returned to writing on the chart. "However, as I said," he added, looking up with what was intended as a reassuring smile and nod, "I'm optimistic. That's why we need you eating more. Build you up."

But Matthew wasn't listening to the doctor anymore.

Clarkson laid a hand on his shoulder. "Captain Crawley?"

Matthew started, then stared at him wordlessly.

"Nurse Williams will—."

"Dr. Clarkson!" A nurse across the ward called out, gesturing for him to come quickly.

"Will be seeing to your procedure," the doctor finished, then hurried away.

His procedure? What procedure? Nurse Williams herself came into the ward, her arms full of linens and a pillow, followed by an orderly he hadn't seen before, carrying screens, and he remembered the plot.

Young Nurse Williams was always unfailingly pleasant, unfailingly kind and thoughtful, and very, very pretty, all of which made it that much worse.

"Now, Captain Crawley, I know you're anxious, everyone is the first time they're needing to be cleaned out," she said reassuringly, as the orderly put up screens around his bed, then left.

Matthew looked up at her in alarm. "You're going to do this here? In the ward? Isn't there a room you could take me to?"

Nurse Williams shook her head. "I'm afraid not. All the examination rooms are in use right now or occupied—we've had to bed patients in some of them, we're so crowded, at the moment."

She untied and started to pull his pajama bottoms down, stopping abruptly when she saw the ten angry red welts on his thighs where his fingers had dug into his flesh.

"Oh, Captain," she tutted, shaking her head, her blue eyes serious. "No, no, no, you mustn't be doing that. The skin of paralyzed limbs is so easily damaged and hard to heal. Do you understand? You must not do this again." She looked at him, waiting. Matthew was amazed at what his fingers had done—how had he felt nothing? Finally, his mouth set, he gave a brief nod, and she continued drawing the pajama bottoms down and off, then removed his nappy. Matthew stared at his legs and his limp dick in morbid fascination. There he was, and yet he wasn't.

The screen opened, and the orderly wheeled in a tray with a basin of water, a stack of flannels, and a pair of rubber gloves. He started to push the tray over the foot of the bed.

Nurse Williams held up a hand. "No, no, not yet. We've got to get him on his side first." She turned to Matthew. "All right. We just need to lift your hips enough to slide this pad and sheet under you," she said, nodding to the orderly to help lift him up. "There we go. . . and now we need to turn you onto your left side—careful, careful!" she admonished the orderly, frowning, as Matthew grimaced, then groaned. "There we go, there we go, easy does it. Yes, that's good." She positioned his left leg with the knee flexed, then lifted the right leg over it, setting it on the pillow. She nodded to the orderly, who pushed the wheeled tray over the foot of the bed, then turned back to Matthew, smiling kindly. "There we are, we're ready. Now, I know you can't feel anything, but before I start, I want to assure you, I'll be as gentle as possible." She moved around to the other side of the bed.

Blood began to pound in his ears, and his shoulders began to shake; to his horror, he realized he was crying. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw.

"Oh, there now, Captain, it'll be all right. The first time is always the hardest. You'll soon get used to it. After a few times, why, it'll just be part of your routine."

.

"There we go, Captain," pretty Nurse Williams chirped cheerfully over an hour later, as she pulled up and tied his pajama bottoms. "You did just fine, and it wasn't so bad, now was it? All cleaned out, all cleaned up, and a nice clean nappy." She drew up the sheet and blanket, and Matthew decided his emasculation, his infantilization was complete.

He watched, his mouth set and his eyes dark, as the orderly gathered up the bundle of soiled linen, and Nurse Williams moved a section of the screen aside.

"I'll be right back to remove the screens," she nodded with a smile, pushing the wheeled tray out and then closing the screen.

There was a roaring in his ears, as he stared into the abyss. No, this was not going to be part of his routine. There wasn't going to be a routine. And he wasn't going to wait until they let him shave himself. He picked up the glass from his bedside table, downed the water, then pulled his pillow from behind his head. He worked his hand between the pillow and case, shoving the glass deep into a corner, then awkwardly positioned the pillow behind his head again. He'd wait until night, until well after midnight—less chance of being heard breaking the glass, less chance of being found too soon.

Nurse Williams reappeared and started to fold the screens. "Well, now, it's a good thing we finished tidying you up when we did—look, you have a visitor!" she said brightly.

And there she was, standing a few feet away.

Matthew felt his face burn in mortification as he regarded Mary—her eyes soft dark pools, her porcelain skin so perfect, her smile warm and caring. So beautiful. The woman he loved and ached to make love to. How long had she been waiting? Oh God, did she know what his "routine" now included? It didn't matter—he knew, and it was just too much.

"Hello," she smiled, stepping closer.

"You need to go," he bit out. He turned his head, but not before he saw her shocked face, the hurt in her eyes.

"I—."

"Please." He closed his eyes. "Go."

"Matthew—."

"Go."

There was silence, then, "All right." He heard her heels click as she walked away, and he opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling, his chest heaving, his breathing coming in gasps.

Then the heels again. He wouldn't look at her. Finally, she said, "I'm leaving, but I'm coming back tomorrow." And then she left him.

He lay there motionless, listening to her footsteps retreating, and then for a long time after, replaying what had happened over and over. Finally, he tugged the pillow out from under his head, reached into the pillowcase and retrieved the glass, setting it down with a shaking hand on the bedside table, then collapsed back, his heart hammering, the pillow falling to the floor. He couldn't do it to her, to his mother. It didn't mean that he didn't desperately want to die, but he couldn't do it to them.

He stared unseeing, until a cheerful orderly, Ware, pushing a cart bearing pitchers of water, stopped at the foot of his bed.

"Why, sir, what's happened to your pillow?" The orderly picked up the pillow, fluffed it, and when Matthew didn't move, lifted his shoulders, tucking the pillow in place. "And look, you're almost out of water, that's no good, now is it?" Ware took up a pitcher and filled his carafe, then filled his glass. He held it out to Matthew, who didn't move to take it. "Right, I'll just set it here. Anything else, sir?" Matthew gave his head a bare shake. "All right, then," Ware smiled, moving on.

Matthew closed his eyes and, at the edge of the abyss, he prayed to God who, after the meat grinder, should not exist, but in whom he had never stopped believing: Now I lay me down to sleep, please take me, Lord, don't make me weep. And if I wake before I die, God damn you, Lord, will be my cry.

.

Matthew looked at the clock—half past three. She would have been here by now, if she were coming. She usually came early afternoon, sometimes in the morning, but always by three o'clock. Clearly, after the way he had treated her yesterday, she had thought better of returning, and he couldn't blame her. He couldn't stop seeing her stricken face.

His gaze wandered over the ward, stopping to watch as Nurse Williams and an orderly helped a patient, his head and an eye still bandaged, stand up from his bed and then guide him into a wheelchair. The fellow started to list sideways, and Nurse Williams propped him back up. Then she covered his lap with a rug, and the orderly pushed him out.

He looked at the clock again, then at the rise in the blanket at the foot of the bed that told him where what used to be his feet were. He tried concentrating, as he did several times a day, commanding them to move just the slightest bit. But after a minute, he gave up the futile exercise and let his eyes glaze over, as his mind churned, imagining what he was facing; this life that couldn't be his life.

He heard her before he saw her, her heels clicking on the floor, and his heart began to race. Turning his head, he saw her crossing the ward, followed by Ware, who was carrying a small chair.

Ware set the chair down next to Matthew's bed. "There you are, m'lady."

"Thank you, Corporal," Mary nodded. She seated herself, giving Matthew her usual soft smile, as if nothing had happened. "Are you ready for a bit of company today?" Her eyes, though, her eyes asked what she wouldn't.

Matthew's mouth tugged up, "Yes. Thank you for coming."

She relaxed visibly. "I'm sorry I'm so late. I was helping Mama with some scheduling problems. Thomas-." She stopped and rolled her eyes. "Sergeant Barrow keeps inserting himself. I thought we'd never finish."

His fingers plucked at the edge of the blanket. "I didn't think you were."

Mary frowned. "Were what?"

"Coming. I didn't think you were coming."

"Why ever would I not? I said I would."

"Why would you?" He shook his head, looking away, then back. "Mary, I'm ashamed of my behavior yesterday. I took out my anger and frustration on you, I'm so sorry, it won't—."

Now Mary shook her head and held up a hand stopping him. "There's no need to explain. And don't say it won't happen again—it might. And that's all right." She held his eyes. "I'll always come back."

Somehow, he managed not to fall apart.

She reached for a book from his bedside table. "Now, how about some Father Brown?"

He nodded, and she began to read.

.

But he didn't have to talk about it with her; she had witnessed his despair; she had pulled him back from the abyss. "You never gave up on me. Even when I would send you away, you always came back. I couldn't let you down and, eventually, I learned to pray to live each day as best I could."

.

Late February, 1921

The Daimler came to a stop in front of the Abbey.

"Thank you, Trent." Matthew smiled, then opened his door—Trent knew he relished getting out by himself, so he remained seated. Matthew stepped out, then reached back in to retrieve his briefcase and stick. He still carried a stick to work, as his back did spasm now and then, and often after a long session at his desk at the office. Happily, not today.

"On schedule for the rest of the week, sir?"

"Yes. Home tomorrow and Friday. I won't need to leave for the office Wednesday until 9:30, however."

"Very good, sir," Trent nodded.

Matthew closed the door, then watched the car drive off. He stood a moment, gazing out over the Abbey grounds, breathing in the clean, crisp Yorkshire air, enjoying the bit of sun breaking through the clouds after several days of foul weather, before turning to go inside.

"Good afternoon, sir," Carson greeted him, inclining his head, as Matthew entered saloon from the vestibule.

"Good afternoon, Carson," Matthew smiled, handing over his briefcase and stick. Carson set them aside on a table, then relieved Matthew of his coat and hat. "Tea has just been served."

"Mother and Cousin Violet have arrived?"

"Yes, sir."

Matthew entered the library, taking up a plate of cake and crossing to where the family was gathered in front of the fire.

"You're earlier than you expected," Mary observed happily, offering him her cheek.

"A client rescheduled, and I didn't have anything else pressing for today. Is George awake? Hello, Mother." He kissed her cheek, then nodded with a smile to Granny, as he seated himself next to Mary and accepted a cup of tea from Thomas. "Cousin Violet, I'm so glad to see you recovered from that cold."

Violet shrugged. "Psh. An irritation."

"Much more than that," Cora protested.

Isobel rolled her eyes. "You were close to pneumonia, and you know it."

Robert raised his brows, inclining his head. "Yes, Mama, Dr. Clarkson was quite concerned, as were we all."

Violet made a dismissive gesture. "I came here to see my great-grandson, not discuss my health." She turned to Mary with an expectant look.

Mary smiled, "Wally should be getting him up from his nap now."

"I think you'll be quite impressed since the last time you were here," Matthew said to Violet. "He's very close to walking on his own, without holding onto anything or anyone. It's any time now."

"Thirteen months," Isobel nodded. "That's just how old you were, Matthew. Boys are usually later walkers than girls," she added.

"Later is much better. At least they understand 'no!'" Cora noted. "Mary walked at nine months! Can you imagine? She wore Nanny out."

Matthew turned to Mary, "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Mary laughed. "No, it fits doesn't it?" She rose. "Hang on, Granny. I'll go see about George."

Robert rose and got himself another piece of cake. "Matthew, Langdon wants us to ride out with him to the Pullen farm this week to see some ideas others could incorporate. Is tomorrow possible? Mary's available."

"I could go tomorrow afternoon—I have a physio session with Paul in the morning."

"Good. We can—." He stopped as he spotted Mary, carrying George, enter the library. "Ah, here's the young man!" he exclaimed.

"Da-Da-Da-Da-Da-Da!" As soon as George spotted Matthew, he leaned towards him, his arms waving up and down.

Matthew stood, and it ambushed him, as it sometimes did, and it was often a moment like this when it happened: a moment so impossible, a moment never to be in the life of the impotent, nappy-wearing cripple. It ambushed him, and he saw the abyss, saw Mary, her smile, her eyes, saw the love that had pulled him back from the edge. You always came back. It was all there in a flash, for an instant, the life he was supposed to have had, and then it was gone, and he was back, here, now, so grateful for the life he did have, even though sometimes, he still couldn't believe it.

He started to move to George, holding out his arms to take him.

"Wait." Mary instructed, smiling broadly, her eyes excited. "Wait." She put George down, holding onto one hand. Then she let go.

There was a happy exclamation as the family watched George take first one step, then another. He stopped for a moment, then continued step by tentative, awkward step. "Da-Da-Da!"

He looks like I did. When George reached him, Matthew bent down and scooped him up. "Oh, Georgie, look at you!" he beamed. "Look at you! You've learned to walk!" He tossed his son in the air and spun him around, just as his father had done with him. Then he kissed his forehead and set him down, facing Mary. Matthew held her eyes, as he said softly, releasing George's hands, Mary holding out her arms to their son, "All right, Georgie, there you go! Go on, walk to Mummy!"

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