Impossible Life Chapter 2, a call the midwife fanfic

Thank you, for your wonderful reviews! That is really quite flattering! Poor Chummy, it does hurt me to write this, because she is just so genuine, with so much love to give. Hope you all enjoy this next installment!

-Hannanball13 (drown-out-the-crazies)

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When the last stitch had been fit into the slitting seam of one of Little Fred's night gowns that had needed repairing, Chummy Noakes heaved, yawning so violently that her lungs seemed they'd explode as she took in the air surrounding the dining area. Her ears adjusted slowly to the spools no longer spinning obediently. There was no sound other than the water in the pipes of the flat next door. But, her mind had become so accustomed to that very rush of noise, it no longer seemed to be a noise at all, only part of the atmosphere. She shifted heavily in her seat, her whole body working against her much more than it usually did, for as expected sleep hadn't come for her the previous night.

As soon as Peter had left for morning patrol, and she heard the howling hinges of the front door mourning his very early departure, she had pulled the covers from herself, to begin with chores that could have waited until she was rested. The bottle of pills- the source of her torment had been batted to the floorboards, where they would stay spilled over until she had enough remnants of herself together to cope with scooping them up one by one. The counters were pristine, the buffet had even been polished, as well as some little chores that went along with all of her other small wifely duties, before she had sat down with her needlework to tend to the sickly garments. As it would often do, the bobbing of the point had always calmed her weary self, keeping her away temporarily from the plight of her own mind.

Little Fred would be up very soon, and she'd have to drop him off at The Turner's, where Shelagh so kindly watched him on the days she wasn't particularly necessary in the Doctor's Office or helping out around Nonnatus House. It was the last thing Chummy wanted to do- leave her little bean with her pal, but there was work that needed to be done, and worries that required a remedy.

The tall woman stood, staring back at her reflection which seemed so unfamiliar, and pulled the old work scarf from her head to reveal her brown hair. Ruffling it a bit, and running a comb across the naturally forming curls of the back end, she decided that-that would be enough of the crimping today, and hurried to see if her Freddie had awoke.

He had, but quietly lay on his cot, awaiting his mother's coaxing that it was time for him begin another day. Gently, she'd place a hand upon his shoulder, and hold her breath until she saw the sparkling brown of his irises, brimming with his youthful energy. That would have been a remedy for her blues itself, if it hadn't been for Peter's persistence when it came to knowing for sure, rather than the way she wished she could pretend not to know at all. Although, Chummy Noakes could never admit it, Peter- a boy, born and bred in The East End had more will than she could have ever absorbed during her days at that boarding school in India.

The way Freddie grinned, even when the sun shone brightly in his face was very much like his father, but the way he would turn away from the scorching beams so he could keep grinning was, instead, like his mother. Unfortunately, Chummy could not seem to escape the blasting rays of light any longer. No matter where she turned, or how she looked away, they'd find her, and they'd burn her with their undeniable knowledge of all that she was trying to hide.

Once he was fed a good meal, dressed in his jacket, his knickers, and cap, she'd straighten him out one last time, and then she'd hoist him onto her hip, and sulk about how much she missed the days of rolling him across the cobblestone in his pram. Her nurse's uniform already felt a little tight around her waistline, but she let that go as her imagination in order to silence her screaming memory. Her vast recollection of the times before had taken to jarring her insides, and the words continued on and on, hollering to a rhythm of hurt that matched her thumping heart,

-Even so- -thud-

-Thud- -Don't get your hopes up-

-Thud-

It repeated, having become the anthem of her heartbreaks.

She already heard her apology to Peter. She already felt the stench of sympathy billowing into the cracks and crevices of her home from the streets just outside. She could feel phantom twinges in her belly, ready to inform her once more that her system was inadequate to sustain more than just vital life function. Chummy felt old, and broken. Like the rusting Sewing Machine tucked away in the downstairs closet of Nonnatus House, she had no more potential to create beautiful things. She only dismantled them, and took away from all they could be, just by simply working the way she'd thought she was supposed to. Like the confound contraption on that rickety shelf, she was here to simply take up space.

Not that she wasn't content with her son, chattering away nonsensically in her arms, and growing to be a very fine chap, but there was more to it than she could ever explain. That ache- the one she had already told everyone about, lingered, grinding salt into the slowly healing wounds that were left behind by her attempts to halt it completely.

As her fist met the wood of the Turner's household door, she called a quaint, "Good Morning," to Shelagh who had answered.

"Greetings," the tiny lady replied. "You're just in time for some tea."

Chummy shook her head in such a miniscule manner, she thought maybe Shelagh hadn't even noticed. "I am very sorry to say, I must dash off quickly," she glanced nervously at her wrist watch, aware that clinic wouldn't be beginning for twenty-five minutes, which gave her ample time to scurry off to the hall. "Sister Evangelina would turn red, green and grey if I were late, as you already know!" she joked weakly.

Shelagh only smiled, "Well, of course." Freddie let out a giggle at the different voices mingling with each other. He delivered the gasps of glee almost melodically throughout the quick conversation, only stopping when Chummy pressed her lips to the top of his forehead which was uncovered by his cap. This familiar gesture caused the boy to realize what was upcoming. His mother would have to disappear like she did each day, and it would feel like two forevers until they saw each other again.

"Now, Little Bean," she instructed routinely, feeling quite silly, speaking to him like she did when leaving him with Shelagh. Chummy was still very timid about affection, having not been able to give any, or honestly receive any for most of her life. "There's always a macaroon in your future if you behave yourself," and she touched her index fingertip to his nose playfully.

At the mention of the treat, he'd grin that grin again, and kindly transfer to the shorter woman's arms. How he was when she left was only up to Chummy's imagination, as Shelagh would never admit if he was to throw a tantrum. She enjoyed the company very much while Patrick was always off, and it was during Timothy's hours of school. He was always pristine when Chummy would pick him up later in the day, for she'd never allow him to run a muck on her watch.

The breeze from the docks blew in great gusts, as the Nurse made her way across her very beaten path to her work. Cynthia had been bringing her bag to clinic for her these days, for it was silly for Chummy to walk the extra way to Nonnatus when she was much closer to the Parish Hall. Genuinely, Nurse Miller didn't mind- another bout of sympathy it wasn't, it was really only the warmheartedness of her friend.

Chummy turned the corner to find a few carriages already parked, only one with a snoozing girl, dressed in ruffles stained slightly with wear. The terrible chant in her head started up again, the conductor now the revving of Doctor's car engine close behind her. When she turned, she was in time to watch him hopping from the driver's side. The door slammed, becoming the crescendo to the fear bubbling up and up accompanying the percussion in her chest.

"Morning, Nurse Noakes," he nodded happily. "How's Little Fred?" Doctor Turner wondered as he did each time they spoke, although he'd know very well if there was ever something amiss due to his wife's closeness with the lad.

The midwife returned a polite expression, "It's not him I'm worried about, Doctor," she stated hesitantly.

He stopped there, throwing to the ground a completely smoked cigarette, he was slipping into Physician mode, "What seems to be the problem?" he asked with his brow furrowed, "Are you not feeling well?"

"That's just it," she said quietly. "I'm feeling quite alright, but it seems," Chummy blushed, unable to maintain eye contact with the man, "it seems that medication you recommended may have failed." She observed the soles of her shoe, noticing she may be in need of a new pair, and very overwhelmed at the shift in the air from curious to cross.

Patrick Turner looked around, before stepping closer to her, "Well, have you been taking them properly?" he questioned. "Because that prescription is substantially less effective when the wrong dosage is taken, or if it's taken at different times of the day-

"I wake up every morning at five, and I make absolute sure I have it with the glass of water by my bedside from the previous night when I've taken it at eight in the evening. If you're about to say luke-warm drink is the reason for it's faultiness, I am going to have to fall skeptical of it's effectiveness entirely," Chummy answered curtly, attempting to keep her tone less brash than the man's before her, but also letting some of the venom like inflections escape from her mouth. While he remained silent, she sighed, "And when you try to blame it on the hours I keep with Nonnatus, I'll have to counter with the fact that I keep two of them in my pocket at all times."

She wished she could relay to him that Peter and her even more careful than that, but it did not seem as if anything would transform the frustrated feel to this chat. If only he could understand how she wished it wouldn't be happening all over again.

"Yes," he began, "it was foolish for me to believe you'd be anything but organized, and prepared." His expression went solemn, "I think perhaps you should undergo an examination."

But, right now, Chummy felt anything but those two things. She felt flighty, and upset. Her mind was wrecked, and mentally she was crashing with uncertainty, and sadness. "Would you steal away one of the nurses to assist me, and meet behind at the corner curtain? I must have quick talk with Sister Julienne before it gets too busy." And he went away into the building to do just that, leaving Chummy to obey the order.

The nurse was scanning the bobbing heads behind the drapes to find one of the girl's who seemed the least busy, or were the most willing. She caught the next one to emerge from behind a curtain- it was Cynthia's shoulder which Chummy hand had been rested on, "Cynthia?" she whispered, "could I borrow you for two shakes of a lamb's tail?"

The friend smirked, then asked tenderly, "Is everything as it should be with Little Fred and Peter?" She tucked the clipboard underneath her arm.

"It would be to assist Doctor Turner in a short consultation," Chummy trembled nervously, "over there behind the corner curtain," she gestured finicky and eager.

"Who is the patient?" Cynthia called quickly, before following her long legged chum all the way across the hall.

Chummy slid behind the curtain quite surreptitiously, leaning so that her entire head was not viewable to the sparse waiting area. "I'm the patient," Chummy said pathetically, unbuttoning a few of her uniform buttons. Cynthia put down the clipboard, unfazed by her colleague disrobing in a flash, and took up the outfit in her hands to fold neatly, and set down beside the instruments.

Combating tears, the tall nurse was in her undergarments, a sheet covering her from her chest, all the way to her toes as she sat down to wait for the Doctor. "Chum, what's going on?" Cynthia Miller wondered softly, wiping her perspiring palms on her apron.

Chummy sniffed, "I say, Cynthia, Peter and I may be expecting another one of those heartbreaks again..."

"Do you mean?" her eyes were wide, and her hand covered her mouth. "I thought there was that pill..." She shook her head in disbelief, innocence illuminating from her every word, "Doctor Turner seemed so sure of it." She stomped her foot just barely in protest of the supposed "miracle drug," like she had the moment the Doctor pledged his unwavering support of it.

The Doctor moved over the shade, and slid in, "And as with any medication, Nurse Miller, there are moments where it does not do it's job correctly, and thus defeat their own purpose, but that may not be the case, considering we haven't given Chummy her proper exams yet," he scolded, ears twitching from having overheard her disapproval.

His gloves were already on. Chummy had never expected this to be how her morning went. Cynthia, although here to assist the Doctor, clung to Chummy's hand instead. With the pinard horn, she checked the middle of the belly, and the sides. Only a few offbeat things were occurring in her depths via the instrument, but it was Doctor who had the cringing conformation. "It does seem, Nurse Noakes, that you are expecting."

Instinctively, Chummy squeezed the gold cross around her neck- not to repeat a silent psalm, or recite any passage, but, to let The Lord know that she was unimpressed by his decision for her to undergo another one of these tricky, and terrifying trials. "Are you absolutely positive?" she shuddered underneath her breath. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and she wished that when she reopened them it wouldn't be any part of today she saw.

"All of the signs are there, Nurse," he said solemnly. "Nurse Miller can take care of the rest, huh?" He stood, slipping off the gloves. "I do ask that you relax," Doctor Turner warned, "the next few days could be... tiring."

Chummy covered her face with her hands, "Should I just begin the castor oil now?" she quivered, sighing in defeat.

Doctor Turner frowned, "We can cross that bridge when we get to it. Let it all run it's course, and I'll determine what needs to be done. Now, I'll leave you in the capable hands of your friend. If you need the day, I can inform Sister Evan-

"Please. No," she replied quickly. "I really do want to help out, today, and I will."

He nodded, "Well, do as you see fit. I've given you my professional opinion, and you must take it in any way that you wish." Doctor Turner sent her an unconvincing smile,"try to have a good day, Nurse." he said, before sliding from the exam area.

"Oh, Chummy," Cynthia began, "It will be alright. You must think positively," she continued, unraveling a measuring tape.

Chummy scrunched up her nose, as Cynthia began her prodding at her tumm, to find what needed to be found, "Is everything as it should be?" she wondered worriedly, although, she knew very well that no one could tell simply by acquiring one's fundal height.

Nurse Miller allowed a light smile, "Fourteen centimeters, Chum," she stated meekly.

Her brow furrowed, "But, that's nearly two more weeks than any of the others..." She covered her mouth, which was slightly agape. Her mother would scold her to no end if she could see her now, legs akimbo, mouth open, cheeks stained with tears.

That's not the way the daughter of a Lady acts, now is it, Camilla Dear?

But, it didn't matter now- what her mother had to say was nothing to her in this moment, when all she could feel inside was debilitating fear sweeping her from head to toe, making her afraid to move, or even breathe. "Fourteen weeks?" she repeated in a whisper.

But that's nearly two more weeks than the others

It echoed across the curvature of her brain, perhaps it was hope that accompanied those sorrowful other words that played along with them.

Don't get your hopes up. But, that's nearly two more weeks than the others.

"Yes, Chummy," Cynthia assured somewhat cheerily. "That is nearly two more weeks than the others." She replaced the sheet across the stunned Mrs. Noakes, "And whenever you're ready, you can put your uniform back on."

Chummy had no idea what she'd say to Peter.

Could she relay her joy to him?

No.

When she made her way home that night, dropping by the Turner's for Little Fred, she clung tight to her son, and as soon as she entered the flat, the words just spewed out, and there was a small smile itching to be on her lips, "It's nearly two more weeks than the others."

Peter only repeated, rightfully confused, "Nearly two more weeks than the others?"

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I hope the last line seemed purposefully placed, rather than redundant. Hope you all liked it, and didn't mind it's fluffiness!

Please review and tell me what you think!