Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for being my beta once again.
Overall, the birth has gone well. The baby came swiftly, and the mother only needed a few stitches. No haemorrhaging , no need for a mucus-extractor. The newest addition to the population of Poplar screamed his head off as soon as he slipped from between his mother's legs, slick as a selkie.
"Never again," his mother said, wiping tears from her cheeks. Her pain seems forgotten now as she cradles the newborn in her arms, tracing the soft curve of its cheek with fingers that only moments ago were clenched in agony.
Then why don't I share her elation? Sister Bernadette asks herself as she packs away her instruments in her bag.
"Isn't he beautiful, Doctor?" the patient asks without tearing her eyes away from her son's face.
"He's a strapping baby boy," Doctor Turner concurs.
Sister Bernadette does her best not to look at him. She tries to train her eyes on the pastel bedsheets, but she still sees the doctor move from the corner of her eye. She tries to smell nothing but the starch of her wimple and amniotic fluid mixed with the sharp tang of blood, and yet the scent of his Henley's and soap seems to overpower it all. She tries to focus on the metal in her hands, so cold when she touched it first, now lukewarm due to the heat of her skin, but all she seems to feel is the ghost of his hand where it brushed hers.
She wishes he'd just leave, but he seems enraptured by the child, and oblivious to her discomfort, so she excuses herself for a moment and steps out of the bedroom. Her feet carry her out of the apartment, out of the flat, into the outside air. She leans against a dirty brick wall, knowing the soot will stain her habit but unable to really care, and sighs.
She places a hand over her chest. Her heartbeat is fast and fluttering. "Dear God, give me strength," she prays. She is slightly out of breath.
She had hoped that this delivery would take her mind off of things. But because the woman was an elderly prima gravida, Sister Bernadette had no choice but to call Doctor Turner. After all, she lives to serve, and the birthing room is no place for her personal preferences. The safety of her patient is all that matters, and the last thing Sister Bernadette needed were complications. But then Doctor Turner's presence hadn't been necessary after all, and he sat in a chair as she worked, ready to help but loath to intervene when there was no need.
Had his eyes been on her all the time, or had she imagined it? Perhaps his gaze means nothing; Doctor Turner knew how to appreciate skilled labour, and would enjoy watching a professional at work any time.
But what if his gaze does signify something? What if he was looking at her, drinking her in?
Her heart beats a painful tattoo in her chest. In her lungs something coils. She scrapes her throat to get rid of the tickle that itches there. She has a slight headache. It's no wonder, with all the ill people she sees on a daily basis. It's probably a common cold. If it becomes something worse, she'll simply ask Doctor Turner to give her a prescription.
He's always there, no matter in what direction I steer my thoughts, she thinks, and rubs her forehead. Is she feverish, or just blushing because she can't stop thinking of him? At one point during the delivery it looked as if his help was needed after all, and he rolled up his sleeves to help her. She saw that his arms were dusted with dark hair, and wondered if it would be soft as down or coarser. She's never wanted to touch a man like that, just for herself, before. If it was a fleeting thought, it would not have been so confusing.
She is sick of this constant uncertainty, but there is no way out of it, or if there is, she can't find it.
"You did well, Sister," a deep voice says.
She opens her eyes and smiles a little at the form of the doctor beside her. He still has his sleeves rolled up, exposing his pale arms with that dark hair to the little rays of dying sun that manage to fall between the tall buildings.
"Thank you, Doctor," she says, tearing her eyes away from his arms, letting them slide over his hands. His knuckles sprout the same dark hair. She suppresses the thoughts that come unbidden about what such hands must feel like when they touch her, any part of her.
"I don't think I can offer you a drag?" he says, lighting one of his trusted Henley's. She has taken a wee puff of one of his cigs before, but though the thought of closing her lips around the bud that he has wetted with his tongue is more tantalising than she'd ever care to admit, she doesn't think her lungs would thank her. They feel tight, strange.
"No, thank you," she murmurs, and coughs a little. Something inside her lungs seems to rattle.
"That's a nasty cough you have there, Sister," Doctor Turner says. He has knitted his eyebrows in concern. His features are hazy through the curling smoke.
"It's nothing," she says.
"Are you sure? You're looking a bit peaky if I may say so."
"I'm perfectly fine." But talking makes something coil inside her, and her throat tickles so much that she has to cough to rid herself of the feeling.
"With all due respect, Sister, but you don't sound at all well to me. How long have you been coughing?" His hand hovers over her arm; she can feel the heat of his palm through the navy fabric of her habit.
"On and off for the past few days. It's really nothing."
He places his hand on her forehead. She shivers under his touch, has to consciously will herself not to melt against him. Her lungs burn.
"You have a slight temperature. I'll take you back to clinic, and I'll…" he starts.
Panic blossoms inside her. He can't take her with him in his car, can't focus all his attention on her.
"Dinna fash yerself, Doctor," she snaps, falling back on her native Scottish, using her mother's stern words because she has none of her own. "I am fine," she adds when he lets his hand fall. "Just a wee cold. Nothing a good night's sleep and plenty of vitamins won't cure."
He seems ready to argue, but she knows he respects her too much to keep pestering her. "If you are sure…"
I love him, she thinks.
She could kiss him in that moment, would do anything to take the heartbreak out of his voice. Instead she doubles over as another bout of coughing racks her body. It feels as if something inside her snaps and breaks away. It claws its way up her throat, leaving red ribbons of hurt. Tears pool in her eyes, drip on the pavement. She hacks till she sees black spots. The taste of pennies blooms on her tongue.
She's dimly aware of Doctor Turner talking to her, of him rubbing her back, but she can't respond just yet.
And then something slithers out of her mouth, falls from between her lips, into the palm of her hand.
She looks at it in her horror, her stomach curling up on itself like a hand balling into a fist.
"Sister, did you just spit out some kind of worm?" Doctor Turner asks, his voice more shaky than she has ever heard before.
It isn't a worm. The thing resembles a thread or a ribbon. It glows softly, and wriggles a little, smearing her fingers with blood and saliva.
She has heard about these things in tales, but has never seen one in real life. How could she? They only exist in fairy stories.
She shakes her head and looks up at Doctor Turner. Black spots still dance in her vision, and she feels as if she might faint.
"It's not a parasite, Doctor," she whispers. Her throat is raw.
"You know what it is?" he asks.
She nods. "It's a spell."