The bus that pulled up to St. Anne's sanatorium was nearly empty and for this, Sister Julienne was glad. The trip back to Poplar was short and she needed some precious time alone to consider everything Sister Bernadette had told her and to gather her own thoughts.
She'd made time to visit the sister more frequently over the past several weeks after Sister Bernadette had called and asked for a visit.
The first time, she'd worried that the younger nun's health had taken a turn for the worse, and she wanted to confess because she sensed her time was near. Sister Julienne had entered St. Anne's then prepared to say goodbye.
But Nurse Peters had given her a boisterous welcome, quite unlike any medical professional preparing to impart bad news.
"She's been waiting for you out in the garden. I'll just take you to her," she said grinning widely as she led her down the hall.
"And how is our dear sister?" Sister Julienne asked, some of her fears assuaged, now replaced by bewilderment.
"Health is much the same. Temperatures unrewardingly normal," she said, chuckling. "But she'll be glad to see you. Mind you, when she said she wanted to arrange for a visitor, I thought it'd be that doctor."
"Doctor?" But surely they had excellent doctors here? Had Sister Bernadette wanted a second opinion on her condition?
"Hmm, Trammell or Turner or something –"
"Dr. Turner is our local GP, but I'm afraid he's rather busy at the moment," she said, her confusion growing.
"Not too busy to send a letter every week," the nurse said, with a sly smile. "Here we are. Wait here a moment and I'll just let her know you've arrived."
Since Sister Bernadette had entered the sanatorium, she and the other sisters and nurses had written her letters and made a point to include her in their daily prayers, and they'd all visited at least once.
But Dr. Turner had written her every week? She knew the sister held a great deal of professional respect for the doctor – they all did – and he was a friend in many ways as well. A particular effort had been made in the community to show him kindness after his wife died, and Sister Bernadette had grown rather fond of his son, Timothy.
Perhaps the letters had been from the boy, put in the post by his father.
But then she remembered the other week at clinic, how young Timothy had begged Nurse Franklin to carry a message in a matchbox to Sister Bernadette. "Do you know if she's getting well?" he'd asked. "My dad won't tell me anything and I haven't heard from her in ages."
Nurse Peters reappeared and waved her through the door. "Just this way, sister."