It was late afternoon at Nonnatus House, and Sister Julienne sat at her desk, pensive, her eyes on a worn old photo and a much-read old book. A young man and young woman, full of optimism and affection, stared at her from the image as it lay flat, still and unchanging. There was writing on the back, but she didn't have to turn it over to remember what it said: "Charles and Louise, 1929." How odd it was now, to be sat here, so many years later. It had been decades since anyone had called her Louise. How strange that name seemed to her now—almost like someone else, but not quite. It was a piece of her that had been long discarded, but never forgotten.
Studying the faces, wondering how the time had flown so quickly, she looked into the eyes of young Charles. His eyes were grey in the black and white photo, but a piercing blue in life. Oh, the joy of gazing into those eyes and thinking of all the dreams that were reflected in them. All the plans they had shared, or hoped to share. But then there had been another plan. It was a compelling, inexorable call, and she couldn't ignore it. God's love had eclipsed the love of any man, even her Charles. Still, the pain was there. The ghost of regret, but she had lived with it. And he had married, had children and a thriving business. His wife was a good woman and a friend. His life was full. And for Sister Julienne, there had been more children in her life than she could count—none of them hers, but that was no matter. Hers had been a full life as well. It was a life of service, with trials and hardships of course, but still filled with the wondrous blessings of God.
She had listened to His call, and now she was here, remembering another set of blue eyes. Sister Bernadette's eyes had once been so bright, so hopeful and set with purpose. Lately, however, they had been downcast, their light dimmed. Oh, how Sister Julienne had wanted to help her, but she had been powerless to do anything but pray. Now, at least there was a partial answer to the puzzle that had been Sister Bernadette's past year. The elder sister knew that progress had been made, although that progress had brought with it a host of new questions.
A trip to St. Anne's Sanatorium earlier that day had confirmed Sister Julienne's suspicions regarding what ailed the young sister. Aside from the tuberculosis, that was. In terms of her physical illness, Sister Bernadette was much improved. She was still weary from the treatments, but she was gaining strength, and the reports from the doctors had been encouraging. Still, there was something else that plagued her dear sister, and now Sister Julienne had a better idea of what that was.
It had been a clear morning, and Sister Julienne had been happy to see her sister after such a long absence. There had been letters, of course, but no letter could replace a face-to-face meeting between two dear friends. As soon as she had seen Sister Bernadette, and the obvious weariness displayed on her all too expressive face, Sister Julienne had been concerned. She had been consoled by remembering the urgency of Sister Bernadette's voice on the phone earlier that week. Something was going to be revealed today. Sister Julienne was sure of that, but what?
The revelation didn't take long. After a brief time of her sister's trying to stall, Sister Julienne had gently pressed the issue, and then the confession came, halting but in full. The distraught young sister had explained of her happiness when she had joined the order, of her sense of purpose and duty, and of her surety of God's inexorable leading.
That had changed, however, in the past year. Gaining momentum in her speech, Sister Bernadette told of her conversations with the young nurses, and her observations of them as they prepared for dates and nights on the town. How she had begun to envy that life, imagining herself in it. Those times had been fleeting, however, easier to ignore, until she started noticing something else—or more specifically, someone else.
The sister's voice had been earnest. "I tried every way to not think about it. I prayed. I read. I devoted myself to my work. " Here, she had lowered her head. "But the trouble was, I couldn't avoid it, especially at work." For a few moments, she was silent, looking down at her lap. Sister Julienne kept quiet, never dropping her gaze. Finally, Sister Bernadette raised her head and spoke.
"I couldn't avoid him."
Sister Julienne raised her eyebrows, only a fraction. Her sister continued rapidly, as if trying to get everything out before she lost her nerve.
"I could lose myself in the work for a time, but then there would be Tuesday clinic. There would be cases where he'd be called in. Whenever I thought I could forget, I'd see him again."
And there it was. Sister Julienne's eyes softened, looking Sister Bernadette straight in the eye. "Dr. Turner, then."
Sister Bernadette only nodded. Her eyes had widened a little, but she didn't question how the elder sister might have suspected. They sat in silence for some moments, until the young sister suddenly became animated.
"Nothing has happened, sister, " she said fervently, then dropped her gaze. "We haven't… done anything."
"I have no doubts of that," Sister Julienne had responded in a reassuring tone, before giving her sister a more direct look. "Do you have reason to believe Dr. Turner returns your feelings?"
"Yes" came the eventual reply. "There were… words, once. Only a few words. We haven't spoken of it since. And it was nothing, really."
She lifted her gaze enough for Sister Julienne to catch her meaning. It was nothing, and it was everything. She saw a light in her young sister's eyes there for a moment. It was a light that she recognized.
"And now, there's something else." Sister Bernadette reached into the pocket of her dressing gown and pulled out two envelopes. She handed them to Sister Julienne, who noticed the return address, and the name: "Dr. Turner."
"These aren't the only ones," the younger sister added. "There are more."
"But you haven't opened them?"
Sister Bernadette was still downcast. "No," she said simply. "I don't know if I should."
"But you want to?"
Again, the reply was a simple nod.
The conversation continued as Sister Bernadette described her agonizing prayers for God to take away her feelings. How the feelings wouldn't go away, and how she had begun to feel distant from God, and like a fraud. How whenever someone called attention to her status in the religious life, all she had felt was guilt and shame. How this had gone on for months before her diagnosis, and how she had even stopped praying for a time before she had to start again. And now, the letters were there, and the feelings, and she couldn't keep her struggles inside anymore. This is why she had called, and why she had confessed everything. It was no use confessing part of it and allowing the older sister to speculate needlessly. It was best that everything be out in the open, and now it was.
They had walked in the garden, then, in the fresh air on a relatively clear day amongst the green hedges as other patients milled about, minding their own business. The world for them was tuberculosis and recovery, and whatever other cares they may have had. For these two sisters, the world was something new—a subject never addressed, until now.
Sister Julienne had told her dear friend of the difficulty of the decision before her, but Sister Bernadette was suddenly seeming more animated than before. It was as if a seed had been planted in her mind, and she had to see how, or if, it would grow. Her ultimate fate was up to God, although Sister Julienne still hoped she could continue to call her friend "sister". The possibility of otherwise, however, was becoming more apparent.
"I need your strength, sister," Sister Bernadette had said. "Because I don't know if God's given me a window and I'm just staring out of it because I'm afraid to open it."
She looked so distraught again, and Sister Julienne could say nothing for a while. She knew a momentous decision was before her young friend, but she also knew avoidance was never the answer. Finally, she knew what she had to say.
"But windows can be dusty," she said, continuing the metaphor. "How will you see clearly if you don't open it?"
The younger sister's eyes grew wider, and she just stared. "I suppose that's true," she said finally.
Sister Julienne reached out then, taking Sister Bernadette's arm. "Whatever is decided, you must be sure of God's path. You can't find that out by running from it."
And then, ever so slightly, Sister Bernadette's eyes brightened. "No," she said. "I can't."
It had been an eventful visit, to say the least. They had walked a little bit longer, talking of less weighty matters, but soon it was time for Sister Bernadette's treatment, and Sister Julienne had to return to Nonnatus. With a promise of prayer and more visits, the elder sister took her leave. She had much to think about on her bus ride back to Poplar. Would Sister Bernadette really leave the order? Would her feelings for the doctor confuse her as to God's path for her life, or would they clarify that call? She looked out the windows at the green fields outside, wondering about the window that was before her young sister, and the two paths that could lie ahead for her. Which one would she take? Sister Julienne couldn't answer that question, and she needn't spend too much time speculating. The decision was between Sister Bernadette and God. When it was time, she knew she would be told the answer.
She glanced down at the photo on her desk, at the two pairs of eyes in those two young, hopeful faces. They were the faces of a couple in love. Yes, it had been love, but God's call had been greater. Perhaps that's how it would be for Sister Bernadette. Perhaps her life and Dr. Turner's would mirror those of Louise and Charles. One would resist temptation and live a life of service, of devotion to God, and the other would find disappointment first, but eventually, happiness elsewhere. Maybe that's how it would be, or maybe not. Sister Julienne had felt God's call after she had fallen in love with a man. For Sister Bernadette it had been the other way around. Perhaps that was the important difference.
She remembered the young sister when she had first met her. So focused, she had been. So single-minded. So devoted. Such a competent and capable nurse, as skilled and intelligent as any Sister Julienne had known, and with a fervor and dedication to the offices and the community, and to God. It would have been unthinkable to imagine the Sister Bernadette of ten years ago, or even two, facing this dilemma. The young woman she had known for the past year, however, was not the same Sister Bernadette. Perhaps the younger sister was right, and God was leading her on a new path.
Only time would tell, Sister Julienne thought. Straightening the photo carefully on the pages, she closed the book gently. This was a chapter long gone for her. She chose not to dwell on the pain, but on the happiness that had been. She hadn't seen Charles in person for almost 30 years, and perhaps that was for the best.
She would pray for Sister Bernadette, and for Dr. Turner. Regardless of where their paths would lead, they would need all the strength they could get. Rising from her desk to return the book to its home on her shelf, Sister Julienne sighed. However these questions would be answered for her dear young sister, they wouldn't be answered overnight. She resolved to be there for Sister Bernadette no matter what happened, but whatever it was it wouldn't be for a while. Recovery from the tuberculosis would have to come first. They could talk about this more when there was more time—perhaps in future visits to the sanatorium, but especially when Sister Bernadette was finally well, and home.
