When he woke up, he did not really understand where he was. Because of the pains he was feeling, the only thing he could deduce was that he had been hit by a locomotive.
"Doctor?"
He saw that he was not alone. Two nurses looked at him in dismay, and at the back, next to the window and with folded arms, was Dr. Sanders. Finally, after so much trying to remember, Patrick had his last name in mind. That useless guy was called Sanders and he looked at him like he was a kid who behaved badly at school.
"You must take the medicines." Said one of the nurses. He swallowed them, then sat down trying not to complain too much, but it was not possible, his bones hurt as if they were crushed.
He had a very vague memory of the previous night: he had felt bad, but nothing that he could not handle, and he hoped that a little rest would help him. But then, the nightmares began, more and more intense. He had not gone through these night terrors for years, and everything went out of control. In his memories she was also there, he could still hear her singing, but he was not sure if she had really been there or not.
"Sister Bernadette…?" He started to ask, but Sanders stepped forward, walking towards him.
"She did us a big favor last night. The girls could not control you."
Sanders grabbed a chair and sat next to his bed.
So it was not a dream. She was there. He swallowed, a too thick knot was forming. She had seen him like that. The shame began to rise, he needed to ask for an apology and at the same time, he needed to disappear. He always tried to make sure no one noticed his problem, he always succeeded and when he could not anymore, she was just there. Once again his past was mocked in the face, getting into his present and ruining it again.
"Turner, we need to talk."
There the interrogation began. He knew that Sanders was enjoying this. He tried to remember why they hated each other. He also did not know if hatred was the term, but the truth was that they did not tolerate each other. He also did not remember if it was something specific or simply a matter of mutual rejection without justification from medical school.
Of course, he denied everything. He could play with Sanders because he always did, and he smiled to himself with arrogance, he knew more than his old partner. So he could entangle him with words about the collateral effect of the treatment, and the stress caused by his work. In the end, he assured that everything was a thing of the past, that the war had little and nothing to do with his life and that he remembered it as an almost happy period for the friends he had made at that time.
His colleague stared at him thoughtfully and evaluated him. Then he stood up.
"Very well, I believe you. You know that if this is repeated, I will know that you lied to me and you will have to leave. Here, we cure tuberculous, not lunatics."
As soon as Sanders left, he cursed him. Then, motivated by his success cheating the doctor, he got out of bed. His body ached, his muscles were numb, but even with looking out the window, it would be enough to feel better.
When he opened the curtains, he saw the image of who was relieving and tormenting him. She was sitting in the sun, smiling and with something in front of her. Was it a painting? Could it be that besides all her virtues, she also painted? Could it be that she did not have a defect that made her more reachable, more human and earthly, and not so distant and celestial?
"Nurse!" He called. When one of them entered, he smiled. "I want to go to the park, is that possible?"
"Mmmm..." The nurse looked at her records, then looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Well, yes, but not more than an hour and just to take a little air."
When the nurse left, he did the most extreme physical exercise in those three days he was in the sanitarium: run to the closet and get dressed as fast as he could.
The excitement of seeing the paintings was something she could not hide. Nurse Peters joined her in discovering that she had made the right choice.
"I knew you would like to paint! Don't you care that these watercolors are from a patient who died?"
Bernadette looked at her, distrustful.
"All was sterilized, I swear. The patient simply didn't succeed, he was very old...If you don't want to use them, I'll throw them away and buy others."
"No, I can't allow them to be thrown away." She said, almost frightened by the extravagance of throwing away a box full of watercolors and beautiful paintbrushes.
The nurse left, promising a blanket to keep her warm, and she smiled, happy. At last they had given her permission to go out to the park and the feeling of the grass under her slippers, and the air and the sun on her face, had a renovating effect that filled her with hopes.
When she sat down, contemplating the large garden, she did not imagine that Nurse Peters would arrive with an easel and a box of watercolors, arguing that she possessed the sensibility of a painter, and other flattery that she tried not to hear so as not to blush.
"Here you have." The nurse came back with the blanket and placed it in her lap. "You have an hour to paint your wonders, then you'll go back to bed, you have to take care of yourself."
A small bird sang on a branch above her head. It had been so long since she heard a sound like that, she was always surrounded by the sound of cars, and the screams of women or street vendors.
Then she looked at the sky, the day was very beautiful, there were some clouds but the sun was shining. Sighing with joy, she opened the paint box and selected a brush. First she would paint a little of that almost perfect sky, then she would see if she could with the little bird and even a humble copy of the building that was now her house.
"Hello."
She was startled to hear him. She could recognize his voice anywhere and in the midst of millions of different voices.
Then she turned her head slowly. He was standing in front of her, covering the brightness of the sun. He wore a red and green plaid robe, hands in pockets and hair made a mess. The brush she was holding dripped paint, reminding her that she had it between her fingers, which stung to accommodate those rebellious strands that fell on his forehead.
She had never seen him like that, disheveled and different, and something inside her twisted, so she stared at the painting, trying to ignore what was happening. He seemed much better than the night before, and she looked back at his messy hair, which she had caressed.
"Greetings, doctor." She whispered, fixing her eyes on what she was trying to paint, managing to be indifferent to him and what he caused in her.
"I didn't know that you paint."
She did not stop looking at the paper.
"Yes."
"Can I sit?"
She hated anyone who left a chair right next to her, but she nodded. She heard his footsteps on the lawn approaching her and then also heard him swallow a moan as he sat down.
She took a breath while wetting the brush with more paint. She had to be polite, to engage in a friendly conversation, but it was impossible to spin two words in her mind, much less in her mouth.
She cleared her throat and when she was about to take a chance on the first thing that came to mind, he saved her.
"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"
The typical conversation. It even caused her a bit of laughter, which she hid with a cough.
"Yes, it's very beautiful. How...how are you taking your treatment?" She felt her cheeks burn when she looked at him. He was sitting comfortably, with his legs crossed and his hands still in his pockets, but he was kind enough not to look directly at her.
"I'm fine." He sighed. She frowned, what she saw in the night did not show her that he felt good. He looked at her barely, and let out a resigned sigh. "I'm just a little sore. Well, not a little. I must say that I'm very sore. And you?"
She smiled when she heard him admit it, but still without looking at him.
"I'm fine." She lied.
He sighed again, and she could tell, without even looking at him, that he was nervous. She bit her lip, did not understand why she knew so much about him, probably because unconsciously, for months and months, she had been giving all her attention to the smallest thing he did or said. She shook her head, imperceptibly so that he would not see her, and took a deep breath in an attempt to control her own nerves.
He noticed that she shook her head.
From what little he remembered of the night, there was something he could not tell if it was true or the product of his previous dreams with her: he remembered blond strands falling from his cap. Now she was by his side, wearing the same cap, but all her hair was hidden. However, if he tuned his eyes well, he could see the little hairs on her nape, and they were blond. He was dying to run his fingers through them, and he felt guilty. She was completely innocent of the thoughts that sometimes invaded him.
"It seems that color doesn't convince you." He said in an attempt to distract himself.
She jumped, almost scared, and when he saw her eyes he knew that she was not thinking about her painting. He tried to let her invent some excuse, he hated to see her uncomfortable.
"I say it because you were looking at your work and shook your head."
"Oh yes, I don't like what I'm doing."
She said it with such absence in her voice that it was clear that she was not referring only to the painting.
He should go, stop bothering her, but he could not. A selfish part of him had him nailed there, sitting next to her, breathing her very air, eager to be in her company even if she was writhing with nerves, and so was he. He looked at the garden a bit, it was nice, yes, but nothing caught his attention, his whole mind was with the woman at his side.
He looked at her hands, knew they were soft, that her fingers were long and her wrists thin and pale. He tasted one of her hands once. His stomach began to knot at the memory.
Then, for more pain, she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes were the same blue as the sky she was painting with mastery.
"Do you...like to paint?"
The day he met her, he first met her voice. It was full of Scottish accent, so much that it seemed funny, but it was a voice that did not admit giggles. The first time, he heard her firm, almost authoritative. He had come to Nonnatus for something, and he heard that voice, new to him, coming from the kitchen. Sister Julienne told him that there was a new sister, still novice but excellent in her knowledge, so much so that she was already teaching the midwives, even though they were as new as she was. When he looked into the kitchen, he expected to find a woman the size of Sister Evangelina, but he had to suppress a laugh. The voice came from a girl, because she was just that, small and thin.
Over the years he heard that voice hundreds of times, some with more force, others with more sweetness. He thought he knew all its different tones, changes and colors, but that morning, with that question of "Do you like to paint?" he heard it for the first time full of nerves and fear.
"I don't know how to paint." He smiled the most reassuring smile he could. Don't be afraid, I will not hurt you. Please, forgive me, be my friend or whatever you want, he begged with his smile.
But she barely looked at him, her eyes were fixed, drawing a branch with a fine brush.
"But I like to look at paintings." He added stupidly. "And admire those who have the talent to make them."
She made a small nod of agreement, continuing to paint. She was frowning in concentration, her hand trembling a little.
Enough Turner, leave her alone, he told himself. He removed his hands from his pockets, ready to stand up and leave, but she raised her eyes to him, and as always, paralyzed him.
"I don't know how to paint, but I like to do it. When I was little girl I used to draw well at school. Once I even won a prize!"
He blinked, unable to believe what was happening. She was suddenly telling him things about her life, inviting him to know a little about her past. And she had also launched one of her contagious giggles.
He began to fill with hope, so he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, to be closer to the painting and show her that he was willing to hear more.
"For someone who doesn't know how to paint, I think it's very superior. Now, there are those paintings that don't make sense and you don't know if the artist has talent or is just a fraudster."
"Ugh, it's true." She pouted, not looking away from the painting. That attitude was funny, but he reminded himself not to smile.
"Watercolors are always ideal, is not it? Although, they are also difficult to manage. Or at least I remember that when I went to school."
"Yes." She looked at him, smiling. She no longer seemed nervous, but even comfortable. "But you just have to be patient."
She let out a sigh, leaning on the chair, moving away to contemplate her work. She had a frown and pursed lips, disapproving of what she saw. Her gesture seemed adorable, but also too sensual, her lips were more rosy than other times he looked at them insistently.
He swallowed and said the first thing that occurred to him.
"It is very beautiful."
She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, shaking her head.
I don't know, I need to practice more. I used to paint while I studied nursing, I even went to several classes. But when I joined the Order, all that ended. I couldn't afford to have paintings, and I didn't have time either..."
Her voice trailed off, she was sad again, he could feel it. He had no doubt that she was unhappy with the life she had, and that was a selfish relief for him.
He took a breath, watching her approach her painting to evaluate it better. Before she painted something else and ruined it by interrupting her, he must tell her.
"I'm sorry for what happened last night."
Her face changed, her hands came together, twisting her fingers, and her eyes were down.
"It was nothing, doctor." She whispered and took another brush.
"No, it was a lot, I don't remember everything but I know that...it was a disaster. I don't know why you were there, but I appreciate it."
"The nurses called me, I just went to do my job."
Her voice was the firm voice he knew. She was painting again, refusing to look at him.
"I understand, but I owe you an apology anyway. I'm not that way. I mean, I don't have traumas or..."
It was not good to lie to her. That could be done with Sanders but not with her. But recognizing it would make him weak, make him imperfect more than he was, and worse, make her pity him. He wanted everything from her, except pity.
"Some people carry the treatment better, and others don't. It is understandable."
She was looking at him openly and he had to swallow. She did not believe him, but pretended to do it. He began to feel useless, stupid, idiot, and…
One of the brushes fell to the ground and rolled a little. In an attempt to hide the shame, he bent to pick it up, but she did the same. Without any intention, he brushed one of her fingers and the weak balance they had maintained, collapsed. Immediately she was standing, putting her things together.
"It's late, I must go. Goodbye doctor."
She tightened her nails on the small scar as she walked back to the building, carrying all her messy things. Maybe she had lost something along the way, but she would not return. She tried to keep the tears, biting her lip, and felt silly because there were no reasons to cry, and at the same time, there were thousands.
"Oh, you're here!" Nurse Peters exclaimed. "You still had a few minutes."
"I'm cold." She said, heading straight to her room. There she dropped the things on the bed and peeked out the window. He was still sitting in the same place, looking towards the road where she had left.
She raised the eyes to the sky, the sky she had just painted."
"God, why are you doing this to me? Why don't you answer me? Don't you get enough with everything I have given you, that I must also go through this?"
She sat on the bed. She did not understand why she told him about her life when she was little or when she was studying, or why nerves made her open to him in that way, making everything look perfect, normal, and daily, as if they were together forever.
She let the tears come out, but then wiped her eyes with her hands, and looked at the scar.
Then she looked at the window. Behind, there was everything she could have, but she did not dare to open it.
He felt a complete idiot. In fact, he could hear Tim's little voice when he said "Idiot!" and thought that if his son was here, looking at him, he would tell him that.
He should not have bothered her like that, almost harassing her when she was just happy, painting. The only thing he had achieved was that she would probably start avoiding him during all the time that remained here, that she would not go out to the park just to avoid seeing him.
He sat on the bed, running his hand over the quilt, thinking about what had happened. She was so nervous, and then she started talking and smiling and everything seemed perfect, as if nothing had happened before. It was a frank smile, he wanted to believe it. Maybe she loved him. She had told him, like an encrypted message, the afternoon he kissed her hand. If he thought about that and added it to her nerves, her dissatisfaction with her life, her smiles, her eyes that sometimes seemed to beg for something, the result was that she loved him.
He denied slowly.
"You are just a fool full of illusions. You're too broken for her to love you."
When he saw her again, ten days had passed.
Sometimes, he had to stay in his room, disturbed by fever or pain, but he could see her walking slowly through his window.
Other times, he went to the park, but when he asked about her, the nurses said that she was sick. So the days went by, without news.
One afternoon he went out to the garden, hoping to find her, and there she was, in the same place as the last time, painting.
They greeted each other in exactly the same way, a perfect tracing, and he again asked permission to sit next to her and she said nothing, just nodded.
Then, he decided to vary the conversation, since he had something else to tell her.
"Letters arrived today."
"Oh yes. I also received some."
"How are everyone in Nonnatus?"
"Very well." She left the brush with care, it had pink paint and he did not understand very well what she was going to paint. She clasped his hands and looked directly at him. He noticed that she wanted to smile, but she repressed herself, but her blue eyes were a party. "Guess who had twins."
"Twins? There were no twins diagnosed."
"No, but there was a surprise. Mrs. Plim had two girls, and according to Trixie, they are identical. She attended them and everything went more than good."
"These are beautiful news."
"Yes." She took the brush again, drew a line. "I'm glad Nurse Franklin was there, she's learning a lot and that will serve her as an experience."
"It is true. Although I don't think Mrs. Plim was very happy with the news, at least at the first moment."
"She already had four children...But boys. So two girls will surely have made her very happy when the commotion ended."
He smiled and tried to figure out what she was painting. Soon he knew it was a sunrise, or a sunset.
"Timothy wrote to me." She said after a while that felt incredibly comfortable.
"Oh, yes? I didn't know he wrote to you too. He must be spending everything on stamps."
She laughed heartily.
"He told me he's working and with that he pays for them."
"What? My son is working? And what is he supposed to do? I don't understand why he tells those things to you and to me only that 'school is boring'."
She let out another laugh, wide and tinkling and he joined.
She was perfect.
Maybe being happy was this.
What she was looking for, sometimes even without realizing it, was something like this. Sitting next to him in the sun, chatting about his son, sharing opinions of medical cases they knew, enjoying the tea that Nurse Peters kindly brought them. She laughing, he comfortable in his robe, also laughing, without structures in the middle. Maybe this was what she wanted, and she had it right now. But if she recovered, there would be no such moments. She would go back to her usual gray life.
She blinked, he kept talking about something, but stopped.
"Are you okay, sister?"
"Of course, I just got distracted a moment. Since you tell me that your son doesn't tell you anything, I'll have to tell you." She tried to stifle an accomplice giggle, in vain. "Tim told me he's helping Fred with...his new business."
"Oh no."
"That's what I thought. The two will end up arrested."
"And by Sgt Noakes. Can you imagine, half Nonnatus in jail?"
"Well, Sister Monica Joan already has some experience in that."
He laughed and she looked at him, he had a spark in his eyes, a spark of vitality, and now he was imitating Fred, a bad imitation, but it simply showed her that she did not know everything about him. She did not know about his funny side that only made her cheeks ache with laughter that she did not want to come out but that it was impossible to hide. She knew that with her laughter she gave him hope and she did not want that, not when she did not know where to go, what life to take.
But she kept on betraying herself.
She finished her painting, it was a bit silly but it had beautiful colors. She blew it to dry, and noticed that he was looking at her, no longer laughing, with fixed eyes, and trembled under that inquisitive gaze. She swallowed what was left of her tea.
"I'll send this one to Timothy." She opened a folder where she had piled up her silly little works and took out one, showing him. "I painted it on the days that I could not go outside, it's more or less what I see from my room."
"He will be happy. He...loves everything you do."
He took the paper and kept looking into her eyes. She had to look away from the floor, unable to follow the rhythm that he seemed to propose.
He returned the sheet of paper and she put it in the folder. She looked at what she had just done and pulled the painting off the easel. Her fingers trembled.
Do it now or never, she told himself although she did not understand why she was forced to do this.
"This one...is for you." She handed him the sheet. He opened his eyes wide, looking at the paper and looking at her.
"For me?" He looked totally bewildered. She smiled satisfied, if he managed to leave her speechless, she could do it too.
"Yes. It's not very pretty, but..."
"Thank you." He said with vehemence. "It is beautiful."
"It's very far from that." She answered. She was breaking many rules, and she could not do it one more time, and vanity was not something she liked.
Her courage evaporated, so she gathered her things hurriedly and fled like the last time, but without even greeting him.
This time, when she entered the room, she did not frantically. She left the things on her small desk and put her folder in a drawer.
Then, she opened the closet and took her habit, which had been resting there for almost two weeks. There was still time for her to recover, but if she did, she was not sure she could wear it again. The doubts were getting stronger.