A/N—This chapter ties in with Chapter 9 of my story "Glimpses". That chapter, from Patrick's perspective, talks about the writing of the letter quoted here.
Sister Bernadette was smiling, in spite of herself, although at the same time, she felt strangely subdued. A pile of opened letters lay on the table next to her in the sitting room at St. Anne's Sanatorium. She sat by herself in a corner by the window, with a small lamp lighting the room and the sun having long since set outside. In her hands, she held one letter—the most recent one, and her smile was the result of reading this letter for the third time and seeing in her mind the face of the man who wrote it. She hadn't really doubted his feelings for her, but now she had a more direct confirmation, and that was a comfort she couldn't measure, but also a concern.
What a long day this had been. It had begun in uncertainty, with that now familiar burden of anxiety, doubt and not a little guilt holding her down, impeding her already sluggish steps. The result of her illness and the treatments in addition to her seemingly endless inner battle, this weariness had pervaded her life for so long that she had almost forgotten what it was like to be without it. So strange it seemed now, to feel that weight suddenly lifting after such a long time. She had known, or had hoped, that she would get some answers to her ever-present dilemma today, and how grateful she was now to think that at least some of those answers had finally arrived.
The lightness had begun in the wake of Sister Julienne's visit. Such a relief it had been to finally have the cloud of secrecy lifted. Sister Julienne had been her most trusted confidante and closest friend, and the confession had brought a measure of relief. Revealing at last the true cause of her months of anguish, she hadn't been too surprised when the elder sister seemed to already know, or at least to suspect. Her mentor was a very perceptive woman, and if anyone was going to guess, it would be her. Sister Bernadette didn't even particularly care how her friend would have guessed. It was enough to no longer have this secret between them, and that, she thought now, was what may have made all the difference.
Suddenly, with the source of her struggle revealed, the sister was able to unburden herself even more. The growing conviction that perhaps there was a new path being set before her gave her a renewed energy. Sister Julienne's wisdom about the letters energized her even more, and Sister Bernadette made her decision. She would read them, in the evening after her treatments.
The day had then become a blur of treatments, tests, and anticipation as the sister had finally felt a sense of urgency and energy that she hadn't felt in months. She couldn't sit idle. She spent what free time she had tracking down the letters, searching in the places where she had hidden them, organizing them into a stack. She'd left the stack on her bed as she returned for more appointments, and for meals. She wanted so much to read the first letter—the one that had spent so many weeks stowed away in her dressing gown pocket, only to be joined by the newest one after Nurse Peters had delivered it.
She now held the second page of that newest letter in her hand. This letter was rather serious in its tone, but it was also very clear. Or at least it seemed so to her. He even talked of faith, and of prayer. She had never expected him to share her faith, but she had found his words comforting nonetheless. And even more so was the assurance of his feelings. He hadn't spelled them out, but she knew enough now about how he expressed himself in writing that she knew full well what he meant:
"I've prayed for you. Does that surprise you? I, who have told you I didn't have a faith, but the truth is I've always wished I had. Faith is a curious thing. You have taught me a valuable lesson about it without knowing. I used to think having faith meant unwavering devotion with no doubts, or some kind of enthralling spell that you couldn't escape. I know better now, I think. I now see, even more so now, that faith is a matter of belief, but also of wrestling, of struggling, and of thinking. You taught me that, and I thank you.
I still have questions about God, and I am not sure if those will ever be resolved, but I had to pray for you. My skills as a doctor are of no use to me now. My schedule is as busy as ever here in Poplar, but there is one person in the world I most wish to help, and I am not in the position to do so. All I can do is sit in my surgery and read the reports the doctors at St. Anne's send me. I am comforted to read of your improvement, but I'm powerless to do anything else, and so I just wonder, and hope, and pray.I tell myself that there has to be someone listening, and so there, I suppose, is my small seed of faith. Perhaps your recovery will see that kernel grow, or perhaps not. I can't promise I will ever believe as you do, but still I prayed, and I hope that prayer will be answered. Perhaps God, if He is there, will be kind enough to return you to Poplar whole, and healthy. Perhaps He will grant that request, and the wish that you will still call me friend after this series of letters. I do hope so, with all my heart.
Your life is yours, and your destiny is yours. I trust your faith will guide you where to go and what to do. I can only hope there will be a place for me somehow in your life, whether you return to Poplar as you were or whatever else happens. I am your friend, and I will be here no matter what you decide. I want you to know that, always.
I must sign off now, I'm afraid. There have been no calls tonight, but it is late. I need to be up early tomorrow to get Timothy ready for school. He is well. We are both well enough, but not the same. Nothing is the same without you here, and without that sense when I start my day that I just might see you as I go about my rounds. Just that thought is enough to brighten my day. Without that, I must only wish for your full recovery and restoration. No matter what the future holds otherwise, just to know that you are fully restored would bring me joy.
I will write again, I'm sure. It is a comfort to me to write, and to think of your reading my words and being cheered by them in some small way. I hope that I will hear from you soon. I hope, and pray, that you are well, and that your recovery will be speedy, and full.
Yours,
Dr. Turner"
She held the letter lightly as she glanced at the stack on the table next to her. All the letters had been leading up to this, she saw. Mostly they had been reports of news from Poplar, and wishes for her continued recovery. There had been detailed reports of Timothy, and she'd been grateful for those, as she missed the boy almost as much as she missed his father. In the midst of all the news, however, there had been hints of something more. Personal reflections, remembrances of times they had spent together—at work, of course—and mentions of that special connection, that way of speaking without words that seemed to come natural to them when they worked together. His feelings became more and more obvious as the letters progressed, and even more so with this latest one.
Her smile faded slightly as she looked back down, re-reading the passage about the series of letters. He didn't say "unanswered letters", but she knew that's what he was implying. Little did he know that she hadn't even read them until now. She never wished to cause him pain, ever, and the thought that she had done so was troubling. Still, she knew she couldn't have read the letters until now.
She could see in every word his concern for her, and his overwhelming care. "With all my heart" he had written. Those weren't words he would use lightly. As little as she knew him, she knew that much. She had to concede that she didn't know him well, but nonetheless there had been this draw toward him. She looked back at his words in the letter about faith-"some kind of enthralling spell you couldn't escape". Considering it, she realized that, although he was right that faith was more complex than that, he was also, without knowing it, describing two very similar feelings—the call she had felt to the religious life, and now the inexplicable but unavoidable draw not toward God, but toward the doctor, yet not away from God, either. Perhaps it was God, after all, who was drawing her to this man. As much as she had fought this leading, she couldn't now.
The bells sounded on the small clock on the nearby mantel just then, reminding her it was 15 minutes until bedtime. She rose from her chair and looked around the room. It was empty, but for her, and her lamp was now the only source of light aside from the dim lights in the hallway outside. She had never stayed downstairs this late, and she had surprised herself. Knowing that a nurse would probably soon arrive to check the room and send her to bed, she carefully folded the letter in her hand and placed it back in its envelope. Picking up the stack of letters, she turned off the lamp and, now in darkness, she kept her eyes fixed on the light in the hall as she headed out of the room, and then up the stairs to her room.
Minutes later, she found herself looking around her small but relatively well-appointed room and feeling again something she hadn't felt in months until earlier this day—restless. She placed the letters on the bedside table and thought about getting ready for bed, but her mind was still racing. She really must try to get some sleep, she thought, but for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel tired. She knew she would be reading the letters again, and she knew she needed to pray. For now, though, all she could do was stand there, glance out the window at the dimly lit courtyard below, and think.
Glancing to her left, she caught her reflection in the mirror. She looked as she always did these days—dressed in her dark blue dressing gown over her nightdress, and with the simple white cap covering her hair. It had been many weeks since she had worn her wimple, and she could see wisps of her hair peeking out from under the cap. She had only removed it when she needed to, but now she felt a strange urge to see herself without it. Staring at her reflection, she noticed that her current mode of dress resembled her habit in an incomplete sort of way.
She didn't miss wearing the habit, she realized now. Slowly, she walked to her wardrobe, opened the door, and stared at the garment that hung there, forlorn and unused. She picked up the hanger and held it out at arm's length, studying it. Strange, to think she had worn nothing but this attire for the past ten years, and now it seemed so foreign to her. She found she couldn't imagine putting it back on, so she hung it back up and closed the door of the wardrobe. Then, with more sure steps, she walked back to the mirror and slowly removed her cap.
It wasn't exactly a revelation. She did need to take the cap off sometimes, to wash her hair and to brush it, or re-pin it when necessary. She knew full well what she looked like without her cap. Still, this was different. For some reason, she wanted to read the letters with her head uncovered—to imagine herself as if there weren't this barrier between her and the doctor. What if she wasn't a sister, she thought. What if she was just a woman?
None of it would have been wrong. That thought just floated into her mind as she stood there. There would have been no need for guilt, or hiding, or keeping her feelings unspoken. There was nothing wrong about a woman being interested in a man, or looking at him, or having personal conversations, or imagining a life with him, or even his kissing her hand. None of that would have been wrong, but for her vows. If she hadn't been Sister Bernadette, there would have been nothing to hide. If she had just been Shelagh Mannion, as she had been for nearly 23 years before she joined the order, everything could have been different.
She walked over to her bed and sat down on the edge, picking up the stack of letters from the table and placing them on the bed beside her. No, she thought. She wouldn't have even met him if she hadn't come to Poplar and joined the order. God had led her to Poplar. Of that she was sure.
She glanced at her Bible, there on the bedside table. She couldn't deny the call of God—the desire to serve Him, and to follow His plan. But what if His plan was something different than she had thought? What if his call really was leading her away from the life she had known for the past ten years—beyond Nonnatus, as she had told Sister Julienne? She couldn't leave the order just to leave. There must be something she was being called to, and glancing at the letters, she couldn't help but think of a lonely, dark-haired man with deep, dark eyes that she could easily be lost in, and the words of his letters and how much sense they all made. Of his own life's calling, to serve and help the people of Poplar, and of how well suited she was to help him in that calling. She thought of his son, dear Timothy, so bright and so brave, and motherless. She could help him, too, she knew. She could easily see a life with them. In fact, she found it difficult—even painful—to imagine a life without them.
Maybe this was God's leading. Maybe this is where her life had been headed all this time. Maybe that was even the purpose of her illness, to bring her to this point? She had been fighting her feelings for so long, and she now found that she wasn't just unable to fight them. She didn't want to.
She picked up his last letter again, looking at that second page and picturing his face—his eyes—as she read it. She wanted to write back. She wanted to assure him that she hadn't forgotten him. She wasn't indifferent. She was far from indifferent. He had prayed for her, and he missed her. The very thought of her brightened his day. She couldn't stop the smile from spreading across her face. Oh, how she loved this man!
And there it was. Love. She was in love with Dr. Turner. She had known it. She had flirted with the word in her head, but had always pushed it away, never wanting to face it. Now, however, she had to welcome it. She needed to embrace it. She needed to sit here before God and acknowledge it.
After running her fingers lightly over the conclusion of the letter—"yours, Dr. Turner"—she carefully, slowly, folded the page. Picking up the stack, she placed the letter on top and placed them all on her bedside table.
It wasn't time for bed yet. She knew she must try to sleep soon, because she would need to be up for treatments in the morning. Still, she couldn't sleep yet. She reached up and felt for the pins in her hair, thinking about removing them and letting her hair fall down around her shoulders. She could sleep with her hair uncovered tonight, for the first time in many years. She paused. No. It wasn't time for that yet. Vows were not to be taken lightly, and she still had a decision to make. She was still Sister Bernadette for now, no matter how uneasy that title was starting to make her. She would put the cap back on before bed, but now she still needed to think, and most importantly, pray.
She picked up her Bible from the bedside table and placed it on the bed beside her. Then, slowly but with determination, she stood up, turned toward the bed, and knelt down on the floor, leaning her head on her hands as she bowed to pray. In the dim light of her room, she felt a sense that she was finally coming out of the months of darkness and, as long last, into the light. She needed guidance more than ever now, and she would ask, and read, and listen.