Author's Note-This is based on my week 4 "Turnadette Tuesday" image posting, from CtM episode 2x02. It contains three lines of dialogue from that episode. I don't own CtM or any of its characters.
Patrick wondered about the sisters sometimes. Sitting at the small desk in the Nonnatus House dispatch area, looking through the small bit of paperwork he had on the death of infant Thomas Kelly, he thought back to earlier that day. The images in his mind were vivid—of Mrs. Kelly sitting on the bed, staring blankly into space in her grief when Patrick arrived, and finally breaking down in her mother's arms as he left. Then there was Nurse Miller, obviously shaken, and Mr. Kelly, stricken but trying to hold his composure. And there was Sister Julienne, clearly affected as well but keeping her calm. In that reassuring voice of hers, she offered a blessing for the child, and all gathered around as she prayed. All had said "Amen" to her prayer, including Patrick himself, although the very concept of prayer eluded him most times.
He had witnessed prayers many times, in many forms, and had even participated on occasion. The bedtime prayers of his childhood gave way to the sporadic church services of his teen years and then the infrequent vague petition when in the midst of his studies. Then there was the war, where he encountered men of various faiths—some strong, some weak, some barely existent at all, but almost all of them prayed. He himself couldn't remember a time in his life when he had prayed more. Still, the ghastly sights he had seen, the sheer brutality had silenced his petitions. Now, as these visions swiftly came to his mind, he just as swiftly silenced them. It was no use thinking about the war. The only thing to be done was to move on, and to put his faith in what he could see. That was medicine, innovation, the science of caring.
He wasn't an atheist, exactly. Agnostic might be a better word, although at many times over his life and career he had fervently wished he could believe. As a child, he had gone to church with his parents, and a few times much later with Marianne and, occasionally, Timothy. His wife had professed a measure of faith-perhaps a remnant from her parents or perhaps not, but for the most part, she had been quiet about it. There were prayers for her in her illness—from the vicar and some of the sisters, but those prayers, like many others, had proven fruitless. He had seen faith be a comfort to so many, but for him it was inscrutable. To listen to Sister Julienne today with her words from Scripture and her tone of wise compassion, he found himself wishing he could believe, wondering what it took to have a faith like that. What would it look like? How would it feel? What comfort could it even offer in a situation like this?
The sisters were a continuing puzzle to him—so dedicated to the art and skill of healing, but also to the ways of prayer and ritual. He had worked with them for enough years to know they weren't just pious pretenders. They sincerely believed what they professed, and they lived what they believed. He admired them for their courage and compassion, although he remained perplexed at their sheer level of devotion.
And now, here he was in this dimly lit room, with shadows growing as he perused the scant report from today's event. An inquiry was a serious matter, and he wanted to make sure no details were missed. He didn't have much to look at until the results of the post-mortem were returned, but he had asked the sisters for everything they could provide. He knew the attending midwife, Nurse Miller, to be highly competent if not always confident in her own skills, and she was visibly troubled when he had seen her today. He could only hope this inquiry was efficient and would find no fault on her part. Still, he knew that line of questioning would have to be pursued.
His diversion from this line of thought arrived in the form of a familiar and welcome face, as Sister Bernadette came bearing Nurse Miller's notes. He had worked alongside her for years, as he had with the other sisters, but lately he had noticed this sister's presence more so than the others. Her usually cheerful demeanor was tempered by the gravity of the occasion, however, although her kindness was still clearly in evidence. She had brought him a cup of tea. She had invited him to dinner. As engrossed in this task as he had to be, he was forced to decline.
"Is there anything else I can get you, Dr. Turner?" Her look was gentle, but direct.
Unable to hide his confusion, he could only offer one response.
"Some of your faith, perhaps. It's at times like this I wish I had one." At this, he turned his eyes to the notes.
"It's at times like this I wish it made a difference."
What? He looked up instantly, meeting her gaze. He hadn't known what kind of response to expect to his statement, or if she would even respond at all. He would never in a million years have predicted that answer. He stared at her, as if seeing her for the first time, and she suddenly lowered her gaze and offered a flustered apology.
Who was this woman? As devoted a sister as he had ever seen, but to answer him like that? He suddenly found himself fascinated. He invited her to stay, but she declined and made a quick exit. And now he was left only to sit here, staring after her, still wondering if she had really said what she had said, and wondering about the mind, the heart that could offer that response.
This was someone he wanted to know. He thought back and remembered her comforting words at Christmas time, and her cheerful encouragement since then. Her luminous blue eyes and the comfort he found in her warm, genuine smile. Today, however, there had been no smile but still that ever-present kindness, and a kind of gravity and reflection that intrigued him. It was a turn of mind that had surprised him coming from a sister of the Order. He suddenly wanted to call her back and convince her to talk to him—to hear more about what she had said, what she believed, but even more about who she was. Though the sisters had always been somewhat of a mystery to him, it had been a mystery he wondered about but expected to leave unanswered. Sister Bernadette was something different. She had presented to him a fascinating enigma, and he wanted to know more.
He sat transfixed for a few moments, finally turning back to the notes on the desk. He couldn't be thinking this way. He shouldn't be. He was simply tired from a long day, he told himself, but the picture of that small, devoted and kind sister remained in his head. Perhaps some time he would get to talk to her again—really talk to her, but now was not that time. The notes beckoned to him from the desk, and he knew he couldn't stay here all night. Picking up the small book, he turned it in his hands as he looked back briefly toward the doorway. Shaking his head finally and blinking his eyes in the dimming light, he turned back to the desk and opened the book. That face-her face, still wouldn't leave his mind, but he had to do his best to push it away and concentrate on the notes. It was time to get studying.