27 May 1958
Dear Sister Bernadette.
Patrick stared at the words for a moment, then sighed and crumpled up the page, tossing it in the general direction of the bin. That would not do; he could hardly bring himself to call her Sister Bernadette, not now when he yearned with every piece of himself to learn her real name, when he knew he true self - not Bernadette, but the girl she had been before her vows - still lived within her heart, yearning for him. Bernadette was too distant, Sister too aloof; his feelings for her were hardly fraternal. And taken altogether the salutation - dear Sister Bernadette - was far too generic, too formal. It did not accurately convey the depth of his need, his concern, the way his heart was shredding itself to pieces in his chest at her absence.
Perhaps you could write her a letter, Sister Julienne had told him, and though the suggestion had been casually made he had taken hold of the idea with both hands. The mother house is no place for a man - he was certain that if he clambered behind the wheel of his car and drove there he would be turned away at the door, and he wanted to spare her such an embarrassing scene. Likewise he could hardly ring her on the telephone; he didn't know the number, and he doubted he'd be put through to her in any case. His only recourse, then, was paper and pen. If he were to tell her of his heart, to tell her of his dreams, to plead his case, he must do so in writing, and send the letter off, borne on wings of hope.
It had taken him two days to find the time in which to write; a GP's work was never through, and a father was always on call. In two days there had been three deliveries requiring his attention, one unseasonal outbreak of bronchitis, and quite a bit of maths to practice with Timothy. Every hour of the day had been accounted for, and he had tried his best to maintain a pleasant demeanor, to smile at his son and be cordial with the midwives and keep his inner turmoil concealed, but he feared he was failing in that regard. Sorrow plagued him; he had always felt the bite of the black dog more strongly than most, and though he tried to keep his despondency at bay, tried to pour his energy into his patients and his son, his resolve was flagging. His smile was slipping, and the cheerful words of a happy man died on his lips. He was lost, and terribly worried; he had no way of knowing what the future held, what she was thinking, whether she would ever come back to him, and in the absence of certainty doubt festered like an open wound.
And so he had retreated here, to his office in the surgery, late on a Tuesday evening after Timothy had gone to bed. He was certain he would regret the lost sleep come morning, but he could not rest until this letter was written, until he knew that he had done all he could to reach his beloved, and set things to rights between them.
With that in mind then he reached for a fresh scrap of paper. If he could only make a start he was certain that the words would come to him, but the correct greeting eluded him. How should he speak to her, this woman he adored, this woman he had kissed, this woman whose whole life had been turned upside down for his sake? Should he be conciliatory, apologetic, desperate, measured? Would an outpouring of vulnerable emotion sway her, or alarm her? And what should he call her?
My darling, he wrote, but he had no sooner finished scribbling the g than he crumpled that page and tossed it away as well. He wanted her to be his darling, his, and precious, but it felt presumptuous, to say the least, when he did not know whether she intended to accept him. It would not do, to lay claim to a love that had not yet been offered him.
Dearest one, he wrote on a third page, but that one too he crumpled and threw away. She was dear to him, dearer than most, but again the words seemed too affectionate, too grasping.
For God's sake, man, he thought glumly, just make a start. It doesn't matter, really.
For a moment he sat still and staring at the fourth blank page. Whatever you write, leave it this time, he told himself. Otherwise you'll never write the bloody thing.
Taking a deep breath, then, he summoned his courage, and began again.
My dear friend, he wrote. I regret the circumstances of our parting.
That was putting mildly, he knew. The memory of her face, pale and distant, obscured by the dusty glass of the hire car window, haunted him. He had been so sure that he had time enough to plead his case and change both of their lives for the better, but she had been snatched from him, cruelly and much too soon.
I very much wanted to speak with you.
That was true; he had wanted, very much, to hear her voice, to hold her hand, to tell her how utterly she had enraptured him, how certain - completely certain - he was that they would make a good match for one another, that he could make her happy. He would treasure her, and not restrict her; together they could laugh, and face every obstacle life threw at them as one, united and whole. His heart cried out for her, wanting to bring her joy, to see her smile, to see her grow unfettered by the restraints of the religious life. There was so much love in her heart, and he wanted to help that love to blossom, and not whither. Besides, she was passionate, and clever, and stubborn and strong and brave; she was so many things, but the Order did not want her individual spirit, her aptitude for leadership. The Order wanted her docile, and obedient, while Patrick wanted to see her wild, and free.
I know it may seem as if my proposal was made in haste.
It had been, he knew it had been, but -
But I need you to know that it is a matter that has much been on my mind of late. You have been much on my mind.
It was too soon, he knew, to tell her the course his thoughts had run, how his mind had lingered on the memory of her hips beneath his hands, the softness of her in his arms, the delicate line of her fingers and the brilliance of her eyes and the warmth of her lips. It was too soon to tell her how he dreamed of her lying next to him, smiling at him across the breakfast table, how he believed most fervently that they could make a home together. He would approach the subject delicately, he decided, in the hopes that she would answer this letter, and he might send another, and in time they might both of them reveal the extent of their desires to one another.
You have
He stopped. She had what? Captivated him? Ensnared him? Reminded him what it was, to love a living woman, one who could return his affections?
You have brought hope to my life, he wrote, and joy. I must confess that for these last few months, I have looked forward to seeing you as the highlight of my day. What I wanted to tell you, that day you left me
Perhaps it was cruel, to say you left me, but the leaving was cruel, and he felt himself abandoned.
That day you left me, was that to me, you are lovely. Utterly, completely lovely.
There were other words he could have used - beautiful, mesmerizing, enchanting. But she was more than any one word could convey; to his mind, she had become everything. He valued her opinion, her experience, her skill, relished her wit and her tender affections. Patrick knew what it was, to be married, knew the ups and downs that came from sharing one's life with another. It was not all kisses and tumbles beneath the bedsheets; there were bills to be paid and meals to make, Cubs meetings and family Christmases, the little battles over laundry and dishes and the hours he worked. She was a midwife, a nurse down to her very bones, and would not be content with the humble domestic work of marriage; she would need occupation, and engagement, and he wanted to give that to her, wanted her to become his partner in every way. When he'd opened the maternity home Sister Evangelina had rolled her eyes, but she had supported him, encouraged him, made suggestions regarding the facilities and structure of care. She could be his partner, could share in his work, the way she always had done. Just having her near made him a better doctor, a better man, and he wanted her with him, always.
Your heart, your smile, your gentle voice; you have reached to the very heart of me, and claimed me for your own. That is what I want to tell you, what I need you to know. Whatever choice you make I shall respect it, but I am yours, wholly and without reservation. Should you choose to come back to me, I will be waiting. And I will love you, with all that I have, and I will give you a home, and my heart, to do with as you will.
Would it be enough? He wondered. He knew what he stood to gain, should she take his hand. A lover, a companion, a friend, a workmate; she could be everything to him, and her support would make him glad. But what could he give to her that she did not have already? Would the love of one man satisfy her, when she had previously enjoyed the love of God himself, and of her sisters? Did she want to become a mother, and did she want the children she bore to be his? What did she dream of, when she looked to the future? And could he provide it?
Patrick did not know, but he rather hoped this letter might be a start, a means of opening the conversation, and allowing her to tell him outright what it was she wanted.
I think there can be no doubt, now, of my affection for you.
No, the moment he kissed her hand he'd revealed himself, and there would be no turning back now, not for him.
I am less sure of what it is that you want. Please, write to me. I am in agony - he scribbled through the words and started again. I am worried that you do not feel the same, or that I have in some way offended you. Please, tell me if I have. I want only to know what would make you happy, and to give it to you.
He leaned back in his chair, reading over the words he'd written. It was not a terribly long letter, but he intended it to be the first of many, and as he poured over the page he decided it was enough, for now. He had made a start; come morning he would send the letter off in the post, and then wait, perishing with want of her, until she saw fit to reply to him.
I remain yours, faithfully, he wrote. Patrick.
It seemed monumental, somehow, to sign his name at the bottom of the page. His true name, a name he had never given her, a name he had never heard from her lips. Not Doctor, not now; that would not do. He was not a doctor writing to a colleague; he was a man, crying out for the woman he loved, and he felt she deserved this much from him now. Satisfied with the contents of the letter and hopeful about how it might be received he folded it up, and tucked it into an envelope on which he'd scrawled the address of the mother house. With that task complete he felt weariness overcome him, and trudged back upstairs to his flat, to his bed, thinking thoughts of her.