Two months passed.
It was two months in which he had not seen her. She was still in his mind, at every moment, but luck had denied him the possibility of seeing her in front of his eyes for sixty insufferable days.
The worst was the lack of news. Every time he asked about her, the nurses told him that they did not know, that they would consult their female colleagues in the women's area, or that they had no idea. It seemed that they were plotted to tell him nothing and his mind began to run with the worst scenarios. What if she was not there anymore? What if she asked them not to say anything to him, because she was angry?
One day, the news began to arrive but it was worse than not knowing anything. They told him that she felt bad, or that she did not want to get out of bed. It did not help to ask them to tell her that he wanted to see her and greet her. All of his trips to the park were unsuccessful because she was never there, so he did not know if the nurses forgot to pass the message or they did, but she did not care.
He wondered if something had changed the last time they saw each other. Perhaps, she had wanted to tell him something with that painting she gave him, maybe it was not just a nice gesture to a person who was sitting next to her while she was painting. Now, he was looking continuously at two windows, the one in his room, and the one in the painting. A window opened towards a sunrise that he still did not understand.
He was not a man of faith, in fact, he had been lost it for a long time, but inside his bedside table he had found a small wooden cross. Some previous patient would have forgotten it, or worse, perhaps he died and left this little testimony of his beliefs hidden there.
When he found it, he thought of giving it to her. It would be to use a religious object to approach a nun he was in love with. That sounded heretic but what made him change his mind was not that but the knowledge that she would reject it, he knew that they could not accept gifts or have personal belongings other than those strictly necessary. He resolved to leave the cross in the drawer, and every night, after his dreaded night pills that assured him hours full of sweat and drowned screams so as not to be discovered, he took out the cross and looked at it. It was ridiculous to speak to a piece of wood, but he prayed for her. He begged God to make her feel good, to sleep well, to go out to the park. So that she would soon sing again, to work on what she liked, to ride a bicycle, to smile. Smile at him.
After that strange prayer to which he clung, he kept the cross and tried to sleep. Sometimes the nightmares gave way to dreams with her that embarrassed him when he woke up. However, he preferred them, of course. He even preferred war nightmares rather than other much worse ones that appeared over time: dreaming of his own death and she following her life, married to another man, happy with a family that was not his. One night he awoke, blood writhing at what his eyes had just seen, and it took him all his willpower not to leave the bedroom and go to look for her to shout at her not to leave him.
He calmed his breathing, looking at the ceiling although he could barely see it through the darkness of the room. He felt a wetness on his cheek and knew he was crying.
"I love you, Bernadette. I love you more than anything."
It was the first time he had said it aloud and to recognize it in that way, to get it out of his head to show himself that it was not just capricious ideas but a reality he could not escape from, only made it more painful.
He dried his tear and decided to do something. Two months had been enough. If the nurses did not tell him anything, and he could not visit her because it was forbidden, he would do something. And if that did not work, he would invent something else, and another, and another, until he knew about her.
Standing up, he turned on the light, opened a drawer of the small desk and looked for paper and a pen, and began to write.
Things were not going well. She knew it, she sensed it, the head repeated it to her.
She always avoided the mirror but one morning she took a quick look and got scared. She was white as a ghost, could count her ribs if she wanted to, and her dark circles were impossible to hide under her glasses. She had often seen bodies like that, bodies claimed by the death that was coming slowly until there was nothing left.
She sat on the bed and remembered the flattering words that Nurse Peters always had over her eyes, her hair, her hands. The nurse always celebrated any progress she made with her health, but she could not be fooled like that anymore.
She was going to die. She had two months here, any progress would be noticed in her body, but it looked worse than when she arrived. She stood up to look at herself again. When she entered the Order, the first thing she was told was that there would be no mirrors in her life, that they only fed vanity. She agreed with her vows that time she approached one to see herself without the habit and the glasses and discovered that she was pretty enough to go to a dance like the nurses. But now, looking in the mirror had no reason for vanity, but for investigation. She looked closer, running the tips of the fingers down her face.
She found herself equal to her mother. She had red hair, but that did not matter now. She was identical to her mother, her last memories evoked a woman with the same features and the same pain when the disease raged with her. She had died young, too young.
She was the same age as her mother when she died.
From the mirror reflection she saw the last letters that had arrived, lying on the bed. Her friends at Nonnatus had no idea that they only generated more stress, telling her how much they missed her, how her patients needed her. She was not sure if she could return one day.
Instead, Timothy's drawings caused her more and more emotion, but she felt as dead as the butterfly the boy sent her. At least, the butterfly had been a butterfly. She felt like a caterpillar, unable to get out of the cocoon. She was not even able to read the letters he sent her, and he was only on the other side of the building.
She returned her gaze to her face and, shaking her head, moved away from the mirror. The sisters were right, they were not good objects. Now the sadness invaded her with the moments of her gray childhood, her adolescence and solitary youth, and this adulthood full of doubts and with a single security, death.
"Dr. Turner asked for you, again." And there it was, one of her doubts.
She went back to bed, noticing how the nurse looked at her worriedly.
"You are not going out? Today is a beautiful day. You could paint a lot."
"No, I'll stay here." She responded by covering herself with the blankets.
"And what will you answer to the doctor?"
She shrugged and turned on the bed, covering herself more. She did not want to go out, nor see him, she wanted to stay there, and die as God had planned, and disappear forever. He could find a better life, because he would be healed. He was stronger, more necessary, he had a son to live for.
Why all her thoughts, unfailingly, ended with him?
"Honey, what's wrong with you?"
She felt the weight of the nurse sitting on the bed. Sometimes she thought that she could consider her a friend. The woman could do her job and leave, but she always seemed worried about helping her a little more. She smiled at her barely.
"I just have no desire of do nothing."
Nurse Peters sighed, looking toward the door.
"You know? I think you're depressed."
She opened her eyes wide, and sat up.
"No, no, I just feel strange." She forced a smile and discovered that her face ached, as if the muscles had forgotten how to do it. But the nurse's gaze left no doubt that she thought that about her.
"Maybe I should talk to Dr. Lynn to prescribe something to you and..."
"No! Please!"
A thousand images lashed her mind. People who were diagnosed, who were treated with terrible medications, who were admitted to Linchmere, subjected to electroshock. She could not let them believe she was depressed, even if it was true. She did not want such torture.
She looked at the nurse, grabbed her hand.
"Please."
"All right, all right, I will not say anything. But could you tell me what's wrong with you?"
She took a breath and let it go slowly. The interest was genuine, it was not for gossip, but she would not tell her everything.
"I know it all. I know I'm going to die. You are cheating me, I saw myself in the mirror and...it's unacceptable. I'm thin and horrible."
"And for whom do you want to be pretty?"
She felt the question hit her. Far below all her concern for her body, her resemblance to her mother, the certainty that she would die, was that. She looked ugly. She was not pretty for him.
Suddenly she wanted to cry when she saw her own stupidity before her.
The nurse smiled and patted her hand.
"I don't know where you got that I'm cheating on you. You saw the X-rays yourself, you go better every day. But you don't convince yourself and don't go out to take a breath, you don't even move. Is this just what is bothering you?"
"Yes, it's just that." She whispered. "I'd like to sleep a little."
Sighing, the woman stood up and arranged her blankets.
"Are you not going to answer the notes that he was sending you?"
She shook her head.
"He must be the most boring man in the world."
She awoke and looked everywhere. It was already night and her stomach roared. That was a good sign, having appetite meant that the body was recovering.
She took off her cap, snorting in exasperation, and felt her hair fall on the pillow.
"I don't even know if it's worth recovering me."
The nurse was right, she was depressed. But she was also furious. Her life full of doubts was a roller coaster that took her from the most absolute sadness to a rage against herself for not being able to decide.
She turned on the light and searched for her Bible. When she opened it, one of the many notes she had been receiving from him fell on her chest. And, damn her luck, the note was in Psalm 51, one that she memorized word by word from so much praying for forgiveness for her great sin.
She closed the book with a thud and left it on the night table. She sat down, arms folded as if she were an angry child. This could not continue like this.
She should call Sister Julienne, ask her for advice. The woman was wise, she always had the answers. But also, she hesitated about telling her everything. She felt like a traitor, she would disappoint her. Julienne was like her mother, and if she complained about losing her own, how could she abandon her, which was her second chance to know maternal love?
She glanced at the Bible. She opened it and took out the note. It was one of the first that had arrived, a small envelope with a single paper inside. With the passing of days, the notes were transformed into letters, judging by the size of the envelopes and their thickness, revealing that there was more than one sheet. All the envelopes were well sealed, surely there was a fear that indiscreet eyes would look at the contents.
She swallowed hard, her hand caressing the sender, a letter she knew very well, forming a scribble that said "Dr. Turner". One of her nails slid under the fold. Then they joined the fingers, tearing the envelope. When she was about to take out the sheet, she opened the drawer of the night table, where dozens of identical envelopes waited to be opened. She threw the one in her hands inside and closed the drawer with a hit.
She wished with all her soul to read them. She also wanted to see him, but she was in the middle of this feeling of not knowing where to go, she felt desolate and without direction, but it was her own journey and she had to finish it alone. Besides, she could be making a horrible mistake. Maybe he did not feel the same as her. Reading letters that did not tell her what she expected would only make her feel worse and continue with her life as always, when it was already clear that she did not want that.
With him or without him, she would no longer return to Nonnatus. At least not as a nun.
She inhaled slowly, staring at the wall, the statement she had created in her mind was too powerful and she felt, for the first time, satisfied with herself.
"Very well, Shelagh." She was surprised to say her own name out loud. It had been a long time since she had heard it. "You have to do it. You will not die, and you will tell Sister Julienne everything that happens to you, and she will understand. And then you will read the letters but that will not change your decision. Now, for God's sake, stop thinking about him for even five minutes!"
But it was not so easy. Not when she still remembered her last dream. Her hands were always icy, the cold of Scotland ran through her veins, and in the dream, he invited her to have tea, like that time in Nonnatus. And she did not give him a negative. She sat next to him, debating the causes of the baby that died. And he, suddenly, took her hands, and his hands were so warm that they warmed hers, while his beautiful and good eyes warmed her heart.
"You're so silly!" She scolded herself. But she could not help looking at her hands, now warm as if he really had taken them in his.
"Dear Sister Bernadette"
He squeezed the paper and tossed it into the trash can.
She was not answering. He wondered if even she was in the sanatorium. Maybe she left, forbidding anyone to tell him about her. Maybe she had died...
He looked at the sky, holding back the tears.
"No God, please."
He grabbed another sheet of paper but a knock on the door stopped him.
Seeing Sister Julienne gave him both relief and concern in equal measure. The good woman smiled at him, told him about Tim even though he already knew everything with the letters and calls to his mother-in-law. She told him about different news, but did not tell him what he wanted to know.
"How is Sister Bernadette?"
The nun blinked, surprised.
"You have not seen her?"
"No. She never comes out, they always tell me she's not feeling well, and I've been sending her notes and..." He stopped, feeling he was talking too much. Julienne looked at him curiously, raising her eyebrows.
"She doesn't answer?"
"No. I don't know anything, and it's strange, we're in the same place and it's been a while since I saw her."
"I still didn't see her, I wanted to talk to you first and tell you about the patients...I'll go right now to chat with her. She called me because she wanted to see me, and I noticed a certain urgency in her voice."
Worry coiled in his stomach.
"Will you go back and tell me how she is?"
He did not want to sound that desperate, but it was too late. He was certain that Julienne knew much more than she said, and that what she did not know, she sensed. At that moment, her gaze was indecipherable and he was afraid of being discovered. He wanted to run away, as if he were a child.
The nun made a tight smile and put a hand on his shoulder, saying goodbye. Just when she left, he realized that she had not given him an answer.
She was forced to go outside. It would not be good to receive the visit she had been waiting for so long in bed, so she waited patiently in the park, without raising her eyes for fear of finding him.
When she heard Julienne's voice, she knew how much she had missed the calm and peace that came from listening to her. When she saw her, she wanted to throw herself into her arms but she was still a nun and those demonstrations of affection were far away. A part of her mind told her that if she stopped being a nun, and Julienne still accepted her, she could hug her and thank her for everything she had done for her, as many times as she wanted.
She did not know how to start the conversation, but when asking about all Nonnatus, the woman refused to answer and went straight to the point. She was surprised, began to play with her fingers, doubting the words that meticulously classified to explain what she was feeling.
Julienne interrupted her thoughts, in the worst way.
"I was with Dr. Turner, he's recovering very well. But he told me he has not seen you."
"No." She whispered.
"Don't you leave your room?"
"No, I'm always shivering with cold, I prefer to stay there." She raised her eyes hoping to find the sympathetic smile of her mentor, but only found an inquisitive look.
"He told me he was sending you notes..."
"Yes but I didn't answer." She interrupted. "Sister, I called you to talk about something."
Quite a while later, as they walked through the park and she felt her numb legs recovering, she ended the most difficult conversation she had in recent years. She talked about being in front of a window, seeing everything she wanted for her, but afraid to open it. She spoke of feeling dead when in reality she was beginning to understand that her illness was not moving her away from life, but bringing her closer. Julienne listened, letting her express everything, without looking her in the eye. When it seemed that there was nothing more to say, the nun stopped, mentioning that the path she wanted to take was not going to be easy. But what could be more complicated than her present?
"Promise me that you will think about this very well." Said Julienne as she said goodbye.
"Sister, I've thought about it a lot."
She felt her hands squeezing on her elbows.
"You know there's no turning back."
She nodded. The woman did not speak to convince her, there was not a flash of selfishness in her eyes, only a mother's concern about her daughter's well-being.
Before leaving, Julienne squeezed her hands.
"I'll be praying for you, dear. For you two."
Before she could get out of her astonishment, the woman had disappeared through the door.
She looked at the windows of the men's area, hoping to find him, but immediately looked away.
He sighed when he saw them from his room. Her little sad face, worried, the face also worried of Julienne, a farewell and then she alone, scrutinizing the windows. He felt he could be discovered behind the curtains and pulled away.
He knew that Julienne would not return. Who knows what the nun would be thinking about him, what Bernadette would have told her about him. His behavior was atrocious. He sighed again, trying to think of something else.
Sanders was licensed. He did not ask why, he was relieved that he did not see that stupid man anymore. He thought he could replace him. Anyone could be better than Sanders, even a sad tuberculous like him. In addition, work was his refuge first and foremost and he missed it very much.
One of the nurses, a petite redhead who liked gossip, told him that the sanitarium was in trouble to get other doctors. It did not seem like a novelty, the country was short of doctors. If it were not so, he would not spend his days running from house to house as he had been doing for years.
"I can help."
He used his best smile. He was not playing fair, he should not smile like that at a girl. His male arrogance knew that sometimes produced some effect in some women. He suppressed a laugh when he saw the blush of the nurse.
"I don't know. You are a patient."
"But I'm better now."
"Yes. I've seen your last x-rays and it's very good. You only need a little more to be completely healthy."
"Then I could help here."
"I don't know if it would be fine, you are ill and..."
"The patients are also, and with the same disease." Again, his smile. The girl cleared her throat, looking away. "Come on, please."
"I shall all I can do, doctor."
The girl left and he sighed. Working was what he was born for, and these weeks of doing nothing but doing the puzzles that Tim sent him, they had him fed up.
After a while, the redhead nurse appeared with a seductive smile.
"Doctor, come. It seems you got a job."
She suppressed a moan of pain as she took her abdomen.
"That's the last thing I need!" She complained.
After Julienne left, she felt relief and certainty. In addition, the air of the park, although a little cold, had revitalized her, and the small walk made her feel that her body was responding favorably. Even though she was still quite worried, a small smile bloomed on her face, but the pain came.
She complained again, sitting on the bed. Since the treatment began, her cycle became a disaster. If she remembered, it started before, maybe when she got sick. But in the sanitarium things became erratic and painful. Nurse Peters came in and found her lying on the bed. She wanted to tell her about the cycles, but even though she was a midwife, she was embarrassed and felt like a fool. She trusted that everything would return to normal when she was cured.
"Are you feeling good?"
"Of course." She lied.
Her punishment for lying came in an instant, when she felt her lungs close, leaving her without air. This was new and painful. If she was improving, it was incomprehensible why she was feeling that she would die at that moment.
The nurse ran and immediately returned. She made her swallow a pill and in a few seconds, she began to relax.
"That's right, take all the air you can." She instructed.
There followed a dry cough, and a great choking.
"Just calm down. Believe it or not, that means you're better. The lungs look dead but in reality they are getting stronger."
"It can't be true."
"You are a stubborn girl. I know that five seconds ago it looked like they were exorcising you, ups, sorry." The nurse laughed. "But you're improving. It is the last symptoms you will have, there is very little of the disease left."
She coughed again, then smiled, feeling relieved. Then, without knowing the reason, she lost consciousness.
"I would like to see my friend Sister Bernadette."
He smiled, as Tim did when he asked for something after having behaved very well during the day. He called it "smile of a clever boy", and at that moment he felt like that, like a boy waiting for a prize.
He could only see a couple of patients, one worse than another, and then they confined him to Sanders' office, full of files. It was an enclosure made a complete disaster. He himself had a mess in his own office, but this surpassed everything. He did not plan on spending his day ordering papers, but at least he was not in bed, or in the park waiting to see her in any corner. Here he also had her in mind, in fact, he had worked hard to ask for this small concession. But this time, his smile had no effect on the dark-haired nurse who consulted her watch.
"Your friend is in the women's area and you can't go there. It is forbidden, rules of the place."
"I know, but I'm her GP and I'd like to know how she is. I also work with her and it is necessary that I..."
"Okay, okay, you are a headache. Follow me." She replied annoyed.
He followed her, happy as a puppy. The nurses in the women's area looked him up and down, but did not say anything.
They stopped in front of a door.
"Wait here." The nurse entered.
In what seemed like an eternity, he waited, trying to calm his breathing. When he saw the woman leave, he prepared to receive a "no" in response.
"You can enter."
He regretted not having flowers on hand, or looking more presentable and not with this horrible dressing gown that she had already seen. He ran his hand through his hair, stopping when the nurse raised an eyebrow. When he entered, he had the best greetings ready in his mouth, but that was not necessary.
"Oh doctor, it's good that you're here."
He thought he heard someone greeting him, but he did not answer. All his senses were towards the bed.
"She has not been very good. A few minutes ago she fainted."
There he focused his attention and knew that the speaker was a nurse. She looked worried and explained that Sister Bernadette was doing very well, that she was improving day by day and her x-rays were close to excellence. Then he heard the word "depression" and something froze inside him. No, she could not be like that, suffering that way.
He approached the bed, she was asleep. She was beautiful, perfect, the skin a porcelain and the blond eyelashes fluttered barely giving way to more beauty still, in her eyes. Her look was sad and confused. She squeezed her eyelids and let out something like a complaint.
"And also, her cycle has come."
"God, nurse, it is not necessary that you tell him everything about me!"
It was hard not to laugh. She was furious and had got up, sitting down and looking at the nurse with hatred.
"He's the doctor, he has to know everything."
He saw a wink he did not understand, then he returned his gaze to her, who started coughing. He handed her a glass of water on the night table, she took it without looking at him.
"Sister, have you been feeling bad these days?"
She shook her head, her gaze fixed on the quilt. The nurse interceded.
"She doesn't want to get out of bed, but today she did. Then her lungs closed, I know it's normal but she fainted."
Instinctively he put the stethoscope on his ears. He had to listen to how the lungs were and if episodes like this were repeated.
Then, when he saw the nurse sit on the bed and help her with the buttons of the nightgown, he realized that he should not do this. Moreover, he should leave as soon as possible. He took off his stethoscope and his voice betrayed him, coming out stumbling and nervous.
"I don't think it is necessary to check her, we already know from the x-rays that she is fine, the fainting is due to the lack of air when her lungs closed."
The nurse looked at him, bewildered.
"Are not you going to check her?"
"It's better that you do it, doctor." He heard her voice, small and shy, nothing compared to the angry voice she had directed towards her nurse.
He swallowed, cursing himself for this. Her selfishness, once again, was hurting her. He only thought of seeing her, and now he saw her, but not as he wanted and she refused to look at him, and seemed about to cry.
You're so old and so stupid, Turner. He told himself again and again. He would never deserve her, because he continually made mistake after mistake and now he would submit her to the same as he did months ago, just for the whim of wanting to know about her.
He swallowed again, the buttons had already parted and he stood behind her. He was horrified by what he saw. If there was something that he could not get out of his mind was the creamy and smooth skin of her back and chest, the small moles and freckles that barely stained. He had dreamed countless times with that, he knew her by heart, but now, that skin was pale and thin, almost transparent and he could count her vertebrae if he wanted to.
He felt like crying. This precious creature had suffered a lot, she did not deserve so much pain. He held up his stethoscope and listened, fearing the worst. They sounded almost clean, almost normal. Just a little more, he thought. Endure the pain, love, just a little more.
Then he moved to her chest. The scene was almost identical, she looked away, breathed as he asked. Her clavicles were more marked, and he thought of the wooden cross and the prayers he made each night. He was grateful and disappointed, because she was recovering but she was also suffering.
"You are very good." It was the only thing he could tell her.
The nurse stood up, said something and left. She made the buttons quickly.
"I wrote you." He whispered.
She continued with the buttons, her fingers trembled.
"Yes, but I didn't read them. Thank you Doctor."
He felt as if she had nailed him a dagger.
Then, without knowing how, he found himself closing the door and fleeing to his room.
That same night, he again attended one of the patients of the morning. The poor man died while he was there. The old man did not say anything, nor did he ask for anyone. It had been a quiet death, like so many others he had seen before. The next morning the man would be retired and he had to sign some papers. He would be buried right away, he had no family or friends.
When he returned to his room, he felt the frustration that often felt when things did not go as he wanted. He collapsed on the bed, thinking. Of course his mind returned to her, so small and thin, so sad and worried. He decided that he would write one last letter. He would say everything, it did not matter if she would not read it, on the contrary, it would be better. After that, he would stop bothering her, forever.
It was time to stop hurting her.
He searched for the few remaining sheets of paper and sat on the bed, with his knees bent and his pen.
"Bernadette:
I don't even know if that's your real name. It is useless to write to you when you have told me clearly that you don't read me, but I promise that this is the last letter.
Tonight I attended a patient here, from the sanatorium. He died and there is no one to complain or cry for him. Many times we have seen this, however, perhaps because this time I have the same disease as him, I feel different. This man ended his life and has left this world and nobody is here to love him and miss him. It is sad that emptiness, to die and that everything ends there. I thought about what it would be like if I were that old man. Dying and everything's over.
I have been told that I am much better, and everything is going well. But I don't want to leave this world without telling you what I feel. I don't know when it started, although I remember specific things about you. The first time I heard your voice, the first time I saw you, the first and only cigarette we shared. How can you reprimand people taking care that they don't feel bad, how sweet you are with babies and new mothers, the infinite patience you handle with Sister Evangelina. I remember when you took care of Tim, you healed his arm and I wanted you to also heal my heart with that delicacy and that love.
I know a lot about you and at the same time I know so little. And even so, with so few things, I fell in love with you. Because that's what happens to me with you. Believe me that I tried everything to avoid it, so as not to bother you, so that you would not discover it and it would make you uncomfortable. I know I'm wrong, very bad, but I love you, and it's very hard to say but it doesn't make sense to keep hiding it. I think the disease should help us learn some things and one is this, talk when you have to do it.
I've been praying for you, even though you know I'm not like that. I've been asking God to make you better every day and you can heal quickly and be able to do the things you love.
I don't even care if you'll look at me one day, you can even beat me for daring me so much. But I don't want to die without telling you what I feel. And I know that I have had another woman before, that I have a son to love, that I have lived a whole life without you, but I can't deny that you are the most important thing to me, even though you are as unattainable as heaven.
Sometimes I think you feel the same, but your refusal to answer me, to look at me, and your devotion to God, make me doubt. You don't need to respond to this letter. I just want you to know this and nothing more. I promise not to bother you anymore, we will work as usual, as if nothing had happened. You just need to know that if you ever need me, I'll be there for you, whatever it is. And that I will love you always, even if I die, I will continue to love and care for you forever.
Sorry about this. I'm really sorry."
He reread the letter, shaking the head, feeling pathetic. He was about to throw it into the trash can, but then stopped.
He placed the letter in an envelope and called the nurse.
She knew that she broke his heart when she answered that, but more anguished was the fact that he had seen her, again, like this. When she let her imagination fly, since she was in the convent, she imagined that he would see her differently, and that he would kiss her, and he would find her attractive. However, he had already seen her twice and one was worse than the other. So horrible, in the middle of medical exams, listening to her stupid lungs, putting a stethoscope instead of his lips.
"And here you have another one."
She looked at the nurse. She hated her since the day before, when she talked too much, and then she left her alone with him. It was obvious that the woman knew a lot and what she did not know was invented in her head, probably a romantic novel like the ones Trixie read.
The woman left another envelope and left without saying anything else. She sighed, he continued writing despite everything.
Her decision was firm. She would leave the Order, there was no turning back. For a long time she believed that she was in the right life but in the wrong place, when in fact she was living the wrong life. She was going to change that, and nothing that said those letters would make her retreat.
Taking a breath, she opened the drawer. She started with the first of the notes. She opened it, feeling the beating of her heart in her ears.
It was simple.
"I haven't seen you painting for a long time. Are you feeling good? Please answer, the nurses are not telling me anything."
The next was similar and others also. Then there was a clear invitation.
"Today I will be in the park, I've seen that there is a lot of sun. I will wait for you."
That sounded like a date. She remembered seeing him one day from her window, alone, looking everywhere. That day she decided not to look outside anymore.
She continued with the letters. She imagined him sitting, playing with the pen, thinking what to say. Some letters talked about Tim's latest news, about how bad he was with a doctor named Sanders. Sometimes he was funny, and she remembered his laugh. Sometimes he was serious, academic, commenting on things he had read in a medical journal. Other times, he talked about his nightmares. They were sad, and she felt the tears pricking when she remembered him scared and screaming like a child that night.
Suddenly, some letters took another course and spoke of a redhead nurse and "quite pretty". For the first time in her life, she felt what jealousy was. What was he doing looking at a redhead nurse? Then she would laugh when he commented that he used the poor girl to get salt in his meals or to work as a doctor.
In the letters there were even bad jokes, some drawings even worse, and silly comments. It was clear that some were meant to entertain her and make her laugh, others to think. He had taken so much time writing this, and she just systematically ignored him. However, she could see that there was something more than a sign of friendship in all of them. She did not know if they were her own desires or they were really there, until she got to the last one, the one that had just been brought by Nurse Peters.
If she had doubts, they disappeared.
She touched the signature of "P. Turner". Infinite times she rolled his name on her lips, trying out different tones. He probably did not know that she knew his first name. She thought about how he would name hers when he knew, even how he would try to write it and she would correct him. She laughed barely, between tears.
Everything was there, in the last letter. She wanted to run to hug him but she was still so afraid. She dried her tears, and lay down, with the letter under her pillow. She slid her fingers to touch it, thinking about what she would do. She must answer him as soon as possible.
She must see him as soon as possible.