IV.

She was a saint. Or an apparition of the Virgin Mary. Or an angel.

He was not sure of finding a denomination, but he was sure that she came down directly from the sky. It could not be otherwise when he had just seen her with a newborn in her arms, returning its life, tearing its little soul from the clutches of death.

A few minutes ago, he was only taking time to dry his fingers with a cloth next to a worried father. In his head he only thought of the strange situation of two twin sisters living with only one man, following old customs and behaving in a sullen manner with people. He saw strange things in Poplar, but this one stood out.

Then he entered the room to see how things progressed, sat in a delivery chair that would not have been used since the Middle Ages, and waited.

In his head was no longer the life of the Carter sisters and their strange traditions, none of that could matter less when Sister Bernadette was in this dark and dirty place, illuminating it with her presence.

She and Nurse Franklin took care of everything, so he just stayed there in case the delivery went wrong. He decided to continue his observation task, since he had nothing else to do.

While the aching woman talked about her mother and sister, both midwives listened attentively. All of them were empathic, always seeking the relief of women and willing to listen to them. He knew it and saw it countless times, but that night he focused on her, discovering endless new things: the calm face as she listened; her pose sitting on the bed next to Trixie, relaxed and sure of having everything under control, with an almost friendly attitude towards the young nurse; her gaze full of compassion towards the terrible drama lived by the Carter sisters and their mother; and then her attitude resolved and with a smile to reach the gas and air mask when a contraction disfigured the face of the parturient.

In his mind appeared just a second of a scene happened a few days ago when he was called to take the miraculous gas to another simple birth. He did not understand why he felt almost happy when he saw that this birth was being assisted by Sister Bernadette, but he stopped asking himself when, after seeing the calming effect of the gas on her patient, she turned to him, raising her face and giving him a smile full of relief that he could only correspond.

A shout from the poor woman brought him to reality and stood up. Sister Bernadette looked at him over her shoulder for just half a second, then did it again and asked if he wanted to take care of this birth. He couldn't think much about those looks because everything was rolling down too fast.

The quiet night became a chaos since she pronounced "Transversal" with a voice full of professionalism that he felt he admired. He rebuked himself for observing this when he had to do his job but he couldn't help it, he still felt the brush of her fingers after passing the first baby into her arms.

And definitely, it didn't help to have her by his side seeing how she pressed her lips with the force she had to do to turn the baby, or hearing the gasp of triumph she released when she achieved it, which allowed him to see even the perfect teeth of her mouth.

He worked, he did it because he had two lives in the hands, but a part of his head seemed to be occupied with noticing the soft whisper of her habit and its starchy smell, which surpassed that of blood and fluids. He admired her again for keeping calm, for the sweet words she said even if everything was every second worse.

Then, for a moment, he forgot where he was and why. He was removed from his work position, was thrown to the ground and the worst, he saw that she was beaten. All his blood boiled, he was willing to kill because someone dared to touch her. The chaos was worse, but the situation was channeled in two beats. Barely a glance at her told him she was fine, that it was only a scare.

And then happened what he knew he would remember all his life.

A small baby, almost without possibilities, rocked by her, who carefully pushed aside the green blanket, shining the ring that separated her from a secular life. The soft blow on the little face, the wait. He thought he was listening to angels while he saw her, until a small groan and a "Praised be the Lord" broke the spell.

If he felt he admired her, at that moment he knew that he was before a higher entity. Yes, she was surely a saint.

He saw her smile, relieved and happy, then he smiled at the occurrence of putting both little sisters together with their strange mothers.

And so, the story is over.

Or so he thought.

Because she smiled again, this time a smile he never saw, a mischievous smile. And blue eyes full of memories. And her mouth on the cigarette he had just smoked.

He felt euphoric: he knew something else about her, he got one more piece of the puzzle that constitutes this mystery that was Sister Bernadette. Under this nun was a young woman who was a motherless girl and a 14-year-old teenager who stole cigarettes from her father. She was not just a nurse exhausted from a long night at work, she was a woman who was encouraged to ask "just a puff" of his cigarette.

He watched her leave while he stayed a few more minutes finishing smoking. He saw her figure grow smaller and smaller, and as he watched it, he connected in his head everything that happened at night, everything he saw, with this last surprise she had just given him.

He jumped, frightened, when he notice the result of everything: he, Patrick Turner, no longer just observes.

Patrick Turner is in love.