Chapter 8

It had been over two weeks now since the conference. Eighteen full days since her holiday. Sixteen days since she had tried to speak with Sister Julienne. Fifteen since her resolve had floundered. Lucky for her, she had Sister Monica Joan to shout about her conflicted soul to the entire staff of Nonnatus House.

But that was unfair. Sister Monica Joan was just saying what she had seen and she was far from wrong.

Sister Bernadette busied herself with the flowers on the altar, but her mind and heart weren't really interested.

She heard the sound of leather meeting the cold floor. It only took three steps for her to recognize the gait as Sister Julienne's – there was a lightness to each step, as if she couldn't bear to interrupt anyone, but also a certainty in each measured step.

"Sister Bernadette, I owe you an apology," Sister Julienne began when she arrived next to Sister Bernadette.

It was a kind apology, Sister Bernadette thought as Sister Julienne continued. But it felt two weeks late.

Two weeks ago, there had been certainty. There had been a clear path ahead. But since then, since their interrupted conversation, everything had gotten confused. She'd been forced to hide in prayer.

Sister Bernadette tried to shake those thoughts off and turned to Sister Julienne. "I didn't want anyone to notice. I didn't want to impose myself, to make any sort of demand on the community."

"It isn't an imposition to ask for help," Sister Julienne said, as a means of gently scolding her. And Sister Bernadette, of course, knew that she was right, but also knew that she was afraid to cling to her Sisters, afraid to take solace in their love and comfort, if she was only to use their strength to help her leave them.

Sister Bernadette felt Sister Julienne's hand gently take her arm and lead her to the chairs behind them. "And you did ask for help. But I have come to offer what I can."

Sister Bernadette stared down at her hands. Two weeks ago, Sister Bernadette only had to look at her confidante's kind face and the words had welled up in her chest, ready to spill out of her mouth with only the slightly bit of urging.

But now the words escaped her. What had really changed? She was trying to figure it out.

She was nervous about how Sister Julienne would respond. How would she cope without Sister Bernadette? How would Sister Bernadette cope without her trusted friend and mentor?

She would want to stay on as a midwife – she didn't want to change anything about her role in the community of Poplar – but how could she continue living at Nonnatus House, continue entering the homes of Poplar, continue on as if nothing had changed when so much would have changed?

What would people say? What would she say back to them?

No. Sister Bernadette pursed her lips. None of that was what had changed. Those were just excuses.

She could feel Sister Julienne's eyes carefully studying her. She felt more than saw Sister Julienne's worry mounting the longer she remained silent.

But would could she possibly say?

I want my voice back. I want control over my life back. I want a family. I want to indulge these new feelings I don't understand.

It sounded so selfish. It sounded petulant. It sounded like she had learned nothing from her ten years in the service of God.

"The truth is that I hardly know what ails me."

These weren't entirely honest words. She knew quite a lot about what was disturbing her. She had a fairly firm sense of what she wanted.

Sister Bernadette sought the comfort of Sister Julienne's soft eyes. When she saw them, looking sad and nervous down at her, she nearly cried.

"I almost wish I was physically ill. I want to be able to say 'this is where it hurts'. Because if I could list my symptoms, you could offer me a cure."

She did wish this. She wished that she could say she was simply overworked and overstressed. She wished she could say she couldn't stand the smell of Poplar any more or that she had grown disenchanted with midwifery. She wished she could say it was a person harassing her. She wished it was just some external discomfort that would pass or be mended.

"But you can't." The words slipped from her tongue, like an insult to Sister Julienne's abilities, but that's not what she meant. She shook her head a little. "Because I can't." Because I can't talk to you openly, completely, she wanted to say. But she couldn't be so cruel to Sister Julienne.

But Sister Julienne didn't understand her words completely. She squeezed her hands and smiled softly at her, like they had just achieved some small victory. "But we have made a start, Sister Bernadette. We're having a conversation."

But were they? What ideas had been exchanged? What dreams and hopes and thoughts had been expressed? What more did Sister Julienne really know about her that she hadn't already gathered through observation and intuition?

The tears started in earnest now.

"I think this is all that I can manage for today."

As Sister Julienne rubbed her back, all Sister Bernadette could focus on was just how surprisingly difficult it was to breathe.

Tears fell from her eyes, but she didn't sob.

She studied the wrinkles on the back of Sister Julienne's hands and let the rest of the world fade from her periphery.

She wanted so much to speak to Sister Julienne. She felt she had so much to say and admit, so much guidance to seek. But as the tears dried up, something became quite clear to her. It wasn't Sister Bernadette who wanted to speak. It was Shelagh.

/-/-

Alone in her room, Sister Bernadette knelt beside her bed in prayer, but no words seemed to come to her.

She tried instead to still her mind, to meditate on the day, but she couldn't stay focused on any one train of thought.

Eventually, her eyes fluttered open. And there was her case from the weekend, still abandoned in the corner of her room.

The case wasn't hers. It had been donated some time ago to the order and was available for any of the Sisters to use as necessary. The corners were a little worn. The interior needed some mending. But the clothes it housed needed no attention. Brand new. Purchased specially for her.

She closed her eyes and bowed her head. Now was a time for prayer, for steadying her thoughts.

But she couldn't resist. She cracked her eyes opened.

She had loved the feel of them against her skin. Soft, delicate. She loved feeling them form to her body, like a gentle hug, a kind reminder that they were there for her and no one else. With them, she could be herself.

Sister Bernadette snapped her eyes closed. She inhaled deeply. She tried to find the peace she had discovered just days ago. But with her eyes closed, all she could see was the image of herself in the bathroom mirror, hair curling around her face. And then, Dr Turner's expression when he first saw her. That looked of stunned male appreciation.

Desire, she should say.

Sister Bernadette got up. She snatched the case and slapped it down on the bed. This was silly. It was time to place the Doctor's clothes into the donation bin and get rid of them. It was time to put these thoughts out of her head and focus on the work at hand.

She opened the case and grabbed the blouse off the top. The material was so soft against her cold hands. She really did love this outfit Dr Turner had bought for her. It was going to be so hard to give up.

When she joined the order, she had to give up everything she ever owned. She gave up the 100 pounds she'd received upon settling her father's estate; that had been so easy, for what would she need money for once she was cared for by the order. She gave up the few pieces of jewelry she'd inherited from her mother. That had been challenging, but she couldn't even remember her mother wearing them. She gave up the clothes on her back, but they had been simple and utilitarian and already old. No, it was a picture that had caused her to break down in tears that evening.

Sister Bernadette brushed her fingertips over the skirt still neatly placed in the case. She'd only ever had the one image of Michael. He'd taken it for her just before he left for training. The edges had gotten a little worn from her constantly touching it. There were permanent creases in the center of the right side where she'd hold it late at night waiting for sleep to take her.

The Order had made her give up her very last piece of Michael. While she hid beneath her habit, all desire for him was stripped away. As time passed, even his face slipped from memory. They'd had such beautiful dreams once.

Suddenly, she realized her jaw was damp. She wasn't sure when she'd started crying, but now that she was, she couldn't stop.

She missed him, but not in the same way she had when they took away his picture. She missed the sense of hope she once had.

Just a few minutes later, she had emptied the case of its contents, but she had no intention of carrying them down to the charity bin. She stripped and changed quickly. It was late. Her Sisters and the nurses would all be in bed, except Cynthia who was on call. If she was quiet, if she was very careful, she could slip out the back door and not be seen. Darkness was beginning to settle across Poplar. She mounted her bike and took off to the main road.