Chapter 2: Anger
Smoke drifted around Patrick's head. Sleep would not come tonight. He looked up at the back of his house and thought of his son, asleep for hours, ignorant of the seismic shift that had occurred in his father's life. Taking a long drag on his cigarette, it occurred to Patrick that with one possible exception, no one would likely ever know.
He ground his teeth at the unfairness of it all. Their triumph in cutting the red tape of the medical board had promised so much. The x-ray van would help them identify the ill and allow the necessary early treatments that would stop the spread of tuberculosis through Poplar. Energized by the chance to work alongside Sister Bernadette in a cause they both believed in, he had felt closer to contentment than he had for a long time. Now that success mocked him.
Anger and frustration rose in his throat, nearly choking him. She had come to him in the dispensary, her face shining with gladness, happy to share in the day's achievement. Their friendship was healed and in that moment he knew how much he had lost. He never expected to love her; his fevered dreams a symptom, not the cause of his true feelings. The impossibility of that love was irrelevant, the simple act of loving her as necessary as breathing. Her existence was enough. But in that sterile, cold room he watched the fear flicker in her eyes before she closed that door to her soul.
Cruelly forced to carry out an examination, they hid behind years of training, blank masks concealing churning emotions. He called upon all his resources and connections in the next days to arrange everything: further examinations and tests, and even found a place for her in the most advanced sanatorium in the country. As he watched Sister Bernadette walk in alone that morning he felt a curious empty ache. His arms had never known the feel of her but he was haunted by the phantom space she left behind.
Patrick stood and paced back and forth like a caged tiger, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He wanted to scream out, roaring blame at her God for showering punishment on her for his transgression. Could it be that simple, he wondered? He had long ago turned away from the belief in a benevolent deity, one who guided and looked over his flock. The horrors of war, man's atrocities against his brethren, even ordinary villainies had all left him unconvinced. Was this God's punishment for Patrick's presumption to love a nun? He had watched those he loved suffer and die often enough to feel the sharp point of blame and clenched his fists in bitterness.
He needed another cigarette. Taking the last one from his case he flicked his lighter angrily again and again, but no flame appeared. A low growl came from deep within him and he blindly threw it across the garden. Breathing heavily, Patrick stood staring at the direction it had taken. Long moments later he travelled its path and knelt to the ground searching for it. He laughed mirthlessly, thinking that the lighter would be easier to find if he could use it to illuminate the ground. Irony had become his constant companion.
Giving up, Patrick stood and tossed the unlit cigarette in the can. He knew even lit, it would have offered no real comfort, no solutions. He sat on the bench again and dropped his head into his hands. Throughout Margaret's long illness he had fought against this God. How could he possibly have the strength to do it again? Why was he given this new love only to suffer for it? Bitter tears stung his eyes and wet his cheeks. He felt the rage leave his body and surrendered to his grief.