The hottest day of the year was slowly cooling down. Timothy had escaped the heat of the city, joining his grandparents at a summer cottage. Patrick would drive out to the beach at the end of the week, his first break since before Margaret died. Finding the overheated house too quiet without his boy, Patrick found himself on the garden bench smoking and trying to read from his backlog of medical journals. Before long, his head was dipping into his chest and sleep overtook him.
Startled awake by a neighbor's door slamming, Patrick sat up straight, his reading fallen and forgotten. He shook his head to clear the fog and stretched. Looking around the bare space he grimaced. Not many in Poplar were lucky enough to have outside space; he should find a way to make this more appealing. He lit up a cigarette, knowing the possibility of that was remote. There was never the time, and he wasn't likely to galvanize into action any time soon. Besides, he thought, it suited his gloomy mood.
He lit a cigarette, its' red-tip glowing in the darkening garden. Stretching out his legs, Patrick leaned his head back and reviewed the day. Not an especially difficult Sunday, though he had gone out on several minor calls. A summer cold, stitches from a rugby game gone wrong and a quiet shift at the maternity hospital had kept him busy, if not focused. That was becoming a problem. His best hope of managing this pain was to be so thoroughly concentrated on tasks at hand that there was no time for musing over impossible wishes. With no complicated task before him, Patrick's thoughts would stray dangerous miles away to another.
Tonight, uncaring of the consequences, he let his thoughts drift in that direction. By now, Sister Bernadette was on a full course of the Triple Treatment. He knew the protocol and was confident in her recovery; in the last weeks he had studied enough to take a position at the same sanatorium he hoped would cure her. At this point in the treatment, her hours would be filled with tests and medications, her doctors demanding complete rest. He doubted her body would have enough energy to do more than the most minor of tasks and wondered how she was coping. Patience she had in abundance, but idleness did not sit comfortably on her shoulders. The Order demanded a level of activity that would defeat most, he realized, with a focus on tasks designed to improve the lives of others. Yet even among those industrious nuns, Sister Bernadette was known for her indefatigable energy.
He could imagine her as a child, busily organizing her toys or arranging her family's books, then as a young girl devoted to her plan of study. He already knew that at school she had been at the top of her class. Sister Evangelina had once let it slip that the young nun had been offered a place at a top university before choosing nursing and the religious life. Not for the first time, he wondered if she ever regretted that choice. Did she sometimes wonder what her life might have been like if she had chosen that other path? Would a secular life have satisfied her devout spirit?
It was odd, this sweet pain he felt when he thought of her. No stranger to suffering, Patrick thought he knew its many faces. The anguish caused by the helplessness and futility of patching up soldiers, young men so recently boys, only to send them back into the atrocities of war. The gaping hole left in your heart when you watch a loved one finally succumb to the twisted pain of cancer. The terror of knowing you were left behind with the unthinkable task of raising a small boy alone. For so long, Patrick's pain was tied to grief, anger, helplessness. And suppression. He learned to deny happiness would diminish the pain.
This pain was new to him. It would not be buried. Always there, just below the surface, he could feel his love for her flourish despite its hopelessness. He could feel its healing effects even as he knew its impossibility. She would never love him in return; indeed, she would likely feel little other than marginal friendship for the colleague whose work she respected. Yet he knew he was better for loving her. Knowing that he loved the very best creature on the earth gave him strength. He would not give up this love to avoid its pain.
He grinned a small, lopsided grin. Again, irony carved patterns in his life. He never imagined himself to be a star-crossed lover. The unrequited nature of his devotion did not diminish its power over him. He could not have her, he knew that, but he could make it his life's work to make her life richer, more fulfilling and purposeful. He would start by working to repair their fractured friendship, easing any suffering she might feel because of his past actions.
Darkness took over the sky as Patrick finished his cigarette. The task before him would be difficult. He wasn't good with words, but perhaps he could use his pen to mend their history. And, to be honest with himself, he was eager to re-forge the connection he needed so desperately. This love had opened him to life, and with that, hope.