This chapter takes place on Shelagh's last morning at the sanatorium, in CtM episode 2x08.
The muted sunlight shone into the windows of the room in the early morning at St. Anne's Sanatorium. The room's occupant lay half-awake, staring at the ceiling. What a strange feeling it was to wake up with her shoulder-length hair framing her face, instead of being pulled up under the simple white cap as it had for the past ten years. Officially, this woman was still known as Sister Bernadette of the Order of St. Raymond Nonnatus. Still, that was a name with which she was growing increasingly uncomfortable.
For the first 22 years of her life—almost 23—she had been known by a different name. Lately, she'd been pondering that name in her mind more often than she had in a very long time. She'd become so used to being Sister Bernadette, but like the habit that now lay folded and packed in its case at the foot of the bed, that name had seemed to no longer fit.
She turned toward the window, trying to focus without her glasses and just catching a glimpse through the small break in the curtains of the green of the courtyard below and the hazy sunlight outside. It looked like it might rain today, but that was of little matter to her. What mattered was that today she would be discharged from the sanatorium and on her way out into the wide world. Well, Chichester really. That's where she was supposed to go. It had all been arranged.
Looking around the room, she surveyed the blurry image that was before her. Her eyes weren't so bad that she couldn't see basic shapes of things, but details were indistinct, and what stood out most were the colors and general—although fuzzy—outlines. Reaching out with her right hand, she fumbled for her glasses on the bedside table. Retrieving them, she put them on and immediately the room came into clear focus—the chair by the window, the mirror on the wall above the sink, the two bedside tables, the wardrobe. She took a moment to scan the site, almost as if trying to memorize it. This area had been her home for the past three months, and after today she would never see it again. What next, she wondered? If only her decision could be made as quickly as putting on her glasses.
She lay there for a few moments, still surveying the room. It was comfortably furnished, but spare as of now since she had packed up everything she owned the previous night. Everything was contained in the two old leather suitcases at the foot of her bed, except for her suit, which lay neatly folded on the left-hand bedside table, and two bundles of letters, neatly tied up with string and resting alongside the suit on the same table.
She had re-read Dr. Turner's letters daily since that first evening when she finally dared open them. New ones had arrived since that evening, as well, including one only yesterday. She smiled thinking about them. His words were unmistakable. He had said everything he could say, short of one particular word that she was now sure he felt, just as much as she did. It was that word she had denied admitting to herself for so long, or had only allowed herself to think about in the abstract until the day she first read the letters: love. She wasn't ashamed to think the word now. It was difficult to believe she had ever been ashamed of it. She couldn't be. It was as real as the letters themselves.
She hadn't written back. She had tried a few times. She even had kept some of her attempts. One was even mostly finished—all but the signature. She couldn't bring herself to write "Sister Bernadette". She had to sign that name on the various medical forms at the sanatorium, and she had signed it on her reply to dear Timothy when he had written and sent her an unusual gift, but it was getting increasingly more difficult to write that name. In her mind, Sister Bernadette was now just a word on a page. It wasn't her, and hadn't been for some time. She had thought about signing her old name—her real name, Shelagh. But she didn't want to confuse the doctor, and for some reason, she found she'd rather tell him in person.
What would they call her at Chichester, she wondered? She was sure she was probably registered under "Sister Bernadette", but she knew Sister Julienne well enough to know that the older sister would have apprised them of the situation enough to suggest that her continuation in the order was doubtful. Sister Julienne. She still wondered if it had been wise to tell her everything. She knew she could trust the sister, but the knowledge had made their last meeting so awkward. She loved this woman more than almost anyone else—almost as a mother, if she had to put a name to it. She loved all the sisters. They had been the only family she had known for the past ten years, and leaving them wouldn't be easy. Still, she knew what she had to do now. Perhaps Chichester would give her time to figure out what to tell them. Perhaps it would give her time to get ready to say goodbye.
She sat up, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed. Glancing at the small clock on the desk, she noticed the time. It was still early, but she couldn't stay in bed. It would take a while to get ready, and she needed that time. Time to face the suitcases, and the clothes, and the discharge papers. Time to face the day.
She rose from the bed and walked to the mirror. It was strange to see herself like this first thing in the morning, with her hair loose and falling to her shoulders. Her cap, along with the rest of her habit, was neatly packed away in the suitcase she had brought when she had arrived here. She wouldn't wear them again, in Chichester or anywhere else. As confused as she had been of late, she was sure of that much.
She hadn't remembered this suit until she'd seen it again—the grey jacket, the light grey blouse, the matching skirt. It was fairly nondescript, even for 1948. She had never been one for extravagance even before joining the order. It was functional, it still fit, and it had been stylish enough in its day, although it was clearly out of style now. She may have been a nun but she still had eyes, and could see that the styles had changed. Still, this suit belonged to her, and it was all she had.
The vows she had taken—poverty, chastity, obedience—had all seemed much easier to imagine ten years ago as well. And now that she thought about it, she had broken them all, in her heart if not in practice. Even though her tastes had always been simple, she had allowed herself to dream, of skirts and dresses, and her hair flowing free, and of going to the cinema with friends as she had done in nursing school. And maybe the occasional dance, although now there was only one man she'd want to dance with.
That was only poverty, the first vow. And then there was chastity. Casting a glance at the suitcase that contained her habit, she realized now that this vow was the one she'd once thought would be the least difficult to break. She'd had the usual romantic notions as a child, but those had soon been overtaken by a single-minded focus first on nursing, and then on service to God. She'd enjoyed hearing the Nonnatus nurses' talks of romance, and even joining in on occasion, but she'd never expected it to happen to her. Her feelings for Dr. Turner had caught her entirely by surprise. And the two of them hadn't really done anything. A kiss on the hand and a few words were all, but still she knew what was in her mind, and in her heart. She knew the thoughts she'd had when she was alone, with nothing to distract her. And the feelings she couldn't avoid whenever she saw him, and even when he wasn't around. They were feelings that wouldn't have been so alarming if not for that vow, but she had taken a vow, and even though temptation came, she was supposed to resist it.
And then, last and probably worst of all of her vow-breaking, was obedience. She'd never been particularly rebellious as a child. Sneaking cigarettes from her father's desk a few times had been the extent of it, essentially. She liked rules for the most part, and order, and having a structure to follow. Still, she had come to find this life too rigid, too confining. She'd found herself longing for days of being able to stay in bed past dawn, and of making her own schedule for once. She'd avoided telling Sister Julienne her problems for longer than she probably should have. She'd even lied to her, and lying was not generally in her nature, although she'd tried to comfort herself by the thought that she'd also lied to herself. Obedience was perhaps the most important vow, as it encompassed the two other vows and more. And Shelagh had found herself increasingly unable to keep it.
Shelagh. There was that name again. It was the name she had given up, a symbol of a life she'd left behind. Now, she couldn't allow herself to forget it. She had confessed all to God in her prayers of late. Repeated confessions, petitions for help, for grace, for forgiveness, and for wisdom. She knew she couldn't be Sister Bernadette anymore. She wanted to be Shelagh again, and she had asked for His blessing.
Shaking herself out of her reverie, she realized she still needed to get dressed for the day. She was still in her nightdress, and the suit was waiting for her. The simple leather shoes waiting by the door. One suitcases packed and almost ready. It was time to prepare.
A short while later and she was ready. She'd donned the skirt and blouse, smoothed out the wrinkles, fixed her hair as best as she could. It wasn't the simple twist she usually wore under her cap, but a style from years before, somewhat complicated but surprisingly easy to remember. Sat there in front of the mirror, she'd been so focused on her hair that she'd not taken time to really look at herself. And then she had risen and opened the curtains. When she finally turned back she saw, for the first time in 10 years, Shelagh Mannion staring back at her from the mirror. The girl from long ago had never really left. She was still there, waiting to begin a new life. And that is when she knew. Her prayers had been answered. She knew who she was now, and what she was going to do.
She wouldn't be going to Chichester today.
She thought about Poplar, and the time she'd spent there as a nurse, and as a sister. She knew it had been right. She knew that the past decade hadn't been a waste, but just as much, she knew she couldn't go back to that life. Poplar was her home still, she knew that. And it was where he was. She had to go back.
She gave herself a few moments to take in the sight before her—a sight she at one time thought she'd never see again—and then she couldn't stay still. She had to get moving.
She gave the room a quick inspection, looking in drawers, in the wardrobe, under the bed. Making sure nothing was left behind. Then she retrieved the second suitcase—her suitcase. It was the one she'd brought with her when she'd joined the order, and it would come with her when she left. She laid it on the bed and opened it. It was mostly empty, but for the few things she'd accumulated at that sanatorium. Now that she looked, she saw that all she had left to pack were letters. They were tied into two little bundles—the ones from friends and the ones from the doctor—which she now placed side-by-side into the case. These, along with a few other basic items, were all she would carry into her new life. In the other case were the remnants of her old life. It and all its contents, her habit and everything else that belonged to the order, would be returned to Nonnatus.
There. Everything was ready, but now there was one last thing to do. One last, essential task. She went over to the window and, glancing out for a brief moment, she took in the sight one last time, pondering again how much was about to change this day. Then, she closed the curtains, turned around, sank to knees on the floor beside the bed, and began to pray.
It was just about an hour later when she stood alone in the hallway by the telephone. She'd signed the discharge papers, said her goodbyes to the nursing staff, found a bus schedule and studied it as best she could. She knew where she was going now, but how to get there was something of a puzzle. She wouldn't worry too much about that at this moment, though. She would figure that out.
She paced in the hall for a few moments, thinking. She knew she should probably call Sister Julienne. Or perhaps not. The sister had a busy schedule, and Shelagh wanted to be sure she'd be there today, although she was confident that her mentor would make the time to see her if she could. The sister had left a message only yesterday assuring her that if Shelagh needed anything on this day, she would be there. Shelagh looked at the phone and hesitated. No. Sister Julienne's was not the voice she needed to hear right now. There was someone else she needed to call.
She stood in this hallway with only two reminders of who she had been for the past decade. On her right hand she still wore the ring—the symbol of the vows that she would soon officially renounce. She had packed away her habit, but she couldn't remove the ring until the papers were signed. There were also her glasses—the last remnants of Sister Bernadette that she would wear out into the world. In the past week, she'd considered getting new ones, but she'd decided that was silly. These glasses worked fine, and she liked the frames. She would keep them. Perhaps it would be good to have one reminder of her life at Nonnatus. She didn't regret it exactly. She could hardly bear to think of what the sisters would think when she told them, but she had valued her time there. She knew now, however, that she simply could not stay. She belonged somewhere else—and with someone else.
It was time. All these months she had avoided his letters, and then she had delayed writing back. Now, all she could think of was that she needed to hear his voice. That dear, unmistakable voice that she had not heard in months, and that she wanted to hear now more than anything else.
She knew his number by heart. She'd had to call him many times in the line of work, but this wouldn't be for work. This was personal. She stared at the phone for a few moments before finally gathering her wits, picking up the receiver and making the call.
She waited. She held her breath for a moment, and then finally, there it was-the faint "click" of the line being picked up, and then that voice. His voice.
It was his usual cheerful greeting. "Morning" he said.
For a split second, she wasn't sure what to say. All right, Shelagh, she thought. It's your turn.
And then, finally decided, she spoke.
"I've been discharged."