Patrick held the steering wheel very tightly, even though the autumn weather made it feel like ice. He couldn't think about his cold hands, or about the patients he had to see tomorrow. There was only room for one person right now: Sister Bernadette.
What if she doesn't want to see me? he thought, and felt despair coil in his belly. He pushed it away firmly, and trained his eyes on the road. The way to St. Anne's sanatorium was not a busy one, though, and he felt his mind begin to wander again.
Patrick was not a religious man, but whenever he thought of that evening with Sister Bernadette, he could not help but feel as if it had been something greater than could be described with words reserved for every day experiences that had brought them together. Whether that something was God, or Providence, or something else entirely was not something he could answer, thus he felt it was best left alone.
He hadn't known what he'd expected when she'd suddenly stood before him at the surgery that night, dressed in her oversized coat and a nightgown that looked like it had gone out of style two decades ago. She wasn't wearing her cap, and her hair seemed almost ginger in the soft glow of the overhead lamp.
For a moment, he'd thought that it was a dream, or a hallucination.
Then, she'd touched him, had embraced him almost a bit too tight to be comfortable. He could smell her shampoo and the starch the nuns used to keep their wimples unwrinkled, and had known it really was her.
Whatever had happened next, though, had felt decidedly unreal.
Or maybe it was one of the realest things I've ever experienced, Patrick thought, tearing his eyes away from skittish autumn leaves that chased each other. He trained his gaze on the road instead.
Maybe it was because the surgery so late at night had become a liminal space.
Maybe it wasn't the surgery at all, but Sister Bernadette herself who had shifted into something different with the knowledge that she was no longer as firmly planted in the realm of the living as she'd previously thought.
Or maybe they'd just been two desperate adults trying to find comfort in the arms of another. He'd been so afraid that he'd cried afterwards, as if he were a little boy. He had turned away as he got dressed, ashamed of his sudden outburst of emotion. She'd appeared beside him, silent as a ghost, and had embraced him again.
"I can bring you back by car," he'd murmured, kissing her hair.
"No. You have to go home, to Timothy, and then you need to rest. There are patients to see tomorrow, things to do…" She'd stepped away from him, had given him a small, sad smile, and had disappeared as quietly as she'd come.
He'd brought her to the London for further tests the day afterwards, had taken her to the sanatorium, but they hadn't spoken about that night, as if by mutual agreement. He'd wanted to ask her if she meant to renounce her vows, if she meant to come back to him as an ordinary woman rather than a nun, but he daren't. Her first priority was getting better. It was all she should focus on.
Patrick wrote to her every week to make sure she'd know he thought about her. His letters were friendly, civil. He didn't want to presume too much, even though it was almost impossible not to presume after their lovemaking.
No answers came.
His letters were laced with ever more silent desperation. His resolve to go and see her grew. There were things he couldn't say in a letter.
After all, he didn't even know her name.
He parked the car in front of the sanatorium. It was a large building, the stones the colour of sand. The trees that surrounded it had started to shed their leaves, the ones they still clutched in their twiggy grip dipped in gold and orange and brown.
Patrick wiped his hands on his trousers and inhaled deeply. "You'll be fine," he told himself, then stepped out of the car.
Inside the building, there lay an almost eerie hush. He stood still for a moment, toying with the idea of turning back and leaving, abandoning this plan. She didn't know he was coming; what if she didn't want him here? Her recovery was of the utmost importance; what if his presence here would unbalance her? But he needed to see how she was doing, and though he didn't much like to think of rights, he did feel he was somewhat justified in checking up on her, both in his capacity as her GP and her lover.
Regardless of what she decides, he thought, then exhaled and started moving.
"Can I help you?" a pretty nurse with round cheeks asked him.
"I'm looking for Sister Bernadette. I'm her GP. Doctor Turner," he said, extending his hand.
She shook it, her grip firm, her hand dry and warm. "Nurse Peters. I didn't know she was expecting you," she said, a sly smile playing on her face.
Patrick suddenly wondered if Sister Bernadette had mentioned him to the staff here, and what she'd told them.
"I was in the neighbourhood," he lied. "It's been a while since I've been to St. Anne's. I thought I might check up on the place, see how it's faring."
"Ever better since we've got the Triple Treatment," Nurse Peters said, directing him into a room with large windows that looked out over the spacious grounds. There were chairs and tables and sofas, some of them occupied, most of them empty.
"Antibiotics are a wonder drug," Patrick agreed, shifting his doctor's bag from one hand to the other, resisting the urge to dig around in his coat's pocket for his cigarette case.
"A miracle of the modern age. I'll tell her you're here," Nurse Peters said, deftly moving between the furniture, leaving Patrick near the door.
He adjusted his scarf, trying not to strain his neck as his eyes followed the nurse, looking for Sister Bernadette.
There she was. She wore her cap, but not her wimple, and sat curled up at the end of a sofa, near the window. He saw her from behind, and couldn't be sure what she'd been doing before Nurse Peters gently tapped her on the shoulder. If he had to hazard a guess, he'd say she'd been reading.
She looked up, listened to the nurse. She turned around, a ready smile on her face. When she saw him, her eyes widened in surprise. She listened to another thing Nurse Peters said, then gave her a small nod, almost curt in its littleness.
Nurse Peters returned, smiling openly. "She'll see you," she said.
Was he mistaken, or did the nurse give him a wink? He didn't know, didn't care; he threaded his way between the stools and chairs and coffee tables, legs feeling both weak as elastic and coiled tight as springs.
"Good morning, Sister," he said, voice a little hoarse.
She flicked her eyes up. They were almost liquid, and shone like stars. A side-effect of the TB, Patrick knew, but it did make her look luminous. "Hello, Doctor Turner," she said, her Scottish accent making it sound almost as if she were purring.
"Were you expecting someone else?" he asked.
"Sister Julienne will visit later today."
"I'm glad. You need visitors." He smiled at her.
She returned it, then pointed to a chair that stood very near her. "Won't you sit down?"
"Of course." He placed is bag against the chair, then flopped into it, wincing as his knees popped. "How are you?" he asked.
"The Triple Treatment and I seem to agree with each other," she said, putting the book she'd cradled in her lap on a wobbly coffee table.
"I'm glad," Patrick said. He tapped his fingertips together, uncertain of what to say. There was so much that needed to be said, so much he hadn't put in his letters, but there were other people here, and she was still a nun…
"How's Timothy?" she asked.
"You'll find him much the same when you return. He's grown a bit, but for the rest, he's still Timothy."
Before he could say any more, Nurse Peters placed a tray with china cups and a steaming teapot on the table. "Here you go," she said, and this time, she definitely gave him a wink.
Patrick felt his cheeks grow scarlet. He cleared his throat and trained his eyes on the plate with biscuits, taking one between his fingers and almost dropping it.
"Thank you," Sister Bernadette said, and poured the tea.
They were both silent for a little while, unsure of how to proceed.
Patrick ate his biscuit, then fumbled in his pocket for a little match box and placed it on the arm of the sofa. "Here."
She frowned, then took it in her hand, pushing it open. "A dead butterfly," she said, lines between her eyebrows smoothing themselves.
"Timothy found it in the windowsill. He asked me if I could tell him the cause of death, but I'm afraid insects have never been my field of expertise. He wanted to send it to you, to see if maybe you did know, or else if one of the doctors here might."
"He has an inquiring mind," Sister Bernadette noted, again giving him that small, soft smile.
"He asks after you every day. He wants to know when you'll come back." His heart beat a loud tattoo in his chest, causing his blood to roar in his ears. "I want to know when you come back, and how," he whispered.
She bit her lip, and looked away.
"I'm sorry. That was very forward of me," Patrick said, inwardly cursing himself.
She surprised him by taking his hand in hers and squeezing it. Her fingers were cold, her hand small and softer than he remembered.
"I've been thinking about it a great deal," she whispered. There was a breathiness to her voice that he didn't remember, either. "But I had to be absolutely sure that this is the right path."
He wanted to tell her she didn't seem to have such reservations before, at the surgery, when she was in his arms, but that would have been a very spiteful thing to say, and the last thing he desired was to hurt her. "If you want it, then surely…" he started.
"It's not about what I want; it's about what God wants."
He looked at her hand, at the ring that adorned her finger and signified she'd already made vows that she'd intended to keep for a lifetime. He stroked her knuckles. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come unannounced. It was a very selfish thing to do, but I was worried. I wrote you…"
"I know."
"I was very afraid that your health was in decline."
"I didn't refrain from writing you because I was ill; I didn't write to you because I needed time to think, and to pray."
They were silent for a little while.
"Should I go?" he asked.
Her head snapped up. "Doctor Turner, I'm sorry. I'm not the kind of woman to toy with a man's heart, and…" she couldn't speak, only squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.
"I'd never think that of you," Patrick said, enveloping her hand with his, rubbing a bit of life back into her icy digits.
"I know you so little…" her voice trailed off.
"I shouldn't have come," he murmured.
She opened her eyes and took hold of his hand with such force that it almost hurt. "No!" she said, louder than she'd probably intended. "Don't you see? If I leave the Order, it has to be because of more than you and Timothy. I can't renounce my vows because I want to be your wife and his mother. It doesn't matter how much I might want it, how everything else I've ever wished for pales in comparison. If I leave the Order, it has to be because He wants me to. I've made a promise, and I've put my life in His hands. It is not my own to give." She was very pale, but two spots of colour burned in her cheeks. Her chest was rising rapidly, and she was slightly out of breath.
"If I couldn't accept that, I wouldn't deserve you," he said.
"I couldn't have fallen in love with you if you didn't say things like that, if you didn't mean them," she said.
"I have to go home. Timothy is at his grandmother's; she'll expect me to have dinner with them, and I still have some files to go through." And he wanted to leave her in peace, so she could make up her mind without him to agitate her.
"Give Timothy my love. I'll ask one of the doctors here to look at his butterfly, see if we can find a cause of death," Sister Bernadette said.
"He'll appreciate that." Patrick stood and took his bag, then quickly ducked down to press a kiss against the back of her hand.
It was only when he straightened up that he saw Sister Julienne stare at them.
Oh God, he thought, what will we do now?