EIGHT

With a heavy breath, Patrick glanced up at the clock on the wall of the ward and said, "Time of death 17:31." He moved his hands to pull the sheet up over the patients head respectfully. Then he turned, grabbed the clipboard at the end of the patient's bed, and walked off to write up the death report.

Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose and winced, his eyes beginning to sting as he looked down at the page. The day had been long—much longer than he'd expected when he awoke that morning. For the first time since being at the front he'd called not one but two times of death that day, and with several more men's lives hanging in the balance around him, he would not have been shocked to call a third before the night was over.

Shortly before noon, he'd been chatting with Sister Bernadette as she made her way through the ward doing bandage and wound checks when a breathless soldier rushed up to him and said there had been an explosion at a nearby airfield and they were receiving patients with severe casualties. Apparently, several men had been unloading a shipment of ammunition when something caused a spark or some sort of detonation, which resulted in a catastrophic domino effect of other blasts. Two men were pronounced dead on scene and six others had wounds of varying severity.

Patrick could not help but think of his time at the front as he took a man with a gruesome abdomen injury into an operating theatre. It had thankfully been many months since he had needed to attend to injuries of that nature, but the horrendous trauma of his prior experiences nipped at the edges of his heels. When the nurse accidentally dropped an instrument onto a metal tray, the clanging sound made his knees wobble. He took several deep breaths to prevent any tremors from forming in his hands but keeping his head on straight for the two-hour surgery had been a continuous battle. In the end, the injuries to the man's organs had simply been too catastrophic and Patrick had called his first time of death for the day.

After taking barely five minutes to wash up, drink some water, and use the facilities, Patrick entered his next surgery of the day. Thankfully, that man's life was not in imminent danger, but whether or not he'd retain both of his legs remained to be seen. The compound fracture to the left leg was complex, but repairable. The right leg, however, had taken the brunt of the blow and Patrick knew immediately the man would need to transferred home to see an orthopedic specialist. He simply did not have the knowledge or skill to do the repairs needed to the patient's knee, but he was able to remove the shrapnel, tie off the bleeding, and get him into a reasonably stable position before ending the procedure.

Exiting the theatre after his second surgery, Patrick began to feel rather shaky. He felt initially worried for a backslide in his mental status until Sister Bernadette pressed a wrapped sandwich into his hands and he realized his issues were more likely due to a significant dip in blood sugar. He felt better after eating, but he did not have time to take any sort of rest because a few more injured men had arrived from the airfield—and he still had his regular patients that needed tending to.

Late in the afternoon, Patrick had met with the major and two representatives from the airfield to discuss the status of the critically wounded and to review the protocols for transporting emergency patients to the Allied hospital. Typically, Patrick disliked any meeting he felt might become too bureaucratic but after the carnage of the day he found it to be a welcome distraction, particularly since as soon as it ended, he was back in the ward assessing whether or not a man would need to have his severely burned arm amputated at the elbow.

As if the day had not had enough difficulties, Rome seemed to be experiencing a late-autumn heat wave. Temperatures rose above 30 at the hottest point of the day, leaving the hospital and all its inhabitants sweltering. By the time he'd finally been relieved from duty, Patrick had sweat through his vest and shirt. He'd gone up to his room to shower and change but given the miserable heat of the third floor of the hospital, he thought showering might be a bit of a pointless task. He did rise off for a few minutes just for the relief off the cool water, and then put on a clean vest and trousers before making his way down to the balcony to smoke and wait for his evening companion.

If he'd bothered to give his evening routine any thought at all, he would have found it quite unusual. He and Sister Bernadette never made any formal plans to spend the evening together nor did they generally acknowledge they would see each other later if they came across each other during the daytime hours. Yet, their routine was one of the most consistent things in his life. Assuming neither of was scheduled for an evening shift, they would retreat to the balcony between eight and nine and chat, share cigarettes, or sometimes simply enjoy each other's company in silence.

Through this unofficial schedule, the sister had become one of his closest friends. For the most part they talked about their lives before the war, swapping stories and amusing anecdotes. He told her about his first and only fistfight at the age of fifteen and she told him about the time she tripped going down stairs and broke her nose around the age of eight and how all her classmates teased her for her two black eyes. He talked about the sports he played, and how he missed watching proper cricket matches even if they went on for hours, and they both talked about their difficult relationships with their fathers. By that point, nearly four months since they met up again, he was beginning to feel like he knew everything about her, and it was unexpectedly comforting to know someone that way and have them know you in return.

He had nearly finished his first cigarette before he heard her footsteps on the concrete floor. She stepped up beside him, placed her hand on the balcony wall beside his, and asked, "How are you doing?"

From the tenderness of her tone, he knew she was asking about his mental status. "I am well," he promised her. Noting the slightly worried look on her face, he explained further as reassurance. "I admit I had some difficult moments in that first surgery, but I…I didn't feel myself slipping away. I was on edge, certainly, but once it was over, I felt more than capable to move on to the next patient. In fact, I would not be feeling any distress at all right now if it weren't for…" He let his voice drift off as he finished off the cigarette in his hand.

"For what?"

With his hands braced against the balcony wall, he dropped his chin to his chest. His stomach clenched uncomfortably as he prepared to reveal the moment, he hoped no one else heard. "I met with the commanders from the airfield a few hours ago to review the incident. As they were leaving, one of them said, 'A surgeon like you belongs at the front,' and I…" He winced as he looked over to her, almost as though he was fearful of saying the words aloud. "I don't want to go back there."

"Of course, you don't; I can't imagine anyone that would."

"It's not only that. It's…I am afraid of what would become of me. Another few weeks there and I…I don't know what would happen." He shivered despite it being quite warm outside. He was loathe to admit the weakness and could not have imagined doing so to anyone but her, but he felt it deeply in his bones. He had survived his time at the front by the thinnest of margins. Months later, he felt he had mostly recovered, but the prospect of going back felt like the most terrifying of nightmares. Even given another few months to recovery at the Allied hospital he wasn't sure he could stomach it; the prospect was simply too horrific to bear.

She stepped up and placed her hand gently on his shoulder. As he wore a sleeveless vest, the edge of her hand brushed against the bare skin of his arm causing the skin at the back of his neck to prickle.

"You do not need to trouble yourself with this, Patrick. That man, who is not your commander, made an off the cuff comment. I'm certain he meant it as a compliment and nothing more."

He nodded distantly and slipped his hand into his pocket to retrieve his pack of cigarettes. "Yes…yes, you're probably right." After lighting another cigarette, he asked her how her day was.

"Busy," she replied, "But it felt good to do mostly nursing instead of housekeeping tasks."

"You like nursing the best," he said as more of a statement than a question.

She gave a little shrug. "I do not mind any of the tasks I am directed to do, but nursing is a nice way to see how helpful one can be."

He hummed and then stared out across the grass towards the last hints of sun setting beyond the horizon. "I was thinking…after the utter misery that was today, we should talk about positive things."

"Don't we usually?"

"Yes, but I mean really, really positive things. Like…childhood pets? Or maybe just a really friendly dog you saw once when you were a girl? What about a silly friend you had from school? Just…" he waved his hand dismissively to the hospital behind them, "anything but this."

He watched her expression turned pensive for a moment. Then, she said, "When I was quite young, my grandparents had chickens. I named one of them Susan and I said she was my best friend. It wasn't until I was much older that I realized Susan was actually a rooster."

He laughed. "No one corrected you?"

"Oh, no. My grandmother said I shouldn't name the chickens, so I didn't tell anyone about it."

He hummed as he took a drag of the cigarette and then said, "Well, go on then. Tell me all about your adventures with Susan the rooster."

Patrick opened his eyes and slowly became aware of the world around him. He'd been having such a strange dream about a pipe breaking inside the operating theatre and spraying him with water that he felt disoriented. As he returned to consciousness, he became aware of discomfort in his lower back and his neck. Gazing around he realized that was because he was asleep outside, propped up against the balcony wall. Perhaps more interestingly, he wasn't alone.

In the dim light of pre-dawn, Patrick came to realize that his right arm was curled around Sister Bernadette, who was asleep with her head on his chest and her arm draped across his stomach. For a moment, he became convinced that he was still dreaming, because how had he and Sister Bernadette ended up sleeping together on the hospital balcony? He thought back to the night before and remembered when they sat down to rest their tired feet. They'd been sitting shoulder-to-shoulder and must have slowly fallen asleep together, which was quite shocking…but also rather nice.

When a stab of pain shot through his neck, he grumbled slightly and tried to tilt his head back to a more neutral position, which was difficult with the concrete wall behind him. As he did so, his arm twitched, which seemed to awaken the sister curled against him. He watched as she looked around, presumably facing the same confusion as he had a minute earlier, and then tiled her head back so she could look up at him.

"Hello," he said a bit dumbly.

"Hello," she echoed.

He half expected her to jump up from shock or push herself quickly away from their intimate position, but she did not. Instead, she rotated her upper body so that her stomach pressed against his and her fingertips drifted up towards his chest. He could feel them brush against his ribs through the thin fabric of his vest and felt his breath catch in his chest as a wave of attraction pulsed through him. His fingertips curled against her back as he gazed down at her, taking in the loveliness of her face. Her veil had become off seated in the night revealing a section of honey-brown hair draped down over her temple. Her soft pink lips were parted slightly, and he saw deep admiration reflected in her blue eyes. She was, without question, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

As he looked down at her, he watched as her gaze drifted down towards his lips and then back up to meet his eyes. Another wave of attraction flowed through him, and his ribs began to feel just a little bit too tight around his chest. Was she…did she…could she possibly…

The questions felt too terrifying for his brain to complete, but even as they bounced around in his mind, he felt himself drifting closer to her. He tilted his head forward, bringing them closer, almost close enough to-

Squawk!

The seemingly deafening call of a bird caused them both to jump. Patrick's head slammed into the concrete wall behind him, and he looked up to see a black bird sitting on the edge of the balcony, its head tilted to the side as it gazed at him curiously. Wincing, he brought his left hand up to rub at the back of his head, but when he looked over at Sister Bernadette, he realized their moment had broken.

When she met his eye, she forced out a smile and said, "I can't believe we fell asleep."

"Yes…"

She popped up to her feet, smoothed down her habit and said, "I should be going." Then, she hurried back inside before his brain had even processed what happened.

Dazed from both the shock of the morning and the unpleasant pain in his head, Patrick took another moment to collect himself before going inside and trudging his way up to the third floor. As he felt sticky from the morning dew that had settled on his skin, he stripped down and went directly to the shower. As he passed the bar of soap across his chest, he felt the ghost of Sister Bernadette's fingertips along his ribs and groaned. Reaching down, he adjusted the temperature of the spray, so it was almost entirely cold water and then braced his hands against the shower wall, taking deep breaths.

Was he attracted to Sister Bernadette? Had he almost kissed Sister Bernadette?

When he admitted to himself the answer to both questions was affirmative, he cursed his foolishness. He wasn't allowed to be attracted to her—she was a nun! She was a colleague! She was…one of his truest friends and someone he cared for deeply. She was…someone he could see himself falling in love with easily—in fact, he felt certain he had already begun to tumble.

Groaning, he forced his face under the cold water to try and knock some sense back into himself. Having feelings for her wasn't right—it simply wasn't! She would never—

Oh.

Well.

Perhaps, maybe she would.

She had not moved away from him when they woke up. If anything, she moved closer. And she had looked at his lips almost as though she wanted him to… Oh, dear, did she want him to? Maybe she had begun to fall for him as well, and, if their feelings were mutual then maybe—maybe they could be together. Maybe they could have a future together. Maybe they could find happiness together…but how could they be happy in an environment like that one? How could they be happy when he could be sent back to the front at any time? How could he allow himself to fully commit himself someone when he didn't trust himself not to break again?

The sound of a fist pounding on the door to the shower room brought Patrick back to the present. He shut off the water, wrapped a towel around his waist, and quickly vacated the room, muttering an apology as he went. Once back in his room, he dressed slowly, considering his predicament. Exploring the idea of a relationship with Sister Bernadette was simply too impactful to consider carelessly. Their lives were so complex at the moment that it just didn't seem to be the right time. Perhaps, soon it would be, though. The war still raged to the north, but Mussolini was losing ground by the day. Surely, the Allies would soon have him to the point of surrender and then maybe he could find some time for to figure out a happy future for them both.

Sister Bernadette reached the bottom step on the ground floor, pressed her hand to the middle of her chest and leaned her head against the wall, unsure if she was about to laugh or cry. Patrick had almost kissed her, and she was sure if that bird hadn't interrupted them, he would have. She would have let him, too, because she was utterly and completely in love with him.

The prior night they had been having one of their best conversations to date and, given all the conversation they had, it was truly saying something. She normally tried to wind down their conversations when it was close to the hour she needed to begin her evening devotions, but the day had been so difficult, she simply had not been able to make herself go. As soon as they sat down, she felt her eyes growing heavy, so she wasn't entirely shocked to wake up on the balcony with nothing but the full moon overhead to illuminate the area. Her first instinct had been to stand up, but then she realized Patrick's hand was resting on her arm.

She gazed over at him, taking in the way sleep relaxed his face making him look so peaceful—and handsome. She'd wanted to brush her thumb over his cheek and down his jaw, but she didn't want to wake him. Instead, she let her gaze drift down towards his collar bone, over his shoulder, and down his arm to where his other hand rested on his belly. Thinking about what it might feel like for that hand to press against her, perhaps around her waist, caused her to feel tingles at the base of her neck and a swell of emotions inside her chest. Somewhere, deep inside of her, a voice whispered, "This is love," and unlike the other times that voice had spoken, she didn't fight it. She held on to it, soared along with it, and allowed herself to accept it completely.

Sister Bernadette had never been in love before. She'd never had any opportunities for love as she'd spent so much of her youth as quite a shy and demure child. Then, before she had much of a chance to blossom into womanhood, she'd gone almost directly from nursing school to the order. She'd had a few dates while in school and even kissed a young man once, but she had felt too startled and afraid by the act to want to do it again. At the time, she told herself she simply needed to know a man better before kissing him the next time, but of course there had been no next time as she'd felt herself drawn into a life dedicated to God.

As her friendship with Patrick blossomed, she felt the tether to that religious existence began to slip. She did not allow herself to think of it too much since each time she did caused the sensation of splitting herself in two. She did not want to abandon her dedication to God's work, but her feelings for Patrick grew ever stronger until that moment when she finally let herself embrace them fully. She loved him.

Because of how she felt for him, she simply could not bring herself to leave the balcony that night. Instead, she allowed herself the luxury of resting her head against his shoulder, shutting her eyes, and falling back to sleep beside him.

Now that morning had broken, she knew she needed to get back to the work that needed done in the hospital so, after taking a few moments to calm the butterflies in her stomach, she walked slowly to the room she shared with the other nuns to ready herself for the day. She was not yet prepared to confess her feelings to Patrick or to resign her position with the order. She needed to pray a bit more, so she was certain of the right words to say. She felt confident God would guide her, she just needed a bit of time to absorb his wisdom.

Sister Bernadette tried to open the door to her room slowly so as not to disrupt any of the nuns who had begun their morning prayers, but she was surprised to see that not only was everyone awake, but they appeared to be packing and organizing their belongings—every single one of them. She felt rather confused as she walked into the room until Sister Catherine intercepted her with an annoyed, "Sister Bernadette, where have you been?"

She dipped her head respectfully and said, "I am sorry, Sister; I fell asleep on the balcony last night."

Sister Catherine eyed her suspiciously. "Is that so? Well, because you did not join us last night, you will have even less time to ready yourself."

"Ready myself for…what?"

"Our partnership with this hospital has come to an immediate close. We are to meet up with a local order and aid them in their humanitarian efforts in villages near the front."

Sister Bernadette felt as though she'd taken a blow to the chest as the news could not have been more shocking. "I…I don't understand."

"The Lord is guiding us, Sister. Surely you do not wish to question God."

She felt all the blood drain away from her face as she croaked out, "N-no, Sister."

"Well, then, you'd better start packing; our transport leaves in less than an hour!"

Feeling as though she was in a complete daze, Sister Bernadette walked over to her cot and reached down so she could strip off the linens, but when her fingers touched the fabric, she felt a sob bubble out of her chest. She clamped her left hand down on her mouth and turned to face the wall to hide her shame from her sisters.

How could she have been so foolish? How could she have forgotten the promise she'd made to serve God? She had dared to put someone above him inside of her heart, and now he was showing her just how very wrong that was. God was redirecting her path away from Patrick and back to the one devoted to Him and, however much it would tear her up inside, she had no choice but to obey. The timing of His request could not have made His wishes clearer.

As she packed up her meager belongings, Sister Bernadette fought breaking down into tears every moment, but she would not let herself. She took in slow deep breaths and continued to say her prayers, asking God for his forgiveness for her sinful acts and promising to do better in the future to follow His guidance and love Him above all else.

Despite her promise to recommit to all the vows she made when she first joined the order, Sister Bernadette knew she could not leave with the nuns without saying goodbye to Patrick. He was not to blame for her sinful choices and disappearing without explaining what was happening would be cruel. She owed him a proper goodbye with kind words and gratitude, but she knew she did not have the time nor emotional fortitude for that. At least she could give him a simple one—or so she hoped.

After packing her belongings, she dashed up to his office on the second floor, but he wasn't there. She also checked the wards on the second floor and the first, but he was nowhere to be found. She returned to the ground level to pick up her bag and take it out to the front of the hospital, where the other nuns stood praying and waiting for their transport to arrive. By that point, she knew she had less than five minutes, so she decided to write him a quick note as it was better than saying nothing at all.

She walked back into the hospital, thinking about the best possible wording and how she could say all she felt she needed two in just a few sentences. She'd been so focused on her own mind as she approached the ward to get paper and pen at the nurses' desk, that she would have walked smack into someone if he hadn't said, "Oh, hello!" in his typically cheerful tone.

She jumped, startled by the sound of his voice, but then, when her eyes fell upon him, a deep, aching sadness filled her gut, and she felt her bottom lip begin to tremble.

"I was—what is it?" Patrick asked her, his brow knitting with concern. "Is something wrong?"

"I have to go," she rasped out, her voice barely more than a squeak.

"What?"

She cleared her throat and repeated, "I have to leave. Right now."

A bemused expression crossed his face. "What do you mean? Where are you going?"

"I don't know. I'm going with my sisters."

"What? I…" His voice drifted off as the lines on his forehead deepened. "Well, ah, when are you coming back?"

The trembling in her chin led the way to tears streaming down her face as she managed, "I don't think I am."

Now looking fully alarmed, he reached out his hand to her, "Sister, what is-"

She twisted away from him before he could touch her and managed only, "I must go," before sobs began to overtake her.

She didn't get more than three steps before his hand grabbed her arm. "Wait, Sister. Please!"

The desperation in his tone clawed at her soul and, though she could barely contain her emotions, implored her to turn around. She did so, cautiously, but the hurt painted on his face caused her emotions to break through the dam and her apology bubbled out in a barely intelligible sob.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She apologized to both him and God for her sinful actions. In that moment it was nearly impossible for her to reconcile how the all-consuming feelings she had for Patrick had been so sinful. She'd only wanted to care for him and make him happy. Why hadn't God wanted that for her too? She knew that, in time, God would show her why he had chosen a different path for her, but she also knew accepting that path would be much easier far away from the reflection of Patrick's kind gaze.

Allowing herself one more moment of admiration for him, she reached out her hand, pressed it gently to his jaw and said, "Stay safe. I will pray for you." Then, after lingering for just half a second more, she turned, pulled out of his grasp, and ran all the way out to the front of the hospital where a bus was waiting to take her down God's intended path.