TWELVE
Standing at the window staring out at the flurries still falling lazily from the sky, Sister Bernadette wound her scarf around the lower part of her face and knotted it as tightly as she dared around her neck so that it was snug enough to remain in place but not so tight that it felt as though it was choking her. She then tugged a pair of mittens on to her hands, pulled her cloak tightly around her body, and walked over to the door so she could step out into the cold, January day.
The sister gasped audibly when the chill of the air hit her. She was already wearing as many layers as she could manage, but they did not seem to be quite enough to keep the cold from chilling her legs. At least her torso was warm and, if the wind would stop blowing so harshly, her legs and face would feel better as well. Unfortunately, she didn't have much of a choice but to press on; weather did not stop the need to care for their patients.
The prior day the news coming from the radio informed them that there would be a light dusting of snow overnight, perhaps one or two centimeters as most. As such, they had no intentions to cancel their clinic appointments. Then, they had woken up in a winter wonderland with no less than seven centimeters of snow on their garden wall—and it was still falling! While she and Sister Julienne were discussing what the best path forward might be, they found out that both Sisters Monica Joan and Evangelina were sick in bed with stomach ailments.
Within ten minutes they had decided that Trixie would remain at Nonnatus to man the phones in case of emergency calls while Sister Bernadette would go to the community center to see any patients who turned up that day. They doubted that many—if any—would brave the weather, but on the off chance that they did, they did not want to abandon the care of any pregnant women who made the journey.
The sister originally thought she might be able to use her bicycle to travel to the community center, but as she walked carefully down the steps of Nonnatus she realized that was not a good idea. The ground was simply too slippery beneath the snow, and she could easily risk falling and injuring herself. She was then left with the only option of walking, which seemed fine at first, but within a few minutes she felt her feet growing quite chilled despite the two pairs of socks she wore.
Though the walk took longer than it normally did thanks to her caution due to the conditions, the sister arrived without issue. No patients were waiting for her, but that did not mean they would not be soon arriving as the weather conditions improved, so she carefully walked up the steps and unlocked the doors. She went directly to the supply closet to find an implement with which to clear the steps of snow and slush, but all she was able to find was a broom. Knowing it was better than using her hands or feet, she grabbed it and headed back outside.
She had only been sweeping away the snow for a few minutes when she heard, "Sister, what on earth are you doing?"
She turned around to see Patrick quite bundled up as he approached the community center on foot with Timothy skipping along a few steps behind him. "I could ask you the same question," she called back to him. "What are you doing out here in this cold you hate so much?"
"I assumed some of our patients didn't hate the cold as much as I do," he replied.
"Yes, that is why I'm here too. What are you doing, Timothy?"
"There's no school today, Sister," he said as he skipped along, kicking up snow with his toes as he went.
"Oh, well then you have plenty of time to play in the snow. I'm nearly done with these stairs, but I suppose I should clear the stairs to the entrance on the other side of the building as well."
"I'll take care of those once you're finished." Patrick told her. She nodded to him and then turned back to her sweeping. She listened passively to Timothy's giggles and squeals of joy and thought wistfully back to her childhood days when waking up to fluffy white precipitation outside could lead to the most fun she would have for weeks.
Just as she was contemplating asking Timothy if he wanted to build a small snowman, she felt something smack directly into the back of her head. She froze, absolutely stunned for a moment, as cold wet slush began to drip down from her veil and land in the folds of her scarf and along the exposed portion of her neck. She turned slowly and saw the Turner men gazing wide-eyed in her directly. She immediately noticed that only one of them had particles of snow encrusting his gloves.
"Patrick Turner!" she scolded immediately.
While Timothy giggled, "Daddy, you're in trouble," Patrick blanched.
"Oh, Sister, I am so sorry!"
As the cold wetness dripping along her neck persisted, she had no choice but to remove her veil and hold it out in front of her as she shook the snow away. Meanwhile, Patrick took two steps towards her as he continued to grovel. "I didn't mean to hit you—I only meant to startle. I was aiming at the wall."
She propped the broom against the exterior wall of the community center, then hung her stopping wet veil on it by hooking the chin strap onto the top of the handle. Then, she turned around, and did the only thing she could: she grabbed a fistful of snow from where it rested atop the handrail to the stairs. As she balled it together with her mittens, Timothy cheered.
"Okay, that's fair. One free shot." He held his arms out to the side and waited for her retaliation, but the sister knew her own limitations. Instead of throwing he snowball from the top of the stairs, where she was certain it would barely clear the bottom step let alone hit him where he stood several meters back, she stalked down the stairs towards him like a lioness approaching prey.
"Now wait a second, you're supposed to throw that from a di-" His last word was lost to the thwack that filled the air when the snowball collided with his shoulder. He gazed down at the spot then back up at her. "I deserved that."
"Do it again!" Timothy cheered.
Sister Bernadette had no idea what came over her as her actions were quite out of character, but for some reason she found she had no choice but to do as the boy suggested. She spun around, grabbed another hunk of snow, that time from the bottom of the handrail, and hurled it in Patrick's direction. That time, it just barely clipped the edge of his knee. She found herself momentarily disappointed until Timothy decided to join their game. He scooped up a hunk of snow from the ground and tossed it towards his father where it landed directly on his groin. Thankfully, the boy's throw had not been very strong, but Patrick still groaned and bent over at the waist as Sister Bernadette clapped a mitten over her mouth to cover her gasp.
"Timothy…"
"I was aiming for your belly, Daddy!" the boy said proudly.
A guffaw escaped Sister Bernadette's lips, mostly from how pleased with himself Timothy seemed to be, but Patrick evidently though she was laughing at him, because a moment later he scooped up snow from the ground and chucked it in her direction. And thus began their snow war.
For the next five minutes they hurled clumps of snow in varying sizes at each other. The more aggressive their throws grew, the more their accuracy fell, but their laughter was consistent throughout. At one point, Patrick held Timothy up in front of him as a human shield, but of course Sister Bernadette refused to throw a snowball at him. Timothy then demanded that she hit him with snow, so she approached him carefully with two very tiny fingerfuls of snow and patted them against his rosy cheeks, which made him let out a delightful giggle.
Their snow battle finally came to an end when the ground became so slushy and slippery that Sister Bernadette lost her footing and would have fallen had Patrick not been close enough to catch her around the waist. He nearly stopped her downward momentum, but then his foot slipped as well, and they crumpled into a heap on the ground with him on his back and her back pressing into his chest. She tried to get up only to slip again and fall back down on top of him that time with her side pressed against his stomach. By that point, they were both laughing so hard that she didn't feel she had enough strength to push herself up without taking a break, so she merely collapsed against him. Her hand pressed against his side and, even despite their heavy clothing, she could feel the rumbling of his laughter. She gazed down at his face and saw, for the first time since he entered her life again, pure joy etched onto it. Her heart constricted in her chest as seeing him so happy made her feel happy as well.
"Sister! Your hair is brown!"
"What? Oh…" She reached up to feel her head and realized that her coif must have been knocked askew during their snow battle, because she could feel that it had slipped back from her forehead. The embarrassment of being so reckless with her actions that she had exposed her hair gave her the strength she needed to stand upright tug off her gloves and quickly pull her coif back down into place. By that point, Patrick had managed to stand as well, and he was brushing the slush away from his coat and pants.
"Come now—let's go inside and dry ourselves off."
The three of them trudged their way inside, slipping slightly with their wet shoes on the tile floors. While Patrick took Tim back to his office, she slipped into the women's restroom and stood in front of the mirror so she could be certain that all her hair was covered once again. As she was not permitted any vanity, Sister Bernadette did not often look at her reflection. She consistently checked her coif each morning to make sure none of her hair was exposed, but that glance took but a few seconds. Now, for the first time in a while she gazed at her reflection and took note of the rosiness of her cheeks and the paleness in her lips where they had been touched by the cold. Guilt crept over her, as she knew that however much fun it had been in the moment, playing in the snow with Patrick and Timothy was not something she should have indulged in. Particularly since, if they were to be technical about it, she was the one who initiated the fight by throwing a snowball in retaliation—which was another thing she would need to ask God's forgiveness for.
Once she'd cleaned herself up as well as she could, she walked back to the surgery offices to make sure Timothy didn't need any help. She ran into Patrick in the surgery waiting area and tried to ignore the way his wet hair flopped down against his forehead made her heart flutter in the most peculiar way.
"Are you all right? You weren't hurt when we fell, were you?"
"No, were you?"
"I don't think so, but my backside may still be a bit frozen to properly tell." He smiled at her and then said very genuinely, "Thank you."
"For what?" she asked, a bit of self-loathing evident in her tone. "Soaking you to the skin?"
He let out a breathy laugh. "No. For all of it." He gazed out the closest window towards the front steps of the community center where evidence of their snow massacre remained before turning back to her, his expression a bit wistful. "I haven't laughed like that in nearly a year."
When he turned and walked back to his office, Sister Bernadette felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Was it possible that this was yet another part of God's plan? Had he influenced her to lift Patrick's spirits in what was admittedly an unusual way? If that was the case, was it possible that she could trust the feelings sparking to life inside of her once more? Or would God once again show his disapproval in a shocking way?
Unfortunately, as with all of His guidance, the answers remained unclear, but she resolved to pray about it in the coming days.
After parking his car along the street, Patrick grabbed his bag from the passenger seat and hurried out along the dark walkway towards his flat. As he was already arriving home nearly a half hour later than he anticipated, he did not want to doddle on his way back home. Sister Bernadette had already been generous enough to offer to stay with Timothy for a few hours; he did not want to take up more of her time or make her late for her evening prayers.
At the start of the new year, he had sat down with the midwives to discuss how they might alter their procedures to provide the best care to the citizens of Poplar. He felt that he had made great strides in enveloping himself in the community during his first few months there, but he also saw room for improvement. Though he had won over many patients with his skill and friendly demeanor, many citizens of Poplar remained skeptical and continued to judge him by the standards set by his predecessor. As such, he'd come to realize that many were not getting the care they needed until they were at a point where they needed emergency treatment. He hoped that they could all work together to find the best solution.
During their discussion, it was brought to his attention that many of the residents were employed by the warehouses and shipyards of the nearby docks. They worked long shifts with absolutely no flexibility and thus struggle to be able to make an appointment during his available hours. Sister Julienne proposed that on at least one day a week he delayed opening his offices until the late morning so that he could remain open until the early evening. While he was certainly open to the idea, he expressed that he could not agree to it until he found someone to care for Timothy between the time school let out and his new office hours ended. He was not surprised when Sister Bernadette immediately volunteered, but Sister Julienne ended up countering this by saying the boy could spend the time at Nonnatus House and whichever nuns were available would make sure he was taken care of.
The first several weeks of his new office hours had been so popular that he felt pressured into adding a second evening of appointments for the month of February. He initially felt guilty asking the nuns to watch over Timothy for a second evening, but Sister Julienne assured him there was no issue with it. While Timothy did seem a bit disappointed to lose more time with his father, Patrick promised him that he intended for the second evening per week to be temporary—just until he was able to catch up on a backlog of needy patients. At least, that's what he told himself.
The arrangement was going well until one week in late February when he arrived at Nonnatus to find Timothy in tears, sitting on Sister Bernadette's lap as she comforted him. Though it was difficult to get the full story out, from what he could gather, Sister Monica Joan was minding Timothy while Sisters Evangelina and Bernadette were on midwifery calls. Sister Julienne had been at Nonnatus but was shut in her office taking an important phone call with the Mother House. The eldest sister had Timothy sitting with her while they listened to the radio. Timothy had left the room to use the toilet and when he returned, the sister was gone. He'd tried to look for her and had not found her, but he had found the front door to Nonnatus open, so he'd gone out to search for her. Sister Bernadette had thankfully seen him when on her way back. By that point, Timothy was distraught, somehow coming to the conclusion that the disappearance of Sister Monica Joan was his fault.
One of the first things Patrick had learned during his worth with the midwives was that Sister Monica Joan's mental faculties could come and go seemingly at random. One day she would be entirely lucid and able to help them with chores around Nonnatus, and the next morning they'd find her in the middle of the street, barefoot and wearing only her dressing gown as she shouted at passing cars. Whether or not she'd had one of those episodes that night or had simply wandered off in search of Timothy, having forgotten where he went, they could never know for sure, but Sister Julienne promised him they would never allow her to be solely in charge of Timothy again.
Since Timothy had been a bit rattled by the incident, Sister Bernadette had suggested that she could come to their flat to watch over Timothy, at least until he felt more comfortable going back to Nonnatus. Though Patrick told her that wasn't necessary, he also did not want to further traumatize his son, so he didn't argue with her. He did, however, assure her that whenever it became inconvenient for her to do so, he was happy to have Tim stay at Nonnatus once more. Still, more often than not it seemed she was able to take the time to watch him at their flat.
As Patrick unlocked the door, he found himself distracted by thoughts of his final patient of the night, a middle-aged gentleman who had an injury to his foot that had turned into a nasty infection. Patrick had wanted to thoroughly clean the wound in addition to giving antibiotics, which had taken extra time. He hated to think of how long that man was walking on his foot, which had surely been quite painful, before seeking care.
With his mind on other things, Patrick entered the flat without much thought. He dropped his bag by the door, shrugged off his coat, and dropped his keys onto the small table by the coatrack. His mind still hadn't been on the present when he walked into the living room and heard shouts of, "Surprise!" which caused him to yelp from shock.
"Happy Birthday Daddy!" Timothy cheered before running up to him and hugging his leg.
Patrick glanced around the room as his brain processed what he was seeing. There were streamers hanging off the back of the sofa and balloons tied to the dining chairs with ribbon. On the table he spotted a plate with a cake atop it with a single candle burning in the middle.
"What—what's all this?" he asked, still feeling rather surprised.
"We had to celebrate your birthday!" Timothy said. He bounced up and down on his toes with his arms stretched above his head before his father hoisted him up and carried him over to the table. From that position he was able to see that the cake had the number 33 written on it in frosting.
His eyes shifted to Sister Bernadette, who he knew had to be the instigator of such a celebration. "How did you know?" They had never spoken about birthdays to the best of his recollection, not even during their time in Italy. His actual birthday was the following day, and he didn't have any intentions to celebrate. His wife had always insisted making a big deal out of it, and he went along with he plans to appease her, and because Timothy seemed to enjoy it, but left to his own devices he would have ignored the day entirely. Birthdays had never been fussed over when he was growing up, so he'd grown accustomed to simply letting the days pass by with limited, if any, acknowledgement.
"Last week, Timothy was being a bit enthusiastic with his playing and knocked into the bookcase. When I was cleaning up, I came across your military ID; it had your birthday printed on it."
"And she said we should celebrate, Daddy!" Timothy added.
The sister gave a slightly embarrassed shrug. "Well, who doesn't like an excuse to have some cake?" They held each other's gaze for a moment before she quickly gestured to the table and said, "You should blow out the candle before it burns too low."
Looking at his son, he said, "Let's do it together. On the count of three." He counted and then leaned over with Timothy still in his arms and together they extinguished the candle. Tim clapped and Patrick let him slide down to the floor.
The boy scampered over the couch and grabbed a sheet of paper, holding it high above his head saying, "I made you this drawing for a present Daddy."
"Oh my," Patrick proclaimed as he gazed down at the swirls of colors on the page. "This is lovely. What did you draw for me?"
"Flowers," Timothy explained.
Though Patrick saw not one shape that could have charitably been described as a flower, he said, "Well I love it, thank you very much." Then, turning to the sister he added, "And thank you. This was very kind, though unnecessary."
"You are welcome. I guess we should serve the cake, what do you think Timothy?"
"YES!" He cheered. Then he followed her into the kitchen proclaiming, "I want to help! I can hold the plate!"
After they walked away, Patrick glanced down at the table and noticed another sheet of paper he hadn't seen before. Happy Birthday Patrick was written in large block letters and his son had managed to sign it using the first three letters of his name written so crooked they were nearly vertical. He smiled down at the sheet and thought back to his last birthday. With the cancer ravaging her body, his wife Marianne had been quite weak, but she'd still made a cake for him and forced herself from bed so she could sit at the table as they sang to him and ate. For that year's card, she'd managed to get Tim to write the "T" in his name, but that was all he'd been capable of.
With those memories still floating through his mind, Patrick gazed into the kitchen to see Timothy standing up on a chair by the counter as Sister Bernadette sliced the cake. They shared a laugh that made his heart flutter and he briefly wondered what next year's birthday would bring and whether the three of them would once again be celebrating it together.
He felt an ache pulse through his gut and found he actually had to turn away from the kitchen to process it. Was it possible…
No—no, his heart simply was not ready to think thoughts like that. Particularly not when many of the same complications between he and the sister that had existed when they became friends in Italy had not changed. Yet, in many ways, they were in a similar position as they had been in during their final weeks together at the Allied hospital. Arguably they were in an even more intimate one, given how frequently she visited his flat and interacted with his son. Perhaps, in time he would be ready to think about what that future might look like, but for the moment all his heart could handle was appreciating how their friendship had been rebuilt into one he valued greatly.
"Here we are."
Patrick turned to see the sister carrying two small plates of cake back to the dining table while Timothy carried his own. The three of them sat and enjoyed their treat, after which Timothy proclaimed, "We need to do this again."
"We can for your birthday," she said kindly. "Though, it's not for a few months yet."
"What about your birthday?" Timothy asked.
"Yes," Patrick chimed in, "When is it? I'd be happy to repay the kindness."
"My birthday is in June, but there is no need for celebration."
"Will you be thirty-three as well?" Tim asked.
"Er, no." Sister Bernadette said patiently. "I am a few years younger than your father, so I will be twenty-eight."
"Really?" Patrick asked with notable surprise. He'd always assumed she had been barely twenty when they met. She glanced at him curiously so he clarified with, "I thought you were a few years younger than that. You just…seemed so young in your village girl disguise."
"Maybe that was part of her disguise, Daddy."
Patrick chuckled and said, "Well, yes, I suppose it was."
They sat quietly for a moment before Sister Bernadette told them she needed to be getting back to her sisters. Patrick offered to drive her given the hour, but she assured him she was fine. He still walked her to the door so he could thank her again for her kindness. As she usually did, she turned the conversation away from herself and said, "Timothy seemed quite intrigued as he watched me prepare the cake. Next time I'm here, would you mind if I showed him some more things in the kitchen? If he's interested, that is."
Caught slightly off-guard by the request he stammered a moment. "Ah, no, that's—I mean, you may show him whatever you wish, and you don't have to ask permission. I trust your judgment."
She nodded and then said, "I do hope you have a good birthday, Patrick." And with that, she slipped out into the night. He watched her pedal away until she turned left down another street and disappeared from view. Then, he shut the door, and walked slowly back towards his son, knowing his birthday would be a good one thanks to the kindness of his very dear friend.