FOURTEEN

Sitting at his desk, Patrick skimmed through the typed-up notes page in front of him, tapping his pen against each line as he read it. Every few lines he would scratch down a few notes into the margins or question something he thought might be missing. When he reached the end of the page, he put it aside and picked up the next one of its kind and continued his review process, wanting to make sure everything looked right from a medical standpoint for the new classes the nuns would begin offering at the community center beginning in a few weeks.

The classes, which were designed to help inform pregnant women about motherhood and post-natal care, had been inspired by George, the baby Sister Bernadette had found abandoned on the steps of Nonnatus House a few weeks earlier. As they had hoped, by the afternoon after he was dropped off, a tearful mother returned expressing that she was so overwhelmed and exhausted she hadn't felt fit to take care of the baby. By that point, the nuns had spoken with the police, so sorting out George's custody became a bit complex and ultimately a bit heartbreaking for all of them. In the days after, Trixie had been the one to bring up the idea of motherhood classes, and the rest of the group had quickly agreed.

The nuns had met to create a curriculum for the initial series of three classes they intended to hold. If the classes were successful, they would have more, perhaps on a monthly basis depending on the community's opinion. While Patrick applauded their efforts, he did not except to be too involved in them as they seemed geared more towards the female perspective; thus, he had been surprised when Sister Bernadette had brought their notes and plans for him to review and provide an opinion both as a doctor and as a parent. He had no problem reviewing what they developed, but the week had gotten away from him and thus he was left trying to rush to get the task done before the first class was held the following week.

"Daaaaad," his son whined from just a few feet away. "Aren't you done yet?"

"Nearly," Patrick replied, his eyes not leaving the page.

"But I want to go to the festival!"

Patrick glanced up to see that his son now had his hands clasped together and tucked beneath his chin in a pleading motion. A breathy laugh escaped his lips and he said, "Five more minutes and that's all—I promise."

After Timothy dropped back down to the floor to continue playing with his cars, Patrick skimmed through the final page of the class proposal before stacking the sheets together and putting them back into the folder they were delivered in. He would formally return them to Nonnatus on Monday with his praise and approval. He found their curriculum to be thoughtful, well laid out, and palatable enough for women with any background to understand and appreciate.

"I am done now, Timothy; we can go to the festival."

"Hooray!" The boy cheered and leapt to his feet. His father reminded him to pick up his two racing cars, which he did. Patrick pocketed them for safe keeping and then grabbed Tim's hand as they made their way to the festival happening on the streets outside the community center all the way down to the courtyard in front of Nonnatus House.

As they were relatively new to the community, Patrick had not been previously aware of Poplar's annual spring festival, which was held towards the end of March every year. On that particular Saturday, the nuns as well as representatives from the council arranged games, tables of food, and exciting events for the community. Generally, some businesses in the area also had tables set up selling wares or other specialty items just for the event.

When Sister Bernadette had told him about the festival, Timothy had been overjoyed at the prospect. Patrick, too, found himself looking forward to it. He was ready to welcome in some warm, spring weather and say goodbye to the drudgery of winter in more ways than one.

Though he knew that spring would bring the one-year anniversary of his wife's death, a milestone he was not at all looking forward to, he still welcomed it. He felt he'd made great strides over the winter months, finding his footing in his new job and with his new life in Poplar. Timothy was doing well in school and had begun to tell stories about the various friends he had made. The persistent sadness he had felt upon first arriving was also nearly nonexistent. When thoughts of Marianne did cross his mind, they had come to take on feelings of nostalgia and not grief. Time, as it was said, really did heal all wounds.

By that point in the day, the festival was in full swing, and Patrick found he had to reign in his son from charging every exciting table or booth they came across. When the tables the nuns were running came within view, he found he could hold his child back no longer, so he let him take off running…only for the boy to trip and fall not ten steps later.

"Oh, Timothy…" Patrick sighed and scooped up the sniveling boy around his waist to assess his injuries. He brushed off the boy's dirty palms and then tapped him lightly under the chin with his knuckles, saying, "You're all right."

Tim sniffled. "My knee…"

Patrick looked down and saw the boy had indeed scraped his knee open, but it wasn't a major injury. "You'll be fine. That can wait until we're home to be cleaned up. Why don't you go and see if Sister Julienne will give you a biscuit, hmm?"

"But I want to see Sister Bernadette," he said.

"Well, she's…" Patrick hesitated as he wasn't sure where she was. He stood and gazed around the courtyard for a moment before seeing her standing behind a table filled with children. "Ah, there she is. Over there by the—well, be careful!" Patrick called out with exasperation as Timothy once again took off into a run.

He walked hurriedly after his soon and when he arrived at his side, found the boy was seeking sympathy from the sister by showing her his latest wound. "Oh, you poor dear," he heard the sister say. "Does it hurt very much?"

"Only a little," he told her bravely.

"He'll be fine," Patrick promised. Then, gesturing towards the table beside them, he asked, "What's all this?"

"Oh, we have some crafts set up for the kids. Would you like to do a craft, Timothy?"

The boy glanced at the table and then up at his father and asked, "Am I too little?"

"Ah…" Patrick hesitated, glancing over to the sister for her ruling, as he was not sure what type of crafts were available.

"I think you could do it if your father wanted to give you a little bit of guidance."

"Okay!" Timothy cheered before grabbing his father's hand and dragging him towards an empty spot at the nearby table.

"You can make yourself a colorful inchworm," Sister Bernadette called over to them and Patrick gave her an appreciative glance.

On the table before them he saw a pile of wooden popsicle sticks as well as several pots of different colored paints. By that point, over an hour into the festival, paint had been slopped all around the table, which was covered in a layer of protective newspaper and thus unable to be harmed. Still, Patrick tried his best to be careful as he handed Timothy the paint brushes that were out of his reach. Of course, the boy had no such concerns for neatness, because not only was he painting his popsicle stick, but the tips of his fingers as well.

"Oh, Timothy, that looks lovely! I love all those colors together." Sister Bernadette told him when she walked up behind him.

He tilted his head all the way back so he could grin at her. "Thank you, Sister!"

"No, don't—er, be careful." Patrick sighed when Timothy used his paint-slicked left hand to scratch at his right elbow, smearing some of the paint on the edge of his shirt in the process.

He then felt the sister's hand on his arm, and she said quietly, "It'll wash out; don't worry."

"Ah, thanks," he said. She gave him a brief smile before walking off to check on the other children making crafts.

In the next few minutes Timothy finished making his decorated inchworm and Patrick helped him carry it over to a section of the pavement where all the other kids' art projects were drying in the sun. Patrick then walked him over to the pail of water that had been set out for the kids to rinse their hands in. Once the majority of the paint had been removed from Tim's fingers, they continued to explore the festival area.

At the refreshments table, Patrick greeted the nuns and picked up sandwiches for himself and Tim. He found a table for them to sit and eat, but they were soon interrupted by a member of the town council wanting to speak with him about some funding they had received earmarked for the community center and his adjoining surgery. Patrick was certainly interested in contributing his opinion on how those funds could best be spent, but he politely requested that the council member find him later the next week, as he wanted to spend that Saturday focused on his son.

"So, what do you think, Tim? Shall we make another lap and see if we can't find some fun games to play?"

"Yes, please!" the boy cheered.

Patrick smiled, grabbed his hand, and then headed off to find an adventure.

"Sister Bernadette! Sister Bernadette! Look!"

The sister looked up from the table she was wiping up to see Timothy charging towards her with his right hand high in the air. He waved it around in front of her face and she could tell there were markings on the back of it, but she was not able to see them clearly until she grasped his hand and held it firm. "Oh, wow!" she proclaimed.

"It's a spider, Sister!"

"I can see that. Did someone paint that on your hand?"

"Uh huh!"

"Did your father get one too?"

"No! The paints were only for kids!"

"I see. Well, I'm glad you're having fun."

Patrick, who had finally caught up to his overenthusiastic child, explained, "We just came to pick up his inchworm before going home."

She nodded. "Well, as you can see, we're cleaning up the craft station because we've run out of supplies. So, it's good you painted yours when you did," she added as she gazed down at Timothy.

She watched as the duo walked off to pick up Tim's craft and smiled to herself as she watched them interact. She had been spending quite a bit of time with them recently, but never grew tired of watching Patrick interact with his son. Though she'd always known him to be kind and caring, it was such a joy to see him interact with his child, particularly now that most of his sadness seemed to have faded away. They could make each other laugh so much; it was such a joy to watch. She thanked God every day for allowing her to be even the smallest part in helping to return happiness to their lives.

Before she and could say her goodbyes to the Turner boys, a man she recognized as one of the local shop owners came running up to her and said, "Did I see the doc over here?"

"Yes, is there a problem?" she asked.

"Yeah, we need him to come quick. Oh, doctor, there you are—one of the tables out there collapsed and gave someone a nasty cut on the hand. Think you'd better come look at it."

"Ah, yes…"

She heard the hesitation in Patrick's voice and watched as he gazed back towards his son, who was playing with his inchworm popsicle stick. "I'll watch him," the sister offered. When Patrick's gaze met hers, she nodded approvingly. "Go on." He thanked her before hurrying off with the shopkeeper.

"Where's my dad going?" Timothy asked her a moment later.

"He's going to take care of someone with an injury, so you can stay with me for a little while. Is that okay?"

"Yeah!" Timothy cheered.

"Good. Why don't you keep playing for a few minutes while I finish cleaning up these paints?"

As Timothy ran around the table with his inchworm now performing as a stunt airplane, the sister continued to clean up the paints so they could be properly disposed of and fold up the papers that had protected their table from staining. She glanced up every so often to look at the boy and smiled each time. She had really come to look forward to the evenings she spent with Timothy and found herself feeling disappointment if she went more than two days without seeing him. He was so bright and curious and made her think about so many interesting things with his questions. She frequently found herself wishing she could spend more time with him, which would have been lovely were it not for the guilt that came along with those thoughts. She could not spend more time with Timothy or his father and keep up with the duties required of her by the order. She often found her mind at war with her heart in that respect, which had led to many long sessions of prayer with seemingly no direction from God, but she also knew that sometimes his messages took time to become clear, so she resolved to continue praying while spending as much time with the Turners as she felt she was able to.

Once the remaining trash from the craft table had been put into the bin, she asked Timothy if he wanted to look at one of the more popular festival activity areas: a station with water troughs that offered kids the opportunity to fish for items or, as was more likely, splash around.

"I don't know," Tim said as he gazed over to the area wistfully. "There are a lot of big kids over there."

"Well, you can go and have a look. Maybe after you see how they're playing you will want a turn of your own."

"But I won't be able to see! I'm too short!"

She smiled kindly. "I understand. I'm not very tall either, so I often have trouble seeing."

"You're taller than me!" Tim pointed out.

"That is true. I can give you a boost if you'd like?"

"Yes! Yes!" he cheered before running up to her with his hands up over his head.

Sister Bernadette bent over and hoisted him up to her hip, struggling to suppress a groan as he was a bit heavier than she had been anticipating, but she managed it. Once both of her arms were around him to help hold up his weight, she walked with him over to the water troughs so he could see what the other kids were doing—and hopefully feel comfortable enough to join in.

After a few minutes of observation, Timothy did not seem too interested in joining in, but he seemed quite contented in the sister's arms. As much as she was enjoying the moment with him, Sister Bernadette was not sure how much longer she could continue to hold him up as she was used to carrying newborns, not four-year-olds. Thankfully, she soon heard Timothy yell excitedly, "Daddy! Over here!"

The sister turned around on the spot to see Patrick approaching, so she began to walk towards him, but had only taken three steps before Timothy began to slide out of her arms—much to the relief of her aching biceps. He skipped off towards where his father approached asking, "Are we going home now?"

"Yes, unless you want to play with those other children for a few minutes?"

"No, thank you."

"Did you find the man with the cut?" she asked him.

Patrick nodded. "Yes, and it was a decent sized one, but stitches did not seem necessary. His wife was already fussing over him so I'm sure he's in good hands." They shared a smile before he asked, "Do you need any help cleaning up?"

"Oh, no, we're fine; thank you."

"Are you coming for dinner, Sister?" Timothy asked her.

She crouched down so she was eye-level with him. "No, I'm afraid not. I need to stay here and help my sisters clean up from the festival. But I will see you at church tomorrow and on Tuesday evening."

"Tuesday? That's forever!" he proclaimed.

She chuckled. "It will go quickly, I promise you."

Seemingly unsatisfied with this, Timothy reached out for her hand and grabbed it. As he tried to pull her forward, she asked what he was doing and he said, "You have to walk us to the car!"

"Tim, you heard her say she has to help her sisters."

"PLEASE!" he begged dramatically.

Sister Bernadette gazed down at them, considering. "I will walk you halfway to the community center, how does that sound?"

"Yes!" Tim cheered in agreement. Then, as he held on to her hand with his right, he reached out his left to grab his fathers before the three of them made their way down the street.

Trixie could not help but smile to herself as she watched Sister Bernadette and the Turners disappear down the sidewalk. Every time she saw them together, which wasn't terribly often because of their varying schedules, but when she did it always warmed her heart. They were becoming the loveliest family and knowing all the trials they had gone through in the past made their happiness so much sweeter.

When Trixie began to realize just how much time the sister was spending at the Turner residence, she genuinely had wondered if they were having some sort of affair. Not that it was her business if they were! She simply found it shocking, because Sister Bernadette had always seemed so devout during the time they had known one another. She'd heard the stories they told about their past and knew that, if they were having an affair, it certainly was not something spur-of-the-moment or frivolous, but still it surprised her.

Then, a few weeks earlier, when she'd witnessed a brief moment of raw emotion from the typically demure sister, she'd felt awful for her assumption. She realized then that no matter if they had crossed any physical boundaries (which, again, was none of her business) their relationship could never have been classified as anything sorted, for it was entirely clear that the sister loved the doctor quite deeply. She had never heard anyone speak about someone with such intensity as Sister Bernadette had spoken about her time with Dr. Turner; it was equal parts heart breaking and beautiful. She immediately began wishing for their happiness every day, feeling confident that one day they would realize how in love they were and hopefully then be brave enough to admit it.

Turning back to the task at hand, Trixie continued to help the sisters clean up the mess left behind at their refreshments table when she heard Sister Evangelina say, "Just so it's been said out loud: are we not acknowledging the fact that our sister and the doctor are clearly in love with each other?"

Sister Julienne continued to wipe up crumbs as though her sister had asked about a topic of no more importance than the weather. "No, we are not."

"Why?"

"Because they are not yet ready to see it for themselves."

"But they are completely taken with each other! It is abundantly clear every time they are in the same room as each other." Sister Evangelina's tone resembled one a person might have if they discovered mold halfway through eating a slice of toast.

"His heart might simply not yet be ready," the sister rationalized. "And hers remains torn between him and God."

Sister Evangelina made a sound of annoyance. "I'm so glad I never bothered with any of this mess. It's too complicated!"

"Well, I think its lovely." Trixie interjected. "We should all be so lucky to fall in love like that."

As Sister Evangelina let out a "hmph," Sister Julienne gave her a small smile and said, "We will continue to keep them both in our prayers. Now, if you don't mind, I believe we should begin to take some of these things inside. It looks like it might begin to rain."

Trixie agreed and set to work only to be joined a few minutes later by Sister Bernadette who had returned and was wearing a smile Trixie assumed she did not think anyone else could see.