Tag Archives: Sister Julienne

Writing Her Own Rules, Chapter 3

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A/N: There’s a moment at the wedding (oh, you know what wedding I mean), when Chummy hands baby Freddy over to Peter and there is such a look of relief on her face. She loves that baby, but oh, sometimes, you just need someone to take that baby, just for one moment. Of course, two moments later, you’re aching to hold your baby again.)

Previous Chapter

It was a quarter past four when Shelagh finally pushed the pram up to the large door at Nonnatus House. Shelagh hated to be late, and prided herself on not only her own promptness, but in having improved Patrick’s.

With a still cranky Angela in her arms, she started up the stone steps, only to be met by a bustling Sister Evangelina on her way out.

“We could certainly use you today, Mrs. Turner,” the cantankerous nun huffed. “Three of the six midwives all out on a delivery this afternoon, and the rest behind on calls. Can’t be helped, I suppose, but an extra set of hands would not go amiss.” Before Shelagh could respond, the nun was off on her way.

Shelagh sighed, and made her way through the opened door.

“My dear, I’m so glad you’re able to join me this afternoon!” Sister Julienne called in greeting. The nun reached out for her little pet, and Shelagh felt a sigh of relief as she passed her daughter over.

“Good afternoon, Sister. I see you’re having a busy day,” Shelagh glanced after Sister Evangelina.

“Indeed.” Calmly the nun allowed Angela to tug on her wimple. Shelagh resisted the urge to correct her daughter. Sister Julienne would have none of that, she knew. Whilst at Nonnatus, Angela was to be coddled.

Sister Julienne continued, “I do hope our visit isn’t interrupted, but I’m afraid it is a possibility. Mrs. Pound has called to say she’s starting to feel some twinges.”

Following her dear friend to the sitting room, Shelagh responded, “Oh, dear. She’s still got another three weeks, surely?”

“Yes, but it is her first, and as we know, a new mother is bound to be a bit nervous.” Sister Julienne turned her attention back to Angela. “Perhaps we should settle down to tea, just in case.”

As usual, Mrs. B.’s tea was worth the difficulties getting to Nonnatus House. A strong Darjeeling scented the air, and the lightest of almond sponges graced the best cake plate. As Nonnatus had become frequent host to infants of late, a sturdy high chair stood to the side of Sister Julienne’s favored seat, a collection of old wooden spoons for Angela’s amusement on the tray.

Glancing over the rim of her teacup, Sister Julienne remarked, “You seem a bit distracted today, my dear. Would you like to tell me about it?”

Shelagh looked up from the spoon she was retrieving from the floor for the fifth time. She could deny it, pretend that all was as usual, but she knew better. Her old friend would see through her denials, and though she would not comment further, would be concerned.

“Its just been a rather frustrating day, that’s all. I shouldn’t complain really. It’s all just a bit of nonsense.” She did not meet the nun’s eyes, and kept her own on her daughter.

“Shelagh, we all have those days where nothing seems to go right. But simply because we all have them doesn’t mean our own are not important.”

Shelagh glanced up. “I suppose you’re right, Sister, but I feel as if I’m complaining about what I wanted more than anything else.” She stood and moved to retreive Angela’s bottle from her bag.

“Let me feed her,” Sister Julienne requested. “Your tea will cool and you look like you need it.” Her gentle smile took any edge of from her words. She lifted her god-daughter from the chair and settled in comfortably on the worn sofa. “I’ll feed her, and you enjoy your tea as you tell me about your day.”

Knowing she would be better for talking about it, Shelagh agreed. “It was just an ordinary day. Lots of little things, none all that important, but I’ve just got myself in such a mood today. Strange, actually the day started off so well.” She thought back to her morning. “I had to leave the kitchen a mess when we went out to do errands, and Angela didn’t get a very good nap because Patrick needed…Oh, just nonsense, really. I suppose I need a nap myself,” she smiled ruefully. For some reason, an image of the heavily pregnant Louisa March flashed before her eyes.

“It’s never nonsense, my dear. Aristotle never raised a family. Sometimes, the the sum of its parts is greater than the whole!

“When I was at Nonnatus, there were so many days that were filled with tiny little problems, and it never seemed to bother me. Today couldn’t possibly compare, and it’s completely set me off.” Her fingers worried at a stray string on the sofa pillows. “I have everything I ever dreamed of, there’s no reason for feeling this way.”

Sister Julienne reached out and covered the younger woman’s hand with her own. “Simply because you feel frustration does not mean you are unhappy, my dear,  or even ungrateful. I remember my mother used to say, ‘A single day with a child can go on forever, but the years will fly by.’”

Shelagh gave her a watery smile. “That’s it exactly. I look at Timothy, and sometimes all I can see is the small boy he was just a short while ago, and others, he’s a young man, ready to take on the world.” Finished with her bottle, Angela popped up her head up and reached for her mother. Shelagh held out her arms and relaxed visibly as they fit themselves together.  “And this little angel changes nearly every day.

“I really am very happy, Sister, but it helps to talk it over with you.”

Sister Julienne nodded widely, her shoulders leaning in. “I’m so very glad, my dear.”

The loud thud of the heavy front door closing caught their attention. A quick clatter of shoes through the hall followed, and in a moment they were joined by a frazzled Trixie Franklin.

“Good afternoon, Shelagh, Sister Julienne,” the typically perky nurse collapsed into the nearby chair. “What a day. Ten calls just this afternoon! Four first-time mothers, two newborns and another four home checks. Honestly, Sister, this community is running us off our feet!

The two older women exchanged knowing glances. “I’m quite certain after a cup of tea, you’ll feel much more yourself. Please, help yourself,” Sister Julienne gestured towards the teapot.

Trixie sat up, suddenly realizing she was intruding. “Thank you, Sister, but I’ll leave you both to your visit.” She stood, eyeing the almond sponge. “But if you wouldn’t mind?” she questioned.

Shelagh smiled. She had talked about her own confusion enough for today. “Trixie, please sit down and take tea. Sister Julienne and I have had our nice, cozy chat. I’m sure we’d both like to hear about your rounds today.”

Grateful, Trixie began to make a plate for herself as Sister Julienne prepared her tea. “Thank you, Shelagh. I did have a question I wanted to review with Sister Julienne, if you don’t mind?”

Shelagh felt another twinge of annoyance, but hid it well. “Of course,” she replied. “Don’t mind us.” She fussed with Angela’s yellow jumper.

Trixie swallowed a gulp of her tea. “Sister, I had the strangest home visit today. Mrs. Young is very nearly thirty-six weeks along with her first, and she’s complaining of the strangest symptoms. Her hands and feet are terribly itchy! It’s quite maddening, really. The poor thing is hardly getting any sleep at all! I’ve never come across anything like it, Sister. I’m not sure if it’s simply a sign of her stress, or something more serious.”

“Itchy hands and feet?” The nun wondered. “How strange. Are there any other symptoms?”

“Everything else seems perfectly normal. I’m quite puzzled.” Trixie sipped her tea. “The poor thing has been a bit nauseous, but that’s nothing unusual.”

“I am sorry to interrupt, but did you notice if perhaps Mrs. Young is looking a bit jaundiced?” Shelagh asked quietly.

“Jaundiced? No, I didn’t notice-but she is a bit more of an olive complexion, perhaps I didn’t look? Why? Could that mean something?” Trixie asked.

“Well, as I haven’t seen Mrs. Young myself, I really couldn’t say. But it could be Cholestasis of pregnancy. It’s possible that the increase in pregnancy hormones — such as occurs in the third trimester — may slow the normal flow of bile out of the liver. Eventually, the buildup of bile in the liver allows bile acids to enter the bloodstream. Bile acids deposited in the mother’s tissues can lead to itching.” Unconsciously, Shelagh had assumed a more precise way of speaking, and would have been surprised to know how closely she resembled Sister Bernadette at that moment. The similarity was not lost on her companions.

“Oh, dear,” Trixie worried. “Should I alert Doctor Turner at once?”

Shelagh shook her head. “No, it’s not an emergency situation. Simply include a note in your write up today, and schedule a follow-up consultation with the doctor. Mrs. Young is in no real danger, but her baby should be monitored. The most likely outcome is that her labor will be induced a bit early to prevent any possible harm to the baby.”

Trixie heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness I mentioned it! What would we do without you, Shelagh? We should all be taking classes with you again!”

Next Chapter

My Little Yellowbird

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Photo credit: Messer-Turner-Bates (look at her great work on Tumblr!)

(Go ahead and yell at me. I realize how self-serving this is. Grandma made me do it.)

The Poplar Community Center hummed with activity as nurses and nuns transformed it into it’s Tuesday purpose: Mother and Baby Clinic.  Angela Turner was in her usual place, right in the middle of things, just the way she liked it. Her pram, in its place next to the in-take desk, gave her a clear view of all the activity in the room while allowing her to keep her eye on her mother at all times.

“It’s quite sweet, really,” Sister Winifred said. The young nun turned to Shelagh Turner, busy organizing the patient files into proper order. “I can tell exactly where you are, just by watching her eyes!”

Shelagh laughed, and stepped over to her daughter’s side. “We always know where the other is, don’t we, Angel Girl?” She ran her hand gently over the silky hair. “We keep an eye out for each other.”

A loud rumbling came from the entrance, and the doors to the community room burst open.

“That Fred Buckle had better make sure he steers clear of me for the rest of the week, that’s all I have to say,” huffed Sister Evangelina, her arms swinging briskly back and forth as she made her way into the room.

“Yes, Sister,” appeased Sister Julienne. “But even you must concede that Fred certainly had little to do with the state of the roads.”

“That’s as may be, but he is responsible for the state of my tires. My bones will never forgive him for the shake up I’ve suffered today.” Despite her words, the crotchety nun’s mood was softening. “Angela Turner!” she cooed, walking gingerly over to the pram. “Mrs. Turner, you’ve brought exactly the right cure for my lumbago!”

Reaching for the smiling infant, she was interrupted.

“I’m sorry, Sister. But I’m afraid I must pull rank.” Sister Julienne, usually the epitome of harmony and peace, edged in front of Sister Evangelina. Her reward for such surprisingly rude behavior  was a delighted giggle as Angela turned and reached for her favorite person outside of the family.

“Yes, Angel Girl,” Sister Julienne murmured. Lifting the clinic’s darling up from her pram, the nun held her in a close cuddle. Angela laughed again, her little hand patting at the starched white cloth covering the Sister’s head.

Shelagh chuckled, “You’ll spoil her, Sister. You shouldn’t let her manhandle your wimple.”

“That’s not possible, Shelagh. You can never spoil a child with love.” Angela’s attention turned to the long cord holding the nun’s plain wooden cross. “Do you like my cross, little girl?”

Angela gurgled, tugging at the cord.

“And look at you, so pretty in your yellow dress. You know, Shelagh, I think I like her best in yellow. With those lovely big eyes, it suits her perfectly.”

Angela laughed again, her arms bouncing with delight. “You like yellow, too, my dear? Well, why wouldn’t you? Yes, yes, my dear, flap your little wings. Flap them, yes, there you go.” Sister Julienne laughed, not caring if she looked the least bit silly.

Shelagh smiled proudly as she watched the two play. Angela was such a happy baby, and never more than when she was the certain of someone’s attention.

Sister Evangelina, however, had had enough. “Really, Sister. You can’t spoil a child with love, but you can certainly monopolize her. How on earth is the poor little thing ever going to get to know anyone else with you around?”

An expression that can only be referred to as slightly smug crossed Sister Julienne’s features. “I am so very sorry, Sister. I know it must seem so to you, but how can I possibly be held responsible if the child prefers me?” Sister Evangelina now forgotten, she continued, “Yes, little one, flap your arms. Aren’t you just the prettiest little bird? Aren’t you just the prettiest little yellow bird?”

Timothy’s Kaleidoscope

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The front door slammed as Timothy rushed in after school.

“Sorry, Mum. The wind took the door,” he whispered from the hallway. He tiptoed through the hall and peered around the sitting room door to see his new baby sister cuddled in his father’s arms. “Did I wake her?”

“No, good thing for you. She’s been awake and talking for my whole visit,” Patrick spoke in a sing-song voice.

“Why are you home now, anyway?” Timothy asked. “Don’t you have calls today? It’s Monday.” Timothy began to rummage through the pantry, in search of food. “Where’s Mum?” he asked through a mouthful of biscuits.

“Here I am,” Shelagh answered, coming down the hall with yet another basket of laundry. “I thought I’d take advantage of your dad’s drop-in to get ahead of this.” She held out the basket filled with the smocked cotton dresses that dominated Angela’s wardrobe.

“You should be resting, sweetheart,” Patrick admonished. “You’re not getting enough sleep.That last thing we need is for you to get ill.”

“Oh, pish. I can get by on just a little sleep as you, Patrick Turner. Less, probably. Timmy, what would you like for a snack? Dinner will be a bit later than usual, I’m afraid. Angela’s bottles are sterilizing, so I’ll have to wait to use the stove.”

“I’m fine. Just stopping, I’m on my way out, anyway. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

“Oh,” Shelagh answered, “I suppose that’s fine.”

“Hold on, young man, what about your schoolwork?” Patrick looked up from the game of peek-a-boo.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I stayed in during recess to do some. And Mr. Feeney let me work on my theme while the rest of the class was still finishing maths. He said since I probably wasn’t getting any sleep at night, he should give me a hand and let me get work done at school.” He bounced Angela’s foot in his hand. “He never lets pupils do that, so that’s something Angela’s good for,” he finished, a smirk gracing his face.

“I’m sure your sister’s thrilled to hear that she gets you out of work, son. Don’t be late.” Angela’s coo redirected his attention back to her and Patrick resumed their game.

The door slammed shut behind him, and Shelagh put the laundry down.

“Patrick,” she asked, in the way she had that made a statement a question, “Timothy’s gone out after school every day this week. And he goes right up to his room after dinner.”

Patrick looked up. Shelagh was gripping her hands, and the crease on her forehead was starting to show, but he had no idea what could be bothering her. “And?” he asked.

“He doesn’t seem to want to spend any time with us. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?” The crease was getting deeper.

Patrick stood and placed the baby in her moses basket. “Shelagh, he’s about to turn twelve. It would be strange if he did want to spend time with his parents.” Even so, he pulled her into his arms.

Shelagh nestled her head under his chin. “I know, it’s just that…well, he used to sit with me after school, and tell me about his day, or what ridiculous thing happened on the way home. Every day. Until…”

Patrick tilted his head to better see her face. “Until?”

Shelagh sighed. “Well, until Angela came home. Do you think, perhaps…could he be jealous?” She looked up into her husband’s eyes. “Before, I was able to give him all of my attention, and now, I never seem to have any time for him. Even dinner will have to be late tonight because of Angela’s needs.” She hid her face in his chest. “Do you think he feels as if I don’t love him anymore?”

Patrick laughed softly. “Shelagh, love, that is most definitely not how he feels. Timothy knows how much you love him. And he is thrilled about Angela, too.”

“I know you think I worry too much, Patrick, but it doesn’t feel right to me. Something’s different.”

His arms tightened around her and he rubbed his chin against her hair. “All right, my love. I’ll keep an eye out, but I think you’re barking up the wrong tree. It’s more likely that we have a much bigger problem on our hands.”

Shelagh looked up, alarmed.

Patrick kissed her “worry crease.” “I’m afraid Timothy is starting to show signs of…adolescence!”

 

The next morning was a particular rush. Both Patrick and Timothy needed to leave early, and Angela’s nocturnal fussing put them all on edge. Timothy rushed about, packing his school bag.

“Mum, where’s my gym kit? You promised to wash it. The hockey tournament begins today. I have to have it!”

Shelagh grimaced. “I’m sure I washed it, Timothy. Did you look in the pile of laundry I left for you to put away yesterday?”

“Yes. It is definitely not there. Mr. Pigeon said no one can play without it.”

Patrick came around the corner, the half-finished basket of Angela’s dresses and soiled clothes in his arms. “It’s in here, Tim. You can just wear it today, and Mum will wash it this weekend. Problem solved.” The days of being a single father had given Patrick a laissez-faire attitude towards the wearability of soiled clothes.

Timothy growled and took the offending gym kit from his father, stuffing them into his bag.

“I’m sorry, Timothy, dear. I must have forgotten all about it. I promise to clean them first thing when you get home today.” Shelagh gave him a weak smile.

Timothy shook his head. “I’m not coming home after school, didn’t I tell you? I have to go to… the library. There’s a new project coming up. I’ll be home for dinner.”

“Oh, alright, then. And I’m sorry about your clothes.”

“S’alright. Gotta run.” Timothy made for the door.

“Timothy,” his father called him back. “Say goodbye to your mother.”

“Bye!” his son shouted back and let the front door slam behind him.

Quiet descended over the little kitchen. “I really must take a look at that door,” Patrick joked, trying to lighten the mood. “That boy will knock it off its hinges one of these days.”

Shelagh turned away to the sink.

“Shelagh, you’re thinking too hard about this. He’s just being a boy. There’s no need to worry.”

She shook her head, but her answer was cut off by the baby’s cries.

 

By the end of the week, even Patrick was starting to think there was something amiss. He and Shelagh agreed that for dinner that night, he would take Timothy to Capriani’s Cafe for a Friday night fry-up, just the boys. It was time for a talk.

As he had all week, Tim ran out right after school, and with the dinner hour fast approaching, still had not returned home. Patrick and Shelagh grew anxious. Patrick sat with the baby, her bottle almost finished, and said, “He’s just lost track of time. It’s all right, Shelagh.” His words showed little of his growing anger, however. Shelagh was miserable, and Tim would have a much sterner talking-to than Patrick had originally planned.

The front door slammed again, followed by the sound of Timothy’s feet bounding to his room. Patrick stood angrily and handed the baby off to Shelagh. “That’s it. We’ll have it out here and now.”

“Patrick, don’t be angry with him. It’s my fault. I haven’t been able to pay enough attention to him. If we just explain to him that we’d like to know more about his whereabouts…”

“No, Shelagh. This is about him being selfish. He has to learn he’s not always going to be the center of attention.” With Angela in her arms, Shelagh followed as Patrick strode towards his son’s room. A knock at the front door stopped them in their tracks. Throwing a frustrated glance up the steps, he opened it to reveal Sister Julienne.

“Sister!”

“Hello, Dr. Turner, Shelagh. Please forgive my intrusion so close to dinner.”

Shelagh stepped up, “Sister, come in, please.”

“No, thank you, Shelagh. I can only stop for a moment. I just wanted to help Timothy with his parcels.” Smiling, the nun held out a square box. “He’ll need this for his project.”

Stunned, Patrick asked, “His project?”

“Yes, well, it was to be a surprise, but we were forced to take a rather long way round. The construction work on the Chrisp Street Market has closed several of the quicker routes to Stepney from Nonnatus House, I’m afraid. Timothy had hoped to get this home before you returned from your calls, which is why he ran on ahead with the ‘bones’ of the project.”

“Sister, we had no idea Timothy was bothering you. I’m so very sorry-” Patrick apologized.

“He was no bother, I was delighted to help. You have a very lovely young man, both of you. You should be very proud. And now, I’m afraid, I must continue my journey. Mrs. Flint’s incision is causing her considerable pain, and as Mrs. B has left a cold repast this evening, I thought to get the visit in sooner rather than later. Enjoy your evening,” she farewelled and climbed back on her bicycle.

Stunned, Patrick and Shelagh watched as the nun made her way back into the streets of Poplar. They turned to each other, then looked down the hall.

“I think I may have jumped to conclusions,” Patrick admitted. He followed his wife back into the flat.

“I think perhaps we both have,” Shelagh agreed. Together they followed after their son. Surprised to see his bedroom empty, a sound from their own bedroom guided them to him and Patrick pushed the door open. Timothy stood over Angela’s cot at the foot of their bed, attaching some sort of mechanism above it.

“Tim,” his father called.

Timothy dropped his arms, and looked across the room at his parents. He let out a deep sigh of resignation. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but the stupid roadwork made me late.” He stepped over and took the box from Patrick. “You may as well open the box. It’s spoiled, now.”

Shelagh smiled. “No, Timothy. Patrick, leave the box. We’ll be in the sitting room.  Call us when you want us.” Patrick returned her smile, and grinned at his son. “After you, Mrs. Turner.” With his hand at her back, he escorted his wife and daughter out to the landing.

Closing the door behind him, he raised his hands to her face. “I think we’ll be fine.” Patrick lowered his head and kissed her gently, careful of the now sleeping baby in her arms. His fingers moved to her hair and caressed her just behind her ears. Shelagh pushed up on her tippy toes to kiss him back. Relief had made her giddy, and she was happy to show Patrick.

Sooner than they thought possible, Timothy interrupted them.

“Really? I ask for five minutes?” Tim complained, unable to hide his grin. “If you’re finished, you can come in now.”

Patrick and Shelagh stepped in to the room, their eyes drawn to the cot and they both gasped. Fluttering above was a cluster of butterflies, each one a kaleidoscope of color. Shelagh slowly made her way toward the flight of color, her eyes filled with wonder. “Oh, Timothy!” she whispered. “You made this?” She looked to her son. “It’s beautiful.” Her eyes gleamed with tears.

“Well done, son,” admired Patrick, who would later claim that the room had been dusty, and his eyes were reacting to the motes.

“I didn’t do it all by myself,” Tim told them and the story rushed out of him. “I had lots of help. It was Nurse Franklin’s idea at first. She knew how much you liked that butterfly I sent you when you were in sanatorium. Bagheera helped me make the dangly-frame thing, and Sister Julienne and I made the butterflies. See? They’re watercolor paper. We experimented with all sorts of designs. I liked this one. We dripped color on to the damp paper and let it all blend together, sort of. Then I cut out the shapes-Dad, that’s how I got that blister the other day-and today Nurse Noakes and Nurse Miller and Sister Winifred helped me tie them on. Sister Monica Joan helped by finding the fishing line we used-how does she know how to get fishing line, Mum?-and Sister Evangelina hid everything in her room. She said you’d never go in there, no matter what. She was right, wasn’t she? You had no idea?” Tim stopped to catch his breath.

His mother sighed quietly. “No, Timothy, dearest, I had absolutely no idea.”  She tapped a bright blue and purple butterfly, sending the whole flight in motion.

“You’ve been doing this all week?” Patrick asked.

Timothy nodded. “I started planning it last week, at Nurse Lee’s party, but I’ve been going to Nonnatus everyday this week. That’s why I was skipping recess, too.” He looked nervous. “Do you like it? The nurses all told me it’d be safe. Angela can’t get hurt by it. It’s really secure, Fred and I tested it out on Freddie’s cot.”

Shelagh placed the sleeping Angela into her cot, again gently tapping a butterfly. “It’s perfect,” she breathed. “Angela’s very lucky to have a brother like you. I’m afraid I have a confession to make,” Shelagh said, turning to face the young boy. “I thought you were staying away from the house because you were unhappy about the baby.”

Tim stared in amazement. “Unhappy? Angela’s brilliant! It’d be nice if she didn’t make so much noise at night, and sometimes she does smell pretty bad, but that stuff doesn’t last too long, and before you know it she’ll be a real person.”

“So you’re sure we’re paying enough attention to you? We’re not spending too much time with Angela?” Shelah wondered.

“Of course you are. She’s a baby, after all. She can’t do anything yet. Besides,” he winked, “before she came, I couldn’t get away with anything. Now, I have all sorts of plans.”

“What sort of plans?” his father asked suspiciously.

“Oh, nothing really-”

He was interrupted when Angela startled and let out a sharp cry, and in that moment, Timothy knew he was no longer an only child. An alliance had been forged that would be the only force capable of facing their parents.

The power had shifted.

Trying To Hear God: Chapter 3, Guilt

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A/N: Many thanks to This Unruly Heart for her guidance with this chapter. This is a subject that could easily slide into melodrama, and I thought our poor distraught friend deserved more than that. Unruly’s help has given me new insight into what I’ve been trying to do all along here.

Previous Chapter

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For the first several weeks, she rarely left her room. Nausea and other side effects of the therapy made her weak, unable to do more than lie in her darkened room and sleep. Gradually, as her body grew used to the strong antibiotics of her treatment, the nausea dissipated. She became less tired and more able, though less willing, to participate in the society of her new world. For the first time in her life, hibernation became her preferred state. Claiming to be too weak to leave her room, she remained in seclusion long after necessary.

Unable to concentrate on much and eager to repress her wayward thoughts, she began to notice the details of her temporary home. The room was cheerful with its bright floral wallpaper and sunny window, a window she had for some reason avoided. The warm space was intended to welcome her, make her feel at home. It was so different from her small cell at Nonnatus, yet even after ten years that room had never felt like her own, either. In both places, the rooms had been furnished by others, designed to meet her needs, but showing little of herself.

Her life was not her own. As a nun, she had turned it over to the religious life she vowed to honor in service to others and God. Adjusting to the life of a sanatorium patient should have come easily to her. The doctors had strict rules regarding patients’ activities, offering little individuality. While in earlier years this would have garnered little resistance from her, now she inwardly rebelled.

She swallowed the uncomfortably large pills.  She withstood the painful jabs, the countless blood draws from the collapsed veins of her pale arms, even the prickling rash that spread across her torso. All these afflictions were borne without complaint. She was the model, if taciturn, patient. All attempts to draw the quiet nun out of her shell went unrewarded.

She paced the carpet of the room, trying to understand what had become of her life this past year. Doubts and questions had struggled to the surface despite her efforts to subdue them. Foolish thoughts took the place of her prayers, displacing discipline and structure and she flushed in shame at their memory. She knew ways to redirect such feelings, and yet she had not done so. She was weak to fall victim to such corporeal desires. They would not offer true relief to her soul. Why could she not rein them in?

There were other Orders, stricter, more removed from daily life, which demanded absolute obedience. Straying from the path called for self-punishment. Is that what she needed? Consequences so great so as to prevent straying in the first place?

She could not believe her mentor would demand such recourse from her. Her whole life she had believed in a God of love and understanding, one who recognized human frailties and offered forgiveness.

But forgiveness was only truly granted to those who sought to purge the sin. Perhaps the fact that she had not taken those steps was yet another indication that she wanted to stray.

She had known her feelings, and could put a name to them. In the weeks leading up to her diagnosis, she knew of their depth, had even recognized a glimmer of their return in his eyes. She knew, yet she did nothing but pray over them and for the first time, prayer offered no answers. Such a sign should have warned her that she was in too deep. She could not, or would not, confess her transgressions to Sister Julienne. To do so would have forced her from her stasis; her mentor would have required some action. She should have left Nonnatus on her own, putting all temptation away from her.

She did nothing, and continued in this state of disobedience. She rarely spoke to him, only working with him when required to do so, but this tacit acceptance of the status quo was nearly as bad as if she had shouted her feelings to all. And now God had sent her a forceful reminder to reconsider her priorities.

Surely she had brought this upon herself. This illness must be a direct result of God’s displeasure.

Part of her brain rejected this idea. She did not believe God was so unforgiving. All she had been taught supported the notion of a God that did not mete out punishments or vengeance in this way. Her illness was the result of exposure, she reminded herself. Isolation was a necessary step towards not only her own cure, but towards eliminating the disease from her community entirely.

Yet the feelings stirring in her heart reminded her of her complicity and guilt and fear won out. In the not-so-distant past, those lucky enough to have survived did so only through terrifying surgeries and years-long isolation from all they held dear. She had not removed herself from her temptations, so God would do so for her.

Her gaze was pulled to the dresser, a lone unopened envelope mocking her. She remembered the long, silent car ride from Poplar, the air between them thick with her shame. She could not so much as glance at him, for even then she did not trust herself to remain silent. Her stiff response to his attempts to reassure her was all she could muster. She knew he was not blind to her weakness, that his empathetic soul would try to heal her even then.

She should tear the letter up. His gesture of friendship would not soothe but exacerbate her pain. All contact must be stopped. God had shown his displeasure.

Guiltily, she took the envelope in her hands, caressing the very places he must have touched. Was this letter a test? Did her penance demand its destruction? Long moments passed, her mind lost in indecision. The light in the room changed and the late afternoon sun poured through the window, warming her face. She looked up and felt her lungs fill with air. Opening the top drawer of her dresser, she slid the letter underneath her sole box of personal items.

She would not destroy the letter today.

She knelt on the cold hard floor and tried to pray.

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Trying to Hear God: Chapter 2, Confusion

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Previous Chapter

Her body ached with exhaustion. The long night had required all her stamina, and at its end she felt as if layers had been stripped away. There had been difficult births over the years, too many to count, and she had experienced such joy at the display of love and human perseverance each time. For too long now she left the birthing room feeling empty, with less and less desire to ever return.

Kneeling at her bedside in her narrow cell, she sighed deeply and clenched her hands together. Focus, she needed to focus. But the deep breath did not help to clear her mind, it did not soothe her body. The prayers would not come. Leaning forward, she pressed her forehead to the edge of the bed and struggled to keep from vocalizing the pain she felt. She was broken, lost and forgotten, and it was her own doing.

A sob shook through her small body, stifled in the covers of the hard mattress. Even after her mother’s death she had never felt so abandoned. The long, terrible illness had given them time to prepare, if one could in fact prepare for the death of a beloved mother. While devastated and stunned when the inevitable finally happened, there were loved ones to share her pain. There had been no reason to hide.

There was no one now. Even God seemed to have forsaken her. Desperate for the comfort the love of God had afforded her, she recited the prayers, recalled the Bible passages that had always refreshed her faith. She worked harder, longer hours than ever and made every offer of help possible. Through service she had hoped she could return to her previous state of serenity, but somehow, she still felt empty. Purple-gray shadows appeared beneath her eyes and she began to fade from view.

There was no one to listen, no one to understand. If she spoke, there would only be condemnation and abandonment. She had tried to reach out, but each time was prevented by circumstance. Perhaps that was for the best. How could another understand when she could not understand herself? Even more, would her confusion be seen as a rejection of all the promises she had vowed to honor?

Shaking, she rose from her knees and slid into bed, hiding her face in her pillow. Why had this happened? She wasn’t even sure what this was, she simply knew there was something there. She had been solitary for so much of her life; it had been many years since she had felt the need to connect with another. Her sisters afforded her the love and quiet companionship she thought was enough. Even Sister Julienne, her mentor and guide, did not arouse a need for more.

Now her heart ached for it. The warm friendship enjoyed by the nurses evoked a slash of envy. They were not much younger than she, confident in their belief that the world was their oyster, while she could have been an old woman, separate as she was.

She tossed in her bed, attempting  to stop her thoughts from taking what was becoming a well-worn path. In the religious life, she told herself, she would move beyond friendship; the spiritual state she could find by devoting her life to God would supercede ordinary relationships. By not singling out a few, she could devote herself to all. She reminded herself of this again and again, and understood the truth of it. Yet she still could not deny her loneliness.

“You don’t always feel lonely,” a voice beckoned in her heart. A tear slipped out of eyes squeezed shut and her shoulders spasmed. In recent weeks, the whispers that spoke more loudly than her prayers threatened to overtake her. If she could stop their echoes, she could return to the way things were before.

These whispers had changed of late, confusing her even more. While still longing to join in with the others, there was another whose company she preferred, one whose nearness alerted every nerve ending, one who roused an interest she could not ignore.

She knew when he entered a room before she saw him, or even heard him. His weary voice tempted her to soothe his worries. Hadn’t she taken it upon herself to mend his lab coat? To help his lonely son? It was not purely her own empathy for the boy’s motherlessness that pushed her to befriend him and give the comfort of a womanly voice.

She had always respected and admired the devoted doctor who gave so much to the community they both served. Attending so many births together over the years, they had developed an understanding of each other, an ability to anticipate the other’s moves and needs: a connection that made many of the positive outcomes possible.

Last night had been such a delivery. The strange nature of the Carter family, their resistance to medical intervention, and the intensity of the delivery of the twins had required all the resources they could muster to save mother and child. She still trembled at the memory of the lifeless form of the infant in her arms, unable to takes its first breath. Knowing he was there with her gave her strength, and she tried a technique that surprised even her. When the infant’s lungs filled the room with the shrill cry, she lifted her eyes to him in shared joy.

Afterwards, she felt an exhilaration she hadn’t felt from a delivery in some months. Perhaps that was the source of her unexplained, bold behavior later as they prepared to leave. She cringed at the memory. To some, the sharing of a cigarette was simply a result of a professional camaraderie, a normal denouement to a harrowing experience, and she had pretended to herself at the time that it meant nothing. But she knew otherwise. They had shared more than a cigarette. She revealed a private memory, wanting to forge a deeper connection with him, and found she needed to know more of him.

With him, she longed to be herself, someone she hadn’t been in many years. She wanted to talk about the world, her life, learn about him. The hodgepodge she knew of his life was not enough and she felt a pull towards him that was becoming difficult to ignore. With him, in those moments they were alone together, she did not feel alone.

The last rays of light streamed through the tiny window of her cell as finally the demands of her weary body took over and gratefully, she slept.

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A Growing Family

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Completely Alternate Universe. Fun little bit of self-indulgent nonsense, but I’m glad the “real” story goes another way. Continue reading →