Chapter Text
Sister Julienne had spent most of her time in prayer in the chapel.
Subconsciously, she knew why. The flutters of her mortal body echoed what was happening to her if she spent any time in her Sister’s presence.
But whenever she allowed her conscious to speak of it, or try to name it, an argument erupted within her.
You can’t feel that, it’s not what He has asked of you whispered her faith.
It’s not allowed, that’s not who you’re meant to love whispered her upbringing.
But why? If I’m feeling it, what’s so sinful about it? whispered her heart.
Would God truly think less of me for my sin when He has been so loving and forgiving? whispered her sense.
Her thoughts whirled and never made any sense. Praying to her Lord was her instinctual response, her questions would be answered and her thoughts straightened out into a clear path. That hadn’t happened. Not yet, at least.
Not yet. It had been weeks since she had started praying for answers, and none had come. God’s voice was quiet and she strained to hear His words. Most of the time, she felt He was yelling at her from the opposite side of a raging sea, and anything that had come across was only in drops, too difficult to understand, but too important to ignore.
When it had come to Charles Newgarden, her faith grew stronger, and in turn, His voice. It was easy to make the choice, however heartbreaking, to let Charles go. Albeit, she had left him a letter, not even being brave enough to tell him in person what she had decided, fearing she may crumble completely. She stood him up without giving him a proper goodbye.
They had made up, in the end.They had finally seen the Charlie Chaplin film together. His money had kept Nonnatus House open for longer, and she was grateful for those last few moments with him. She cherished them, even though they allowed her to think, for just one moment, of a different life, a different choice.
Back then, Louise was a vastly different woman. Two choices were laid in front of her; a religious sister, or a wife and mother. The latter would have been with a dear man, who she had loved above anything, but the former felt like it had fallen into her lap and she was to see it through.
Sister Julienne, on the other hand, had the choice already made, but she wasn’t willing to see it through. What if she was meant to be on the other side of womanhood? What if she had been utterly wrong?
Everything was, in a way, against her feelings. Her vocation. Her faith. The law. Even Poplar, however tight-nit and community-centred it was, would be against her. She was highly respected, but Poplar has its views and opinions, and won’t back down without a savage fight.
Her heart was what ruled her the most. There were times where she had to do wrong by her duty to do right by her patients. Her heart is what leads to her advice. She draws so much from it.
To her, that’s what God communicates to her with. He uses her heart in order to instruct on what she should do next and how to handle a situation.
Only, this time, her heart was telling her something her whole life was against.
Growing up, she was of the understanding that only a man was permitted to be with a woman. Her parents had told her a woman always had a choice to live without a man, but should she ever seek marriage, she should seek it within a man.
Marriage between a man and a woman was always acceptable. Even if there were a number of reasons why the couple weren’t suited for each other, they were permitted to marry if they wished.
For whatever reason, the same couldn’t be said for those of the same gender. Should a man want another man the way a man would want a woman, it was seen as wrong, unnatural, disgusting.
Should a woman want another woman the way a woman would want a man, she was told she couldn’t possibly know what she wanted, that she couldn’t live without the guidance of a man in the marriage, it was simply unheard of.
Sister Julienne had met many men and women who was outcast for this very reason. Many of them walked without a care, as if the words of others never mattered, and they spent their days in happy companionship. Others felt shame, disgust, and lacked any sort of confidence in who they were with.
Many of her patients were of the latter; aware that society saw them as something that should be punished and hid behind marriage for protection. Some of them only knew happiness in marriage from their children and adored them to no end, spoiling them and showing them the acceptance they never received.
Even still, they held love for someone, whether it be their partner or an old lover, hidden away and never discussed.
Knowing this made her feel confused. She knew what she felt towards Charles had been genuine, romantic love. She knew this because she had plenty of friends who she adored platonically and had met many a men who she shared no interest in. She could tell what was romantic, platonic, or otherwise.
But what she felt towards one of her religious sisters felt eerily similar to what she felt towards Charles. How could she love a man and a woman to the same extent at the same time?
Love took many forms, but she was always under the impression the romantic sort went to one gender: the opposite or the same. Never before had she heard of it being directed towards both. Her confusion in this only amplified her confusion with God.
She had taken religious vows. She wasn’t meant to view anyone in that way, let alone one of her own. Why was God so quiet? Had He sent her a test? Was He seeing how she would deal with this?
If she were honest, Sister Julienne felt as though she was doing poorly. If the test had a deadline and she got her results, it would be a 1. The 1 only given because she at least had the sense to ask God for help.
Sister Julienne sighed deeply and gazed upon the Jesus statue on the alter. Please, oh Lord, just tell me what I need to do.
Just then, a knock disrupted the quiet of the chapel and averted the sister’s eyes to the door.
“Sister Julienne?” came the voice of Shelagh before she entered, “I’ve come to see if you were alright.”
Her voice was gentle and expression sympathetic. Shelagh had always held a deeper understanding about anything, and always made a point to show it towards everyone.
“Yes, quite alright” Sister Julienne said, keeping her voice quiet, “I just needed some peace, that was all."
Shelagh walked over to the older woman, not quite convinced that she was getting any amount of peace.
“Do you mind if I join you, Sister?”
“No, not at all” Sister Julienne smiled warmly, “I’d appreciate the company.”
Shelagh sat to the Sister’s left and looked up to the statue of Jesus on the alter. Neither were quite willing to speak.
Shelagh felt as though she knew what was disturbing Sister Julienne. She had built her own routine of constant prayer and church visiting when she was trying to decipher how she felt towards Patrick during the days of Sister Bernadette.
Sister Julienne couldn’t quite relieve herself of the burden to Shelagh, petrified that if she spoke of it, it only meant her sin was a sin, rather than a distraction. She also had no way of knowing how Shelagh would react; disgusted? Accepting? Revolted? Would they even speak again? Her mind swirled. Who would listen in her moment of need?
“Sister..” Shelagh hesitated, “are you truly alright? Are you sure all you need is peace?”
Sister Julienne could feel her tears forming. No, I just need to be rid of my sin.
But I don’t want her to leave me, either.
“No, not fully” that was all she could truly admit, “but I’m sure with prayer, I’ll feel much better.”
“You can tell me, you know I won’t judge” Shelagh reassured.
Sister Julienne shook her head and looked at the alter, willing her tears not to fall. Prayer always worked, whether it improved the situation or her feelings, something always fixed itself with prayer. Why won’t it work? Why now? Why her? Why me? Why can’t I be fixed like everything else?
All Shelagh felt she could do was take Sister Julienne’s hands in her own, hoping that she could bring a small comfort.
Sister Hilda lay facing the ceiling. Her head swirled with memories of the day, as it always did after Compline.
It was the quiet of the evening over the past handful of weeks that she had began to notice a pattern with her memory.
Her smile was brighter today, her eyes lingered a little longer, she kept glancing over at me during breakfast, she couldn’t focus on the offices.
There was more detail. Detail she never put much thought into, or even noticed she had remembered.
Sister Hilda tapped the side table in tune to the ticking clock. Why did it matter? It was only fleeting moments, there were no real importance to them.
Who cared about lingering eyes, or brighter smiles, or unfocused singing? Who did it concern what any of those meant? It’s not like Sister Hilda willed them to happen, or tried to joke more to hear her laugh, or try subtly drawing her attention for a moment.
When does it truly matter if her chest seizes, and suddenly all the oxygen in her lungs are gone? Who will notice her own eyes drifting over during recreation to simply stare at the art beside her?
Sister Hilda sighed. Of course, there was always someone who cared. Though whether it was her or someone bigger, she did not know.
During recreation, it felt almost impossible to focus on her task. Her mind ventured into areas it really shouldn’t, or she would stare admiringly until asked if there was any problem. ‘None at all, I had just wandered into fairyland.’
If she realised she was staring before being called out, she would force her eyes down. There was no worth trying to look away completely. The paintings done by the experienced hands were always meticulous, even in the awkward first stage before anything takes shape.
Sister Hilda had never taken to watercolours, too splashy. ‘But there is beauty in the artist’ as her mother used to say. ‘They create with no bounds, and there is beauty in that.’
There was truth to that. There was always beauty wherever she was.Things she never payed much mind to beyond a quick glance, now became things she marvelled at.
The flowers smelt more divinely and seemed more delicate, Nescafe tasted sweeter, midwifery felt more lively.
A small smile always carried her from the beginning of the day, all the way to the end. Whenever they spoke, there was always a point to remember it. Whenever she needed something, Sister Hilda was determined to tend to it as soon as she could.
All Sister Hilda wanted to do was see her happy, to hear her laugh.
It’s only because she’s so focused on everyone else, she rarely allows herself the same energy was the poor attempt at rationalising it. Her happiness means just as much as everyone else’s.
Then why don’t you try just as much for everyone?
She knew why. It would be foolish not to admit it in the quiet. She knew there was no point admitting it to anyone.
If anyone had caught on, she prayed they said nothing. If they hadn’t caught on, she prayed they never would.
The desires of her peculiar heart were weighing so heavily on her chest. There was nothing more than to reveal it, to speak of what it did to her. But to who was the challenge.
She prayed and prayed, but only because she knew it was sinful. She couldn’t lay herself at the feet of the very one who was causing it all, what if she became a disgusting sight? Anyone else could, and would almost indefinitely, shame her.
There was no one, truthfully, to which she could unburden herself to, to speak without silence.
Fear crawled into very crack. What if someone found out? What if someone tattled? Could she face it with enough grace?
Sighing, Sister Hilda knew it was worthless to ponder further. All that she could do was rest in that moment, continue her prayers, and hope for an answer to it all in due course.
Come morning, she would feel better. Come morning, she would continue as she always did.
She had to be up early anyways, and needed the rest. She couldn’t tend to her patients if she had spent the night, laying wide awake, mulling over feelings that may pass.