Day Of Confession

19

Hospital St Cecilia. Pescara, Italy.

Still Wednesday, July 8. 6:20 p.m.

Nursing sister Elena Voso passed the man at the door and went into the room. Her patient was as she'd left him, on his side, sleeping. Sleeping was what she called it, even though from time to time he opened his eyes and was able to blink in response when she squeezed a finger or toe and asked if he could feel it. Then his eyes would close and he would be as he was now.

It was approaching six-thirty, and he needed to be turned again. The man at the door would help with that, as whoever was on duty did every two hours to prevent the destruction of muscle tissue, which could lead not only to bedsores but kidney failure. Coming in at her call, he would take the shoulders while she took the feet, easing her charge carefully from his back and onto his side, being especially careful of the IV and of his broken legs, set in blue fiberglass casts, and the bandages covering his burns.

Michael Roark, age 34. Irish citizen. Home, Dublin. Unmarried. No children. No family. Religion, Roman Catholic. Injured in an automobile accident near this Adriatic seacoast town, Monday, July 6. Three days after the terrible explosion of the Assisi bus.

Elena Voso was a member of the Congregation of Franciscan Sisters of the Sacred Heart. At twenty-seven, she had been a nursing sister for five years, working in the long-term-care ward at the Hospital of St Bernardine in the Tuscan city of Siena. She had come to this small Catholic hospital on a hill overlooking the Adriatic only yesterday, assigned to this patient as part of a new kind of program for the Order. It was a way to expose younger nursing sisters to situations away from their home convents, preparing them for future emergencies where they might be called upon to go almost anywhere on short notice. And, though no one had said so, she also believed she had been sent because she spoke English and could communicate with the patient as he progressed, if he progressed.

'My name is Elena Voso. I am a nursing nun. Your name is Michael Roark. You are in a hospital in Italy. You were in an automobile accident.'

It was a string of words she had said over and over, trying to comfort him, hoping he could hear and understand. It wasn't much, but it was something she knew she would like someone to say to her if she were ever in a similar situation. Especially since he had no relatives and therefore no familiar face he might recognize.

The man outside the door was named Marco. He worked from three in the afternoon to eleven at night. A year or two older than Elena, he was strong and handsome and deeply tanned. He said he was a fisherman and worked at the hospital when the fishing was slow. She knew he had been a carabiniere, a member of the national police, because he had told her so. She had seen him talking with other carabinieri earlier in the day, when she'd walked along the lungomare, the road along the seashore, during a short respite from her duties. She had seen the bulge under his hospital jacket and knew he had a pistol there.

The turning of Michael Roark done, Elena checked the fluid in the IV, then smiled at Marco and thanked him. Afterward she went into the next room, which was where she could sleep or read or write letters, and where she would be immediately available at any moment.

Her room, like Roark's, was a hospital room with its own toilet and shower, small closet, and bed. She was grateful especially for the toilet and shower, where, unlike in the communal bathrooms of the convent, she could be totally alone. Her being, her body, her thoughts private, except to God.

Now, as she closed the door and sat down on the bed, intending to write a letter home, she glanced at the red glow of the audio monitor on the bedside table next to her. The sound of her patient's steady breathing was clearly audible, the monitor's electronics so advanced that it seemed almost as if he were there beside her.

Lying back against the pillow, she closed her eyes and listened to his breathing. It was strong and healthy, even vital, and she began to imagine that he was there, alongside her, alert and well, as muscular and handsome as she knew he must have been before his injuries. The longer she listened, the more sensual his breathing seemed to become. In time she began to feel the press of his body against hers. Felt herself breathing with him, as if the rise and fall of their chests were the same. Her breathing became deeper, overriding his. She felt her own hand touch her breast, and she reached out, wanting to touch him and to keep touching him, exploring him in a way far more provocative and passionate than any way she had when she cared for his wounds.

'Stop it!' she whispered to herself.

Abruptly she got up from the bed and deliberately went into the bathroom to wash her face and hands. God was testing her again, as He had been more and more frequently over the past two years.

When exactly the feelings had begun she wasn't sure, nor had there been anything in particular to precipitate them. They had just started, rising seemingly from nowhere. And they'd astonished her. They were deep and sensual and erotic. Profound physical and emotional hungers she'd never experienced in her life. Feelings she could talk to no one about – certainly not to her family, who were strict and tradition bound in the way of old Italian Catholic families; certainly not to the other nuns, and most assuredly not to her mother general – yet the feelings were just the same and made her pulse with an almost unmanageable desire to be unclothed and in a man's arms, and to be a woman with him in the fullest sense. And, increasingly, not just a woman, but one wild and lusty, like the Italian women she'd seen in the cinema.

There had been times early on when she'd passed the emotions off as nothing more than the extension of an adventurous spirit; one that had always been physical and brave and, on occasion, overly impulsive. One time, visiting Florence as a teenager, and to the horror of her parents, who were with her, she'd run to a car that had just been in a terrible collision with a taxi, pulling the unconscious driver from it seconds before it burst into flame and exploded. Another time, when she was older, she'd been on a picnic with nursing nuns from St Bernardine and had climbed to the top of a hundred-foot radio tower to bring down a young boy who had scaled it on a dare, but who, once at the top, had become frozen with fear, unable to do more than cling there and cry.

But finally she'd realized physical courage and sexual desire were not the same. And with that she'd suddenly understood.

This was God's doing!

He was testing her inner strength, and her vows of chastity and obedience. And each day He seemed to test her a little more. And the more He did, the more difficult it became to overcome. But somehow she always did, her subconscious suddenly making her aware of what was happening, enabling her to abruptly bring herself back from the edge. The same as she had now. And, in doing so, giving her the courage and conviction to know she had the fortitude to withstand His purposeful temptations.

As if to prove it, she let her mind go to Marco standing guard outside the door. His strapping body. His bright eyes. His smile. If he was married he hadn't said, but he wore no wedding ring, and she wondered if he spent his off hours bedding women at will. He was certainly handsome enough to do so if he wanted. But, if he did, he would do so with other women, not her. To her he was simply a man doing his job.

Seeing him in that light, she knew it was safe to think about him any way she wished. He said he had been trained as a nursing aide, as supposedly the others had been. But if he was only that, why did he carry a pistol? That question alone made her think of the others – the stocky Luca, who came on at eleven at night on the shift following Marco's, and Pietro, who began at seven in the morning when Luca left. She wondered if they were armed as well. If they were, why? In this peaceful seacoast town, what threat could there possibly be?