Day of Confession - Allan Folsom [34]
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 familes; certainly not to the other nuns, and most assuredly not to her mother general—yet the feelings were there 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. 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