It was the first time Marta had been invited to access the upper level of Bernie’s house, and despite her hurry to get to the washroom, she paused when she reached the top of the stairs, arrested by the art on the walls. She knew Bernie well enough not to expect to find her children’s paintings taped up haphazardly, but she’d imagined she’d find some tasteful black-and-white photographs, or maybe a collection of artsy line drawings. Instead, Marta was confronted with a series of highly detailed anatomical illustrations in full colour, each one edged by a thin black frame. She walked slowly past two hearts (one intact and one dissected), a set of lungs, a spine, and a skull.
The tour through the human body ended at the end of the hall. Marta entered Bernie’s bathroom, which was white with gold-and-green accents. A massive bathtub sat like an invitation in the centre of the room, perfectly positioned beneath the skylight. The walk-in shower took up the far wall—sparkling glass enclosing a space large enough to contain a teak bench and a sizable tropical plant.
After changing her tampon (she’d made itjustin time), Marta inspected her peeling lips in the mirror as she washed her hands with soap that smelled like the lobby of a hotel she could never afford. Over her shoulder, she saw that the door connecting to Bernie’s bedroom was open a crack, displaying a tantalizing slice of her inner sanctum. Without overthinking it, Marta dried her hands on her jeans as she crossed the tile floor and pushed the door fully open.Just a quick peek.
The late afternoon rays illuminated the king bed in the centre of the room, piled high with soft white pillows and a thick duvet. Marta blushed when she clocked the erotic nude photographs that were arranged artistically on the walls, then took a few more steps into the space.A walk-in closet!Restraint gone, Marta crossed the room in quick strides to peer inside the serene oasis where all Bernie’s beautiful things were neatly folded and stacked and organized by colour. Marta thought that if she had such a cool space, she would have turned it into a cozy reading nook; she imagined filling the shelves with books instead of purses, and putting a lamp on the table beside the easy chair instead of a bowl with . . .
Her eyes were struggling to sort through the jumble of objects when her gaze snagged on a familiar item.What the hell?Marta’s hairline prickled. Magnetized by the pull of Derrick’s class ring, she fully entered the closet and approached the table.No. Oh no.She saw it then, beside the bowl, its delicate golden links coiled like a sleeping serpent. The metal was cold against her skin but warmed quickly as she closed her eyes and squeezed her hand into a fist. When she uncurled her fingers, the shape of Celeste’s locket had left a heart-shaped indent in her flesh.
46
BERNIE
A flush, footsteps, then water singing in the taps. Then a disconcerting silence. Bernie should have heard Marta in the upstairs hallway by now; the creaky old bones of her house were bad at keeping secrets. Instead, she heard the telltalesquealof the first floorboard in her bedroom (the one she’d had to train her ex-husband to step over so that he wouldn’t wake her when she was sleeping off a long shift).
In a bolt, she shot out of her chair.
The sky was dark and the storm was still hammering the island, but the interior of the cottage was a glowing sanctuary lit by a combination of candles and soft lamps. Bernie had fixed herself a cup of green tea and was happily reading a medical journal in the sunroom on her own. Marta was cooking dinner with Imogen’s assistance, although Imogen’s help appeared to consist of drinking wine while perched on a stool at the kitchen island and describing the latest designer bags she planned to buy.
Bernie put the journal down when Celeste emerged from her nap and wandered into the room looking puffy under the eyes. She had a fresh pour of white wine in hand, the glass dewed with condensation. “How’re you doing, Cee?”
Celeste gave Bernie a sheepish smile and came to join her on the couch. “Much better, thanks. A bit embarrassed about throwing up, to be honest. You know, I never drink like this . . . my body isn’t used to it.” She took a sip of her wine. “I can’t remember the last time I was that drunk.”
You can’t remember two weeks ago?Bernie nodded. “Of course. We got a little wild, that’s all.” She wondered if Celeste realized that her drinking habits were written on her face in the faint red script of broken capillaries. Or that most people, fresh off an afternoon bender, didn’t pour themselves a glass of wine to start the evening.
“Right!?” Celeste’s smile looked like relief, if Bernie wasn’t mistaken, but the in-between emotions were tricky sometimes. “How often do we have the chance to be off mom duty and let loose? Sue me if I have a bottle of wine.”
Bernie nodded again. “Wine is cheaper than therapy.” She’d seen the phrase on social media and thought it was the type of sentiment that would appeal to Celeste.
Celeste laughed in agreement as she held her glass up in an air cheers, and Bernie sipped her tea. The women had never noticed that Bernie controlled her drinking as rigidly as she controlled every other aspect of her life. Two drinks (of high-quality alcohol) on any social occasion—no more. Sure, she’d accept a shot without protest, but what she did with that shot while the others were tossing theirs back was none of their business. Bernie relished the feeling of holding the reins as others slipped out of control.
“Actually, I’m glad to get you on your own.” Celeste’s expression turned serious. “I want to apologize for what I said earlier, you know, accusing you of having an affair with Harry. I was . . . very emotional. And I’m so glad I was wrong. But I spoke pretty harshly to you.”
Bernie shrugged. She could be gracious, even though she didn’t want to be. “Forgiven. Don’t give it another th—”
Celeste interrupted her. “But there’s something else I need to say. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to support your candidacy for medical director.”
What. The. Fuck.Bernie straightened up and focused on Celeste’s face, unable to read what she was seeing there. This made no sense. There was no affair, so everything should be good between them.
“I want to be honest—I’d rather you hear this from me,” Celeste said. “Helping Harry conceal his addiction . . . that showed colossally bad judgment on your part. I know you thought you were being a friend to him, but you had professional responsibilities that you ignored. You know, to the hospital and to the patients.”
“Celeste, no. Please give this some more thought.” Bernie tried to lock eyes with her, but Celeste’s head was bowed, looking into her wineglass. “Harry told me he was clean, I swear on my children’s lives. He wasn’t using. I was the one who helpedhim stay sober. Until the end—but there’s no way I could have predicted that.” Bernie was outraged that Celeste was already shaking her head before she’d even finished speaking. What was the goddamn point of any of it if this self-righteous idiot was going to snatch her well-deserved promotion away from her?
“I’ve already decided. I’m sure you’ll make a great director someday, but it would be unconscionable for me to support your candidacy now, knowing what I know. What if he’d been in the operating room when that happened? What if he’d killed someone? For that matter, Harry deserved better from you too. Maybe he would have gotten real treatment if his secret had been exposed. You enabled him, Bernie. And I’m sorry, but I simply am not going to change my mind about this.” Celeste looked proud of herself, as if she’d rehearsed her little speech in the mirror. “I do hope that this doesn’t change anything between us on a social level. My decision is purely about the hospital and has nothing to do with you as a friend.”
Bernie squeezed her fist, blinked, then concentrated on getting it right. Mouth set in a line, curved up slightly at either side, a non-threatening expression of understanding and resignation. Eyes down. Slight nod. “I’m disappointed, obviously. But I understand the position I’ve put you in. Of course this won’t change anything between us.”
Immediately, Bernie began to scheme.
Later that night, it had been relatively easy to get Celeste to come outside with her.
Quick, quiet, and—she was quite certain—unnoticed. Friday night was her hastily concocted Plan A. Bernie had told herself that if she must, she would wait until Saturday, but there were no guarantees that she’d have an opportunity then, and she really, really didn’t like waiting. She had self-control, of course she did; she was capable of great restraint when it served her. But fighting her darker urges was difficult and she knew she’d have to contend with the buzzing in her chest until she gave in. The hive was swarming behind her heart as she guided Celeste down to the rocky outcropping that was mostly out of sight from the sunroom—she’d checked earlier that afternoon. There was no chance that Imogen or Marta would catch a glimpse of them outside, not in the heavy darkness that had draped its mantle around their little island.
“What about Harry?” Celeste’s voice was blurred with wine.
Bernie spoke quietly, hoping Celeste would mirror her and lower her voice. “I wanted to apologize that I didn’t tell you about Harry’s problem earlier. I’m sorry that you had to find out by going through his messages. I should have been the one to tell you, but it seemed like it would be unnecessarily hurtful—there was nothing else to be said after he was gone.”
Part of her wondered if Celeste might save herself. If Celeste spontaneously walked back her earlier comments about not supporting her candidacy, she’d let it be, because Celeste would be more useful as an ally. But she didn’t think that was going to happen.
