Marcus and Bernie had very different notions of what constituted a good time – indeed, they had not shared many leisure moments before their honeymoon. Marcus had been three years ahead of her in medical school, already specializing in surgery when she had still been completing her training in general medicine. Their romance would never have existed otherwise, reflected Bernie, because he had always enjoyed being better than her, being able to teach her things. He'd wanted her to remain in general practice, or maybe to specialize in a more feminine subject like ob-gyn or maybe dermatology. He'd always said he'd fallen in love with her brain as much as with her beauty, but if she showed signs of outsmarting him, he would sulk for hours. That had been one of the first points of contention during the honeymoon – Marcus couldn't speak a word of French, and he resented the fact that she was able to understand the menus, the waiters, and even the newspapers. Moreover, he had planned the trip very carefully: he had wanted to impress her, to take her shopping in the Rue Saint-Honoré where all the couturiers were, to the Louvre and the Musée d'Orsay, and had booked for diner at La Tour d'Argent and on the bateaux-mouches.
She wanted to stroll casually in untouristy areas, to drink coffee and diabolos menthe in cafés, to have candlelit diners in small restaurants. She'd never liked dressing up, always felt more at ease in slacks and shirts, and she had no time for museums. Facing Marcus at their table at La Tour d'Argent, uncomfortable in a new black dress, she had looked at him as if she was seeing him for the first time, and had the sense that something, once again, was "wrong". Being with someone during lectures, the occasional Sunday afternoons, and drinking in students' bars may not have been a good preparation for marriage. She had been seduced by the young doctor who was so self-assured and so evidently in love with her. She had not known how to refuse him when he'd asked for her hand in marriage, because after all, it'd seemed like the perfect match. He was clever, ambitious, handsome, his family was well-off, and he obviously cared for her. And so she had let her guard down, forgotten her decision never to trust or rely on anybody ever again, and she'd accepted his offer.
And yet, on that evening, over foie gras and sole à la normande, she did not feel "cared for" – she felt smothered and bent out of shape, as if Marcus had been trying to fit her round shape into a square hole. She had felt panic rising – she was not sure who she was anymore – she had been so many people in her life – she was like a Russian doll, so many people in the same body – her mother's little girl, loved and protected, her Miss invisible persona from her boarding school days, her wry, can-do character from university, and now ? Marcus' project ? Marcus' Galatea ?
Charlotte had been conceived in that hotel room – Marcus had not wanted to use protection with his bride, and she felt secure in the knowing that she'd swallowed her little white pill every morning – getting pregnant while still in medical school had not been part of her plan. However, the little white pill had not worked its magic, and as a month later she'd felt nauseous every morning, she knew that her carefully laid plans for her future would need some alterations. Marcus was working in Bristol, in his first year as a neuro-surgeon, she was in her F1 year at Gloucester Hospital, and they were living in a family home Marcus had inherited in Cheltenham, near his parents' house. She was lucky enough to be able to work till two weeks before the birth, and two more weeks later, she was back on the wards. It certainly was not ideal, but she had no choice if she wanted to graduate, and her mother-in-law was there to help with the baby. That too had hurt ...to be told her daughter had taken her first steps with Grandma, to be the last one to hear her daughter's first words, not to be there for her first day at Nursery School.
And then, three years later, Cameron had arrived – by then she was beginning her specialization as trauma surgeon, and once again, the timing could have been better. Marcus was earning good money, and they were able to afford a full-time au pair. He had also found a position at Cheltenham Hospital, and so was able to be home more often. The birth had been more difficult, she'd had to have a cesarean, and to stop work for three months. Bernie reflected that all this might be why Charlotte did not want to talk to her anymore, while Cameron was magnanimous enough to accept working with her. The bonding process with her son had been easier, she'd had more time with him, more oxytocin-forming days.
"On y est – 30 euros, s'il vous plaît »
Bernie was jolted out of her musings – she gathered her wits and her bags, paid the driver, and got out of the cab at the Gare de Lyon. She was too early for the Aix-en-Provence TGV, so she decided to have another coffee and something to eat . She stopped in one of the brasseries facing the station, and asked for breakfast – it was still only ten in the morning, even though she felt exhausted. She was just about to bite into her buttered baguette when her eyes were caught by two Romanian kids begging on the café's terrace. For just one nano-second, the little girl – she couldn't have been more than six or seven – caught Bernie's glance, and they looked straight into each other's eyes. Bernie put the bread back on her plate, untouched. A wave of nausea submerged her, and her head began throbbing painfully. Those blue eyes …she was back in Kandahar, a few weeks into her mission there. She had been on her way to a field hospital, and as she was not driving, looking idly around her – they had been approaching a village that had looked relatively unscarred, and children were playing football with what appeared to be a can. One minute they were kicking their improvised ball, cheering each other on – the next , their cries were drowned by an explosion noise. She and her colleague ran towards the children, who were lying on the ground – three of them, just little kids. One of them was already dead, half of his upper body having been torn off by the mine. Another one appeared untouched, but he had been carried several yards away by the force of the blast, and as Bernie checked for a pulse, she already knew it was no use – there was no way he could have survived the impact. The third one was breathing, although his left leg was no more than a mangle of flesh. Bernie managed to suture the leg, stopping the hemorrhage, and she thought she would at least be able to save one. It was a small boy, obviously malnourished, so his age was difficult to determine, he could have been anything between five and ten. As she was checking his pulse, he looked straight into her eyes, his own large baby-blue saucers in a sunken face, and stopped breathing. She performed CPR, desperately trying to resuscitate him, and stopped only when her colleague put a hand on her shoulder and said "It's over – he's gone".
On that day, when she got back to camp in the evening, she went back to her room – more a cell than a room, in fact, as they were tiny spaces with only a bed and a closet, and curled up on her bed in the fetal positions, in the dark. She did not bother to get up on the next morning. She just remained there, a tight ball of misery and anger. On the next evening, someone knocked at her door, and came in, not waiting for an answer. She would have shouted at the intruder to go away, to leave her alone, but even that was impossible. It felt as if her voice, her words, her feelings, her emotions had been swallowed by the blast. The intruder came to sit on the bed, and began stroking her hair, gently, persistently, till Bernie felt herself uncurl slowly. A few moments later, she was sobbing her heart out on Alex's shoulder. Alex embraced her tightly, and Bernie clung to her desperately. She had not shed a tear since the day of the teddy bear.
(to be continued)