CH 92 Turmoil

Bear had still not returned by the time Bonnie'd pulled herself together. The silence in the room was profound, strangely so, and, glancing at her watch, she saw it was well past five o'clock. The workroom would be empty, her colleagues having headed home or to the Corner Bar for drinks and more breathless discussion. She wondered if, on her way out, Gabby'd looked for her and noticed she was missing, but only idly. The thought uppermost in her mind was to grab her coat and bag, and, with any luck, make a quick and clean escape.

She stepped, first, into the washroom to repair her appearance, and was appalled at the sight of her pink, puffy eyes and red-tipped nose. She ran the water icy-cold and repeatedly bathed her face, but the swelling refused to subside, leaving her the unenviable choice of hiding away a while longer or braving the curious, pitying or discomfited looks she was bound to attract from strangers. In the end, feeling acutely self-conscious, she donned a pair of sunglasses she found in the bottom of her bag, turned the collar of her coat up high, and, dashing down the stairs, crossed the lobby and exited the Jeff at little short of a run.

Outside, it was already full dark, and cold. A stiff little wind blew, biting enough that people walking into it tucked their chins into their chests and looked neither right nor left. Bonnie shucked the glasses, stuffed them in a pocket, and, hunching her shoulders up around her ears, set off with the wind at her back, her plan nothing more involved than to keep moving forward. She had no fixed destination, took no notice of street signs or landmarks. Her awareness was limited to the people immediately around her, and only to the extent of avoiding bumping into them or treading on their heels.

If she'd thought to outdistance the pain, she was disappointed. It kept perfect pace with her, the most wounding of Bear's words replaying in her mind on endless repeat. What gives you the right? They don't cross the lines. I can't work with you. We can't come back from this. Each echo was a new stab to the heart, a fresh gutting.

The worst of it was, she was not only hurt but badly shaken. The mirror Bear'd held up to her… she hadn't recognized herself at all. Was she really, as he'd called her, presumptuous and entitled? She, who tried always to be respectful and considerate of others, even to the point, sometimes, of bending over backwards? He had to have misspoken… or had he? Was it possible she was deluded in herself? The doubt crept into her mind, and refused to be banished. How could she be sure, not having picked up on Bear's cues, that she wasn't insensitive in a general way? Perhaps, like some clueless, privileged twit, she'd been stepping on toes all round without the least awareness. How could she know, and what was she to trust? Her own sense of self, or Bear's reproaches?

It was true that Bear had backtracked a little. He'd taken the blame for their having to part ways, but she saw that gesture for what it was: a belated attempt to soften the blow. He'd done his best to avoid hurting her, and, having failed, had been moved by pity or guilt to try to take the sting from his rejection. It hadn't worked; there was no sugarcoating the pill that he was leaving because of her, because of feelings he couldn't reciprocate — I can't be who you want — and the tension that imbalance created. He'd dealt with it for weeks, and had reached the breaking point. But, why now? What had been the final straw? And then, suddenly, it came to her: Sam Reynolds' retirement, the position coming open, her being virtually guaranteed the job. Bear'd only accepted Vanderhoven's offer when it was clear she wasn't going elsewhere.

The crowd had been thinning about her for some time, and, looking up, she saw she'd wandered into one of the neighborhoods of row houses and small businesses bordering downtown. She'd been ignoring the pain in her feet, but now she realized they were turning into blocks of ice, and her hands were going numb. She spied a donut shop ahead, bought a coffee at the counter, and settled at a table. Her phone showed the time as nearly seven. At the compound, her grandfather would be sitting down to supper, and, though he wouldn't necessarily be expecting her, she texted him, "Held up in town, might stay over or back late." When, not a minute later, she received a thumbs-up emoji in reply, she was glad she'd troubled to check in.

She stowed the phone away, and, wrapping her hands around the hot paper cup, tried to lose herself in staring out the window, but her thoughts would not be stilled. She found herself remembering Bear's hostility toward her at the start of her internship, his determination, as it had seemed to her, to provoke her into quitting. She had vowed to herself not to give him the satisfaction, and now, these many months later, she was on the cusp not only of fulfilling her contract but of being hired on permanently, while he was the one who felt harassed and driven to resign. It was a terrible irony, one that gave Bonnie no pleasure and not a scintilla of triumph.

She tried to picture the Jeff without Bear in his office or roving the workroom, but it defied her imagination. He was too much a fixture, too central to the organization. His going would leave a tremendous void, not only for her, but, to judge by their consternation, for her workmates as well. They might grumble at his curt, impersonal manner but they knew, and respected, what they had in him professionally: sharp technical skills, an impressive breadth of knowledge and a fair, efficient management style. They took vicarious pride, too, in his growing reputation as a conference speaker and the credit that reflected on the Jeff. His were shoes it was going to be a challenge, if not impossible, to fill. Bonnie'd heard Gabby say she didn't even want to try, and there'd been sympathetic murmurs. The Jeff would be taking a hit with his loss. Everybody felt it.

And the harm was not restricted to the Jeff. There was the awful disruption to Danny's life, the plucking him out of a routine so comfortable and safe, he'd put on a growth spurt, not only in pounds and inches but in happiness. It pained her to think of Danny separated from the Jolicœurs, especially Luc. The trauma of losing a best friend, an almost brother, and so abruptly, would be shattering. Each boy would, for a while, feel less than whole, a vital part of themselves cut away. Who would have it worse, Luc, from being haunted at school and at home by Danny's absence, or Danny, from being the new kid, on the outside looking in on established cliques and friendships?

And Caro… She didn't just provide Danny after-school care; she loved him for his own sake as well as Luc's. Bonnie remembered the day of their outing, Caro sitting beside her at the playground, asking her to understand that, much as she regretted it, she couldn't allow her to see Danny at will. Bear had made his wishes clear, and she valued their arrangement too highly to risk it by betraying his trust. She'd kept strict faith with Bear, but in the end, it hadn't served her. Bear was pulling the plug regardless, and, like Dr. Cummings and their colleagues, the Jolicœurs were to be left to suffer, victims of a falling-out they'd had no part in.

Eventually, she thought of Val, and berated herself for not having done so sooner; Val Dunbar wasn't the world's best mother, perhaps, but she'd been conscientious, lately, about doing whatever share of looking after Danny Bear allowed, and would be impacted by his decision. How was she to keep her current schedule of seeing Danny twice a week? Was she going to have to give up Wednesday evenings with her son, or would she pull up stakes and move to Baltimore as well? Either way, she was going to be put to the bother and inconvenience of adjusting. And all because she, Bonnie, had been too forward, too aggressive…

Her once-cold cheeks flushed hot at the thought of the havoc Bear was willing to wreak in his bid to get away from her. She slid quickly from her seat, and, disposing of her empty cup, headed out again into the night. At an intersection, she turned up a random residential street, and walked on, careless of getting lost. The thought pounded in her mind that it couldn't be too late. There had to be something she could do, or say, some action she could take to put things right. Disaster loomed, but there was still time, surely, to avert it. Bear had as yet done nothing but resign, and he could take that back. Vanderhoven would be disappointed, but what was one person's chagrin against that of so many others? She would make Bear any promises he liked, guarantee she'd keep her distance…

And it wouldn't matter. A change in her outward behavior wouldn't address the underlying problem, wouldn't make Bear any less aware of her feelings and of his inability to return them. It wouldn't lessen his discomfort, or repair their damaged relationship. And, in any event, she was kidding herself to think she could handle working with Bear without blushing, stammering, or otherwise betraying her pain and mortification. She was not so good an actress that her workmates wouldn't pick up on her awkwardness with Bear and wonder at its source. Disquiet and doubt would spread across the workroom, there'd be talk and speculation… No, Bear was right. It would be unendurable, and possibly detrimental to their careers. There was no help for it, then: one of them must go.

But did it have to be Bear?

The question stopped her in her tracks. She stood stock still, her breathing ragged and misting on the air. She could be the one to leave. It was so simple and obvious a solution, she didn't know why she hadn't seen it at once. She was the only impediment to Bear's staying on the job; remove her from the equation, and he'd have no incentive to resign and cause so much upheaval.

A simple solution, yes, but requiring such a sacrifice on her part she instinctively recoiled. She loved her work, her colleagues, being associated with the Jeff. Her dream of a settled future at the Institute was about to come true; could she really give that up? But then, with Bear's departure, there would necessarily be changes in the workroom. How much did his direction and mentoring factor into her love for her work? Would she be as happy under different management? And how, faced with his absence every day, was she not to be eaten up with guilt at what she, through her actions, had cost him and the department?

She resumed walking, and, coming at last to a major cross street, saw from the road signs that she was only blocks away from Gallaudet University. She knew then where she was, that there was a metro stop nearby, and how to find it. A train pulled into the station just as she reached the platform, and, without breaking stride, she was through the sliding door and on her way home to Virginia. Along the journey, she continued to wrestle with herself, to look for another way out, but when she considered the repercussions of her leaving against Bear's, there was really no comparison. Dr. Cummings, and Gabby, would be disappointed, but she was nowhere near as critical to the division as Bear. There would be no shortage of high-caliber candidates to replace her.

And who, apart from herself, would suffer on the personal side from her withdrawing her application and taking a job somewhere further afield? Trev, a little, but he had Vanna now or would before too long. Her grandfather, maybe quite a bit, but he'd still have the comfort of his usual routine and the consolation of his daughter and grandsons' company. What consolations would Danny have?

By the time the Uber dropped her at the compound, Bonnie had made her decision. The hour was late, and the house dark and silent. She crept past her grandfather's quarters, grateful for the small mercy that he hadn't waited up, and, shutting herself into her room, set about her preparations.

There was much to be done, so she was late to bed, slept poorly, and then rose well ahead of her usual time. She lifted her bag, tip-toed down the stairs to the outer door, and, on her way out, propped a note addressed to her mother and grandfather on the hall table.

Some twenty-four hours later, dragging with exhaustion and the beginnings of a head cold, Bonnie punched an access code into a keypad, rolled her suitcase to the building's elevator, and rode up to the penthouse floor. She might have used her apartment key, but knocked on the door instead. It swung open, revealing Jeanne who, seeing Bonnie standing before her, gaped in speechless astonishment.

Angela's voice sounded from behind her, "Qui est-ce, Jeanne? Et à cette heure-ci!" Receiving no answer, Angela then appeared herself, still in her dressing gown and slippers. At the sight of Bonnie, her irritation vanished, to be replaced with shock. "Bonnie? Sweetheart, what are you doing here? What's happened? Are you all right?"

Bonnie attempted a smile, and stepped over the threshold. "I've come to stay for a while, Grammy." Her voice wobbled dangerously, and tears rose in her eyes. "If you'll have me."

"Oh, my love!" Angela gathered her into her arms and, in the warmth of that familiar embrace, Bonnie broke down into sobs. "Of course, of course! Stay as long as you like. Stay forever. And whatever this is, we'll figure it out, you'll see. You're home, now, darling. You're home."