TWO
The words stretched out, hung in the air of the ICU where Fletch was continuing to lie unconscious, conducting a silent, but ferocious battle for his life, tubes running all over him, going in and coming out, just as the doctors came in and out of the room, as trusty machines worked their magic, infusing and diffusing medicine, sustenance, all through Fletch's system, and kept their watch and their rhythm over him, all through the day and night.
Fletch was unconscious, wasn't he? Serena glanced over the top of the chart to see if there had been any flicker of a reaction to her pseudo-coming out of a few moments earlier. Not that it had been a real coming out, of course. And not just because Fletch was currently in a coma, and couldn't hear her. Could he?
The words had, in themselves, just been an experiment, hadn't they. Thoughts aired aloud. An experiment was a perfectly valid means of testing a hypothesis. Making certain assumptions for the purposes of investigating a theory, and working on the basis of those assumptions so as to determine factors otherwise unaccounted for, was valid scientific procedure.
I mean, if, just supposing, and really the idea were ludicrous, let's just say, if Serena were a lesbian, well, what that would actually explain?
A lot. A hell of a lot. Why you were kissing Bernie Wolfe on the floor of the bloody theatre the other night for a full twenty minutes or more, for one thing.
Bernie kissed me, Serena thought. And then: and I kissed her back. Blood rushed, then and now, to certain places. There was, then, and now; in the moment, and in the memory, the heightening of heady desire. No conscious thought, just pure instinct. Something, somewhere, inside, had given, and Serena had leant forward and captured Bernie's lips with her own.
The thought almost made her gasp aloud. Then, and now.
Experiments were clinical. By their very nature, they were under controlled conditions. And there had been a distinct, uncharacteristic, lapse of control on her part. When she had met Bernie's lips with her own, and when she felt Bernie react to her kiss, her mind had transcended to a level not even the finest Shiraz had ever managed to reach (never mind Edward, Robbie or Ric). It had been even better a feeling than first being kissed by her, to feel her lips respond to Serena's own –
What had to be allowed for here, Serena told herself, running her eyes up and down Fletch's chart for the fourth or fifth time, were the uncontrolled variables that had been in play. That was what had really thrown things off. The totally crazy set of circumstances in which they had found themselves. Their friend and colleague, attacked on the ward. What had happened to Fletch, the sudden horror of it, had caused a chain reaction that could not have been predicted.
Seeing Fletch there on the table between them, his life in their hands – they had shared an experience. And Bernie had felt compelled to kiss her, and when Bernie had done so, after all the portents of doom and death, Serena had responded to Bernie in a very human, I mean
- why say "lesbian", specifically -
way.
It was a logical assumption, wasn't it, that in such intense, other-worldly circumstances, she would have kissed any other colleague –
Ric? God, erm, Raf, then? He was sort of cuddly in a diminutive sort of way, wasn't he!? This was absurd. Perhaps she couldn't think of one per se, but that hardly negated the point
back, in that moment, surely, had they –
rather than Bernie Wolfe. The fantastic, fearless Bernie Wolfe…
been the one to kiss her on the floor of that theatre
I mean really.
What right did Bernie have to prey on her when she was at a moment of such extreme crisis? When she was at such a low ebb? It was wholly unprofessional.
But then, a vision of Bernie's slight, sad, smile.
It was Bernie who had been at her lowest point, blaming herself for an out of control patient -
what if he had stabbed Bernie? What if it had been her…?
- beginning the self-recrimination, and Serena who had reassured her, meaning every word.
Bernie had stopped. Had pulled back, looked for Serena's reaction. And Serena had kissed her back. Hands on Bernie's strong arms, moving up into her (fabulous) hair and back down again, it seemed so natural to reach for her, and then Serena had felt Bernie's hands wrap around her waist (god) as the kiss deepened, and Bernie pulled her close, but somehow, achingly, not close enough. And Serena wasn't thinking, I'm kissing a woman, for the first time – for all her confidence and knowing self-assurance, and even how she had been acting with Bernie these last few months, she had never even kissed a woman before – Serena thought only, Bernie and at last. And could not have said, then or now, what she meant by either.
