Chapter 17
BERNIE
Bernie reflected that she probably shouldn’t have made those comments about Harry while playing Never Have I Ever; clearly, they’d struck a nerve.
Her first instinct was to laugh it off, but it seemed Celeste would not react well to any form of humour in this moment.
Instead, Bernie shook her head seriously.
“What do you mean, you know about me and Harry?” She reached over and selected a couple of Twizzlers from the bag that Imogen was cradling.
These were the pull-’n’-peel kind, so she started playing with one, tasselling its ends.
“I don’t know what this is about, but I can see that you’re upset.
Let’s talk about it.” She used her most reasonable voice—the one she employed when she needed to cajole a nurse into doing extra work for her, the one that drove her ex-husband crazy when they fought.
“You know.” Celeste crossed her arms over her chest and glared.
Bernie looked around at Imogen and Marta, who were watching this exchange with wide eyes.
“Celeste.” Even more gently. “I really don’t.
You obviously have something you need to say to me, so just say it.
I promise I won’t be mad.” Everything was in sharp focus for Bernie as she concentrated on Celeste’s body language and expression.
“You won’t be mad? Oh, okay. Good, as long as you’re not mad.
” Celeste was red in the face—a combo of too much sun, wine, and emotion—and mottled roses were blotching up her neck.
There was nothing that Bernie could think of that would have prompted this sudden outburst. Because there was absolutely no way that Celeste could know.
“I know about the affair.”
Imogen gasped and Marta let out a yelp as though someone had pinched her.
Bernie almost laughed, but caught herself, biting down on her left cheek. She shouldn’t let the others think she was making light of the situation. As if I’d shit where I eat. “You think that I had an affair with Harry?”
“I know you had an affair with him. All those odd meeting times . . . it was right there this whole time. I can’t believe you have the nerve to sit here like you’re my friend when .
. . you bitch.” Celeste slammed back the last of her rosé and clunked the empty plastic wineglass down on the armrest of her lounger in a move that she probably thought would be more dramatic than it was.
“You were sleeping with him. You were sleeping with him, and you can’t deny it. ”
Bernie was a champion gaslighter, but she didn’t have much practice defending her position when she was telling the truth.
It was a strange feeling. “But I am denying it. Celeste, I promise you that I was not sleeping with your husband. Harry and I were work friends, nothing more. Maybe you’re projecting. ”
“Project— What is that supposed to mean? Stop deflecting!” Celeste pointed at her again.
“I have the proof. I have Harry’s old phone.
They gave it to me after . . . they recovered it from his body.
You know something? The passcode was the date of our wedding anniversary, so you should know that whatever happened between the two of you, he only ever loved me. ”
Bernie was getting agitated and struggling to keep her cool.
But she couldn’t afford to alienate Celeste.
“There is no ‘whatever happened’—I’m telling you the truth.
Nothing. Happened. You’ve gone through his phone, right?
Then you should know there are no sexy messages, no racy photos of me. I wasn’t sleeping with him.”
Celeste continued as if Bernie hadn’t spoken.
“Last night, I was on his phone and I was rereading the text messages he sent me over the years. I wouldn’t expect any of you to understand.
” Bernie flicked her eyes over to Marta, whose mouth tightened at that statement.
She doubted that Marta was rereading any messages from Derrick.
“I realized that none of his hospital colleagues were in his text message history, so I checked the other apps.”
God, she is milking this. Bernie wanted to move it along. “Yeah, all the doctors at Sunnyvale use WhatsApp.”
“When I saw your message thread with him, I felt sick. I knew there was something wrong. They started off innocent, but then they got really strange.” Celeste reached into the pocket of her shorts and pulled out Harry’s device.
Bernie supposed this was meant to be a big reveal, but Celeste fumbled the phone with her wine fingers and nearly dropped it on the dock.
“I’m going to read some of them and everyone else can be the judge.
Him: ‘8 p.m. after surgery, second-floor break room.’ You: ‘Thirty-minute break at 3:15 p.m.—showers.’ Him: ‘Pre-rounds? 7 a.m. third-floor storage.’ ” Celeste looked around victoriously, as if expecting the other women would rally to her side.
“It’s the blueprint of an affair! And here’s another thing: I never told anyone this before, but he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring the day he died.
Was he in the habit of not wearing it at work to make you feel better about yourself?
You’re disgusting.” Celeste hissed the last bit at Bernie.
Now Bernie had to decide how to play this, and she was momentarily angry at herself for not having a plan.
She never imagined that anyone would go through Harry’s messages after he died.
Not that she’d ever put anything incriminating in writing, she was very sure of that.
She decided to skate as close to the truth as possible.
“Harry had an opioid addiction.”
Celeste made a choking sound that sounded like “no.”
Bernie continued, “Did you not know? I would understand if you didn’t.
I got the sense that he was very good at hiding it from everyone.
But at the end, I mean . . . did you really not know?
” From the look on her face, Celeste had known more than she was saying, but Bernie could not tell how much Harry had shared with her.
“I was not sleeping with your husband, but I was trying to help him.”
Celeste looked like she was about to cry. “Why were you meeting in random rooms at random times of day?” The fight had already gone out of her voice. “I don’t believe you. Do you think I’m stupid?”
Yes. “Of course not. We couldn’t have those kinds of conversations in the general break room.
We needed to be able to speak privately.
I was like his unofficial sponsor—he refused to go to NA because, anonymous or not, he was worried about it getting out somehow and affecting his career.
I’m only sorry that I wasn’t able to do more for him. ”
“But his ring?” A last gasp from Celeste.
“He was a surgeon, Cee,” said Bernie softly. “I take my jewellery off at the beginning of every shift—it’s just easier that way. I bet he did too, but I never really noticed. It probably got lost in the shuffle in his locker or the doctors’ lounge.”
Everyone was quiet as Celeste breathed wetly then let out a juddery sigh. Bernie relaxed her grip on the arm of her lounger. She was in the clear.
“An addiction, oh my god, is that true?” Imogen interjected, leaning over to refill Celeste’s glass to the top with rosé.
“You never said anything to me about Harry using drugs. I thought we were closer than that—how could you keep a secret like this from me?” Bernie bit back a smile—of course Imogen would find a way to make it about her.
Wordlessly, Celeste lifted her glass and drank half her wine in several audible, gulping swallows.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Imogen. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I never knew he had a problem.” Celeste was using a little-girl voice, soft and high-pitched.
“I didn’t know that he’d ever done drugs until after he was dead.
When they told me . . . when they told me how he died, I couldn’t believe it.
I thought it must have been a one-time thing—like he was stressed or his back was killing him and he needed to relax. I thought he made a mistake.”
“So when you told us he died of a brain aneurysm . . .” Imogen said.
“It was an overdose. Fentanyl.” Celeste sounded utterly defeated.
Bernie exhaled and smoothed her hair back behind her ears, satisfied that the affair accusations were dead in the water. “I’m so sorry, Celeste. It’s a disease, and there’s no shame in it. Harry was an excellent doctor. He always had, and always will have, my respect.”
Discovering that Dr. Harry Sarkassian had an opioid problem had been an enormous stroke of luck for Bernie.
Harry was her main competitor in the cardiac department—a skilled surgeon with excellent bedside manner—not that he was aware of the target on his back.
After accidentally walking in on him in the supply closet with the fentanyl patches, Bernie decided that the best course of action was for her to become a supportive ear.
She told him that she’d experienced addiction issues of her own (a lie—the coke was purely recreational) and that she was five years sober (nope).
She let him open up to her, taking in all the information she could, sifting through it for golden nuggets she could hoard and polish to use against him.
Bernie had assumed there would be time to spread some poison around in a way that couldn’t be traced back to her, enough to make it so that Harry couldn’t be considered for a promotion.
But she was wrong. When the chief of surgery position opened up, there was no contest—the decision was made swiftly, internally, and with no notice.
Dr. Matthews was retiring, Dr. Sarkassian was in.
Harry told her the news over salads in the cafeteria, expecting her to be delighted for him.
“I can’t tell you how much your friendship means to me, Bern-dog. You’ve really helped me keep it together and I appreciate all your support and discretion about my . . . issues. I want you to know that you are going to be a valued member of my team.”
It took all her self-control not to stab his operating hand with her fork. She speared a piece of lettuce instead. “Wow, this is all happening so fast. I didn’t think they’d even officially announced that the position had opened up. Are you—is this final?”
Harry grinned. “I know, it’s crazy, right?
It’s unofficially official. I’ll do the paperwork tomorrow and they’ll announce it then.
But I wanted you to know first. I haven’t even told Celeste yet—I think I’m going to wait until tomorrow when it’s for-real real, you know, bring home a bottle of champagne and celebrate. She’s going to be so surprised.”
“I bet she will.” Bernie jabbed several grape tomatoes in quick succession and jammed them into her mouth. The skins burst and popped between her molars.
The next morning, Bernie caught Harry in the cafeteria as he was waiting to pay for his coffee. “Hey, Sarkassian. Meet me in 3F when you’re done morning rounds, it’s urgent.” She turned and walked off, no chance for him to say no. No electronic trail of this meet-up, either.
Later that day, Bernie waited for Harry in the medical supply closet on the third floor. The needle was already prepared and waiting in her lab coat pocket when he arrived.
“Hey! Sorry I’m late. Rounds took longer than usual because one of my patients had a-fib and another one’s kidneys are acting up. What’s wrong? Are you all right?”
Bernie took a step toward him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you this morning. I wanted to get a private moment before you became my boss.” She smiled up at him sheepishly. “It’s hard to believe. I mean, we’re friends, but now you’ll technically be in charge of me.”
“Yeah, but nothing’s going to change in our friendship, you know that.” Harry was distracted; he looked at his watch and took a step backwards toward the door. “Was that it?”
Bernie spoke quickly to reel him back in.
“What I mean to say is that even though you’re going to be in this new position, you can still come to me with the drug stuff.
You know, if you feel like you need support.
” She stepped closer and opened her arms for a hug—an unusual move.
For all his struggles with addiction, Harry had never wavered in his fidelity to Celeste and he had always maintained scrupulous physical boundaries with colleagues.
Thankfully, Harry took the bait. “Thanks, Berndog. It’s good to know you’re in my corner.
” He let her pull him into an embrace, leaning in with his upper body only, keeping it chaste.
Bernie quickly dipped her hand into her lab coat pocket, extracted the syringe, and looped her arms around his neck.
“Wait, why do you have your gloves on?” He barely felt the needle go in, right under his hairline.
They’d never look for the puncture mark there.
“Bern—what—” He staggered forward in her arms and her nose smushed into his chest. He smelled good, fresh laundry over clean sweat.
Bernie eased his weight against the supply shelf as he slumped down to the floor.
She had carefully calibrated the dose against his body weight and drug history and she was confident in her calculations.
Quickly, she created a secondary injection site in the crook of his left elbow, placed the needle in his right hand, and then, on a whim, slid his platinum wedding band from his ring finger and slipped it into her pocket.
She exited the supply closet, stripping her gloves off before she left.
A nurse found Harry an hour later and raised the alarm.
The hospital kept the cause of death quiet because a drug overdose by a star surgeon would have been a terrible look and almost certainly would have caused an exodus of donors. The obituary described his sudden passing as the result of an underlying condition.
Bernie was appointed chief of surgery one week later.