Bernie shivered at the memory of the chilly water, but smiled sweetly at the image of her dad’s sunburned nose, red and sore for days. Those were the times when they were a family that sat around the television on weeknights watching Happy Days or Mork and Mindy. Those were good days. Bernie had always placed the blame for her family’s tragic end on the stranger who gave her away when she was a baby, not her father. Maybe if she hadn’t been there, it wouldn’t have happened. At least she wouldn’t have been a part of it. Noni, of course, blamed Bernie’s dad. He was the one who pulled the trigger. Then again, maybe no one could ever be blamed; it was just a tragedy.
Lost in thought, Bernie didn’t even notice Crystal sliding into the chair across from her until her chirpy voice snapped Bernie back to the here and now.
“It’s all set. The Luna deps are going to be November twentieth at the Fiesta Americana Hotel in Mexico City, which, by the way, looks fabulous—beautiful rooms, an amazing pool, and there’s even a babysitting service in case you need someone to watch Carlos while you’re deposing Mrs. Luna. The zoo is even nearby, something extra, maybe, for Carlos.” Crystal was beaming, proud of the amount of attention she had given to all the arrangements. “I have an interpreter, a conference room in the hotel, and I even managed to get you the deluxe suite for half price since you’re booking the Lunas’ room and a conference room, too. Anyway, you leave here on the eighteenth, so you have the whole day before to prepare with Carlos and Mrs. Luna, get adjusted to your surroundings, and most importantly, seriously, stock up on bottled water.” She slapped both palms on the desk and smiled proudly, clearly waiting to hear how great she was.
“You know what?” Bernie spoke slowly, finally meeting Crystal’s eager gaze. “I know you worked hard on setting all this up, and it all sounds fantastic, but . . .” She paused, knowing her words were going to send Crystal through the roof. “I think you were right before. I’m not sure going to Mexico is the best thing to do right now. I don’t think it will accomplish anything other than pissing Reilly off and running up our costs. I’m thinking we should bring them here, like you suggested.”
Bernie watched the dark cloud slip down over Crystal’s face, the smile fading, the chin slowly dropping to a smirk of disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding,” Crystal said. “I spent three days getting this all set up.” She released a gasp of air toward the ceiling, appalled at the very idea of undoing all that she had worked so hard to accomplish.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I want to leave the country right now. It’s not a good time for me to be gone.” Bernie casually picked up a piece of paper and began reading it over, avoiding Crystal’s seething glare. “There are reasons I shouldn’t leave. Personal reasons.”
“But you said . . .”
She lowered her hand, still holding the piece of paper, and attempted to deflect any brewing contempt for the sudden change in strategy, the waste of time and energy. “I know what I said, but now I want to bring them here. I’m certain we can arrange for whatever Mrs. Luna needs to cross the border. If not, let’s contact an immigration guy and get some help. And I want it here in this office, not in Reilly’s office.” Bernie paused and thought of her trip to Madera, Moochie and Carlos making silly faces together for a camera. “Besides, I think Carlos and his grandmother would rather come here. They have friends here. We can schedule the mediation while they’re in town, so it’s really much more efficient. One trip instead of two. No need to piss Reilly off any more than he already is.”
“Terrific. I love to do things twice. I wouldn’t want to actually get caught up with everything else you’ve been piling on me like crazy. I’m buried.”
There were times when the closeness that develops through years of working together becomes confusing, a blur of crossing imaginary boundaries long ago established. It would not be the first time she pissed her secretary off, and it wouldn’t be the last. “Come on,” Bernie reasoned, “you don’t have to do anything but move the darn thing from Mexico to here. Everyone other than you and the hotel manager will be happy about that change. I’m the one who has to actually take the deposition, and I’m the one paying all the bills right now, so I get to change my mind.” Bernie turned away to her computer screen to end the conversation.
For the rest of the day, Crystal would only speak to Bernie when absolutely necessary, and then it would be excessively polite and controlled, as if the two women hadn’t spent years sharing long lunches, popcorn breaks, and hours of courthouse gossip. Bernie’s flurry of activity had fallen onto Crystal’s plate, and that plate was overflowing with tasks and brewing anxiety.
Bernie closed her office door, shutting out the sounds of telephone calls and Crystal’s fingers striking her keyboard as she worked to undo all she had done. She sat at her desk, eager to share her weekend discovery with someone who would actually be excited about it. She fumbled through the black bag resting at her feet until she found the green folder she searched for, the folder with Don Fielding’s contact information. He answered on the second ring, and the sound of his voice surprised her. “Oh, hello,” she said, “I didn’t expect you to answer the phone yourself.”
“Who is this?”
“I’m sorry. This is Bernadette Sheridan,” she said, her voice automatically shifting to her professional tone. She sat up straighter and switched the telephone to her left ear, freeing her right hand to grab a pen and jot notes down while she talked.
“Oh, Bernadette, hi.”
“Hi Don, and call me Bernie, everybody else does.” She took a moment to run her fingers through her hair, letting the sides drop back down around her ears, hiding them from the kind voice on the phone.
“Pardon the noise, but I’m actually at Lowe’s right now. I’m helping Lance, my uncle, with a fence today.” A rumble of echoes could be heard in the background, as if he stood in a long, hollow tunnel.
“Ahh . . . I get it. This is your cell phone number.”
“Yeah. It’s the only phone I use right now, since I’m not really settled anywhere just yet.”
“Well, I just wanted to give you an update on the Luna case.” A twinge of excitement crept over her and she couldn’t help but smile as she spoke. “I went out to Madera over the weekend, to the Lunas’ old house, and picked up a box of papers and other odds and ends that their housemate gathered up. I’m still sorting through everything, but it looks like I have a couple of things that might do us some good.” She paused a moment. “Believe it or not I have Western Union receipts from Rogelio to his mother. Can you believe it? Actual receipts. It just doesn’t get much better than that.”
“How many you got?”
“Just three, but that doesn’t mean that’s all there is or all that was sent. He wasn’t keeping a record or anything, but it’s evidence to support Mrs. Luna’s claim that her son sent her money that she relied on. We can subpoena the store’s Western Union records to see if there were more from that location, and she will testify about the amounts and possibly have bank records to verify the deposits, but to tell you the truth, I just didn’t really expect to find anything this good out there.”
“Well, that’s great work, Bernie. Makes my job easier.”
Bernie could feel him smile and pictured him strolling through the maze of hardware and tools, scanning the racks of nails and bolts while he talked on the phone, probably nodding hello to everyone he passed, a lock of his black hair falling into his eyes, him pushing it away. “So, do you want to come by the office and take a look? Or I can just have Crystal copy them and put it all in the mail, if you prefer.”
“Hmmm. Can you hold on one second?” She listened to him chatter with the clerk and the rustling of a bag. “Okay. I’m back. Listen, I have to finish this fence today. They have a couple of dogs that are stuck inside right now, and my schedule’s pretty tight the rest of the week. Actually, I’ll be out of town for a few days after tomorrow, and I have a couple of appointments already set up. What about this evening? Can I get
them later on today?”
“How late? I usually head home by six. If it’s after that, I guess . . . I guess you could come by my house. I can take the copies home with me.” As soon as she said the words, she thought about the state of things when she left that morning, dirty coffee cups and cereal bowls scattered along the kitchen counter and the mountain of old newspapers and catalogues that cascaded from the coffee table to the floor.
“If you wouldn’t mind, that really would work out better for me. It’s going to take me the rest of the afternoon to get this done. How about seven o’clock? Is that too late? I don’t want to impose on your family time.”
“No, that’s fine; I live alone,” she explained. “I’m on Brown, just west of Van Ness, between Clinton and Shields. Do you know where that is?”
“Sure, I know that neighborhood well. Christmas Tree Lane, right?”
“Right. Well, it’s a little south of that, but same street. I’m at 3618, a little white house with a red front door—you can’t miss it. And my car’s in the driveway, a green Outback, you’ll see it.”
She hung up the phone and picked up the green file folder to fan herself. She wasn’t particularly stressed, and she certainly hadn’t been drinking any red wine, but she felt the familiar warmth spread all the way to the tips of her ears. Nervous energy raised blood pressure so she took a deep breath, inhaling slowly, willing her body to relax.
When Bernie took the Western Union receipts out to Crystal for copying, Crystal was on the phone with Reilly’s office, explaining that the depositions could be taken here after all, that Ms. Sheridan had a family situation that prevented her from leaving the country. Her sincerity was believable and her manner friendly, but professional. Bernie moved on to the workroom. She wasn’t completely helpless—she could work a copy machine.
With copies and originals of the receipts and photos in hand, Bernie left the office earlier than usual that afternoon, leaving Crystal to lock up. She wanted to tidy up at home, at least stack the dirty cups and bowls into the dishwasher before Don Fielding showed up at her door.
Adding a built-in dishwasher was the first improvement she had made to the house since taking ownership. “Why do you need that?” Noni had asked on one of her rare weekend visits, her face pinched into a tight knot. “There’s just you. You can’t wash a cup and a bowl?” Bernie smiled when she thought of the old woman in her scooter, opening and closing the door, listening to it click, pulling out the racks, pushing them back in. Even with the new Maytag, Bernie usually just left dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter until there wasn’t a clean cup in the cupboard for her morning coffee. Only then would she open the door and arrange a week’s worth of dishes in the racks, her lazy habits hard to break. Noni had spoiled her for too many years, doing everything for her, cooking, cleaning, laundry and dishes by hand, fiercely scrubbing pans until they shined like new.
Bernie rinsed a handful of forks and spoons before dropping them into the plastic silverware basket one by one, clattering and slapping into each other. Whether it was doing dishes or photocopying faded receipts for money sent across the border, she kept moving. It was a physical effort to avoid dwelling on thoughts of the woman who gave birth to her, the letter that was on its way to her, a growing curiosity that swelled by the minute. She focused on the Luna case, the weather forecast, folding laundry and taking out trash, moving seamlessly from one project to the next. But a stream of questions constantly invaded her thoughts, stopping her cold in the middle of the task at hand. Did her birth mother have big ears and thin hair, too? Did she snort when she laughed? Did she and Bernie share some odd facial expression that would defy explanation since they had never been together during her childhood?
Whatever loomed ahead, Bernie surmised, could in no way be worse than anything she had been through already. The difference now was that she controlled the course of action; she decided what would and would not transpire. Finally, Bernie reminded herself that her quest was purely to discover more of her own life, not to kindle some new maternal relationship, regardless of what her birth mother wanted. This was up to her. For the first time, she realized there was a chance she might have some answers to some of those difficult questions that had often haunted her in the past.
Since she was thirteen years old, Bernie had clawed through a dark web of speculation about the mother who raised her, Mom, wondering what she’d done to make Dad so angry that day. It didn’t matter if she was reading the story about the fire in the mountains, driving down the highway to look for evidence, listening to music, or going to the bathroom, her brain could veer off course into dark, uncharted waters. Some unseen impulse in the recesses of her brain would take control without warning and then boom, she would suddenly look around and realize she was ten miles further down the highway, or she was turning a page she couldn’t recall reading. Lost in her own head, she called it.
As the dishwasher began to thrum and whir, Bernie contemplated what to say if and when she actually met the birth mother. Words were unconsciously coming together, like a negative in a developing solution, the blurry image slowly becoming clear, taking shape in a dark room. She would, she decided, tell her everything, every painful detail of Bernie’s childhood. She should know the truth of Bernie’s past if she wanted to know her now. Honesty, she thought, was the best course of action. It was too late for playing games. She wanted truthfulness from her mother, and she would give it in return.
Bernie ran a damp sponge along the countertop and moved on to clear the coffee table as best she could, grabbing an armful of old papers and tossing them into the recycle bin, wanting things to look as nice as possible when Don arrived. Though she barely knew the guy, he intrigued her, and it wasn’t just that she liked his messy hair. He seemed so pure and tranquil. He’s a numbers guy who plays music and likes to fix things up, all normal enough, but there was another layer to him that she couldn’t figure out. Whatever it was, he was certainly different from most of the other people she dealt with. Bernie wondered what he would do if he were in her shoes. No doubt he would celebrate finding out his birth mother was out there, eager to see him after so many years. Of course, he hadn’t lived through the nightmare of losing his family in one violent moment. Still, she doubted he would be bouncing around like a bee in a field of wildflowers, bumbling from one bloom to the next then back again. A nervous Nellie is what Noni called her when she got like that.
The house was finally presentable for guests. Shutters drawn, lamps glowing softly, and the air conditioner humming softly though a hint of autumn hung in the air. Bernie didn’t care if her PG&E bill went through the ceiling; she liked to sleep with the weight of thick blankets about her, so she kept the thermostat set at sixty-four degrees. Just as she was dragging a brush through her hair, trying to ignore the new strand of grey corkscrew at the top of her head, she heard the clang of the brass door knocker. A nervous flutter in her stomach surprised her as she hurried to answer. It had been a long time since she’d heard that sound.
“You found it,” she said, pulling the door open wide to let him in.
“You give good directions, and the red door’s easy to spot,” he said, giving it a light tap with his knuckles as he passed through.
“Come on in.” Bernie led the way through the living room to the small alcove dining room off the kitchen. She had neatly arranged the original receipts along with an envelope of copies she had made for him that afternoon. “Have a seat. I use this table for work more than actual dining, so make yourself comfortable.” She pulled one of the chairs away from the table as she passed, then stopped before sitting down herself. “Actually, I never use it for dining. Can I get you something to drink before we start? Let’s see, I have diet 7-Up, water, Corona, and,” she held up her half empty glass of red wine “an open bottle of cheap Pinot.”
“A Corona sounds good.” He sat down slowly as he gazed around the room, again turning his attention to the walls and ceiling that surrounded him. “This is a gr
eat house, too, like your office. I love the ceiling,” he said, pointing to the swirls of plaster that rounded gently up from the walls, looking a bit like a frosted cake.
“Yeah, me too. I actually grew up in this house, so I’ve lived here most of my life, well, since I was thirteen.” Bernie took an extra minute to slice a lime and poke a small wedge into the mouth of the open bottle.
“Really? That’s amazing.”
“It was my grandmother’s house.” She set the cold beer down in front of him, then slipped into the seat across the table. “Now it’s mine.”
“Did you live with your grandmother?”
“Yes, after my parents died.” She reached into the box and pulled out an envelope, avoiding his eyes, hoping to stave off the inevitable look of pity.
“Oh,” was all he said, nothing more.
She reached up and combed her fingers through her hair, grabbing a handful and letting it fall, a practiced illusion of calm that expertly caused the entire mess to frame her face and cover her ears. “Like I told you, my folks died when I was young, and I came to live here with my Noni.” Her head dipped to the right, and she raised her shoulders, suggesting it was no big deal.
“That must have been tough. How old were you?” he asked, his words full of compassion, but not pity.
“Thirteen.”
“Oh, you already told me that; I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Anyway, I still love this place. It feels safe.” She picked up the receipts and held them out to him in a weak attempt to change the subject from her life to work. Don didn’t notice her efforts and continued the conversation.
“This kind of explains your interest in my adoption story. I have to tell you, I’ve been thinking about that conversation a lot, trying to figure out what was really going on there. Did your grandmother adopt you? Is that it?”
“No, she was my guardian.” Bernie gave a slight smile, recalling the office interview, imagining what he must have thought of her probing questions about his past. “But,” she continued, “to be fair, since I’ve pried into your childhood, I should add that my parents, the ones that died in the accident, were my adopted parents. They adopted me. Noni is my adopted mom’s mom.” She lifted her glass and took a sip of the dark wine. “Guess you could say I was kind of adopted twice.”
The Circle Game Page 12