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“Space?”
“Yeah.” Bernie’s voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Space?”
“Yes.” A frown span across Bernie’s brow for just a second before she regained control of her features, shifting her gaze from the rooftops of Holby to Dom’s face and back again.
“But how can she want space from you? You’re her… you; you’re her, her… you’re you.”
Bernie was touched by Dom’s inability to find a word that captured who she was to Serena. She hadn’t found one yet, either. And now she wasn’t sure what she would be trying to describe, even if she did.
“I haven’t been her anything for that long, Dominic.” A beat. “And anyway, maybe it doesn’t matter who I am.”
“But –”
“If something happened to you,” Bernie gently placed her hand on Dom’s forearm and squeezed it, just a fraction, silently asking for his patience, “can you imagine what your Mum would be going through? Do you think when she was at her most raw, her most wretched, she’d feel much difference between being around your Dad and being around anyone else?”
“Well, no, but I’m not sure my parents are the best example here,” Dom replied.
Bernie shook her head, lifted her chin to the breeze and closed her eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. She opened her eyes and dropped them to her lap, where her hands twisted around one another, thumbs rubbing white knuckles. Her skin was dry and small shards stood ragged around the edges of her fingernails. Anyone paying close attention would be able to see that she wasn’t taking care of herself but, luckily, no one was. “Serena is hurting. So badly. Every word, every sign of affection… it’s an intrusion. It doesn’t - it can’t, give her anything, but it asks of her. It asks her to be someone, to be my Serena, and that person isn’t here at the moment.”
“So you just wait?” Bernie felt Dom’s incredulous stare gnawing at her senses, and she turned to look over her left shoulder, away, anywhere. She bit her bottom lip, canted her head ever so slightly and blinked slowly before speaking again.
“I just wait.”