SINNER Part 1

Transcript

Chapter two, I used to believe in God like I believed in cancer. That is, I knew both existed in a kind of distant academic sense. But they were concepts that applied to other people.

They were personally irrelevant to Sean Bell's life. Then cancer tore through my family with wind and knives and teeth, thundering and massive, and it ceased to be academic. It stopped being distant.

I became real and terrible, more vengeful and omnipresent than any deity. And our lives became reoriented around its rituals, its communion of morphine lollipops and anti-nausea meds, its hymns of vaporizers and daytime television. We were baptized into the Church of Cancer, and I was as zealous as any new convert, going to every doctor's appointment, researching every new trial, using every connection I had in this city to make sure my mother got the best of everything, so yes, I believe in cancer now.

It's too late for me to believe in God. I pull into the hospital parking garage, park the Audi, and then jog through the emergency room doors, ignoring the looks I'm getting in my tuxedo. I go right to the triage desk, and just my luck, it's a nurse I fucked a few weeks back during mom's last stint in the hospital.

Mackenzie or Michaela or McKenna or something like that. Her mouth twists into a bitter smile when she sees me, and I know I'm in for it. Well, if it isn't Sean Bell, she says, tilting her head up and narrowing her eyes at me.

I'm suddenly grateful for the glass barrier between us, otherwise I think I might be in danger of actual bodily harm. For me, it was a desperate, needy escape stolen during long hours in the waiting room, a momentary distraction with a pretty available body. But it had been clear after she gave me her number and her schedule that it had been more than just an escape for her.

Hey, so my mom is here and I need to see her. It's Carolyn Bell, and I think she got in not too long ago. The nurse with the M name gives me a slow, insolent blink, and then turns even more slowly to her computer screen.

Click goes an irritated press of her finger on the mouse. Click, click. God damn it.

God fucking damn it. If she moved any slower, she'd be a painting, a statue. Isn't there some kind of fucking rule about nurses doing their job, no matter what form or fucks were involved?

Surely she's breaking some kind of nursely oath. There's a part of me that wants to go full Sean Bell on her, and either charm or threaten my way through this. But both of those things take fucking time, and I don't have time.

Look, I'm sorry I didn't call, I say. She doesn't even look at me. Sure, okay.

My entire body is screaming at me to get to mom. My chest is still tight with memories of a girl pretending to be named Mary, and now I've got this pissy nurse between me and where I need to go. And this is exactly why I've steered clear of entanglements my entire fucking life.

Feelings and fucking do not mix. And Mackenzie, Michaela, McKenna is living proof of my theory. Honesty, Mary's voice echoes in my memories.

Try the honest guy thing. I let out a long, silent sigh, knowing I need to fix this somehow. Mom's more important than your pride, fucker.

Just apologize for real so you can get to her. Look, I say, leaning forward so that I can lower my voice and spare the rest of the waiting room my humiliation. You're right, it was shitty of me to take your number when I didn't plan on calling.

And it was shitty of me to fuck you without making it clear that a screw was all I wanted. You deserved better than that, and I'm sorry. The nurse doesn't soften exactly, but her clicking on the mouse speeds up.

And finally, she looks up to me. Room 13, she says, the flat bitterness in her voice slightly blunted now. Through those doors and to the left.

Thank you, I say. And just so you know, she says, still looking at me, you treat women like shit. If you've got any decency left inside you, you'll spare the next woman you meet the headache.

I'll take it under consideration. I lie, and then I'm striding back to mom's room. My dress shoes bouncing reflections of cheap hospital lights across the walls as I go.

Two hours later, I'm in a surgical waiting room with my phone pressed to my ear. I'm alone because I sent dad home to grab some things for mom, and thank God he listened to me when I asked him to do it. First lesson in the Church of Cancer catechism, thou shalt give dad something to do.

The waiting, the bleary uncertainty, the hours of nothing time, all of it just amplifies his fear and his agitation. And eventually he becomes a mess and no help to anyone. But as long as he feels useful, well, then he's fine.

And he's not stressing mom and me out. Second lesson in the catechism, text threads are sacred. After I got dad sorted, I got the family thread updated.

And now I'm in the waiting room talking to my brother Tyler. I thought they already fixed the bowel obstruction. He sang in a tired voice.

I glance at my watch, almost midnight on the east coast. And knowing my brother and his wife, Poppy, I'm sure they were fucking like bunnies all evening. Lucky bastards.

It was only a partial obstruction a few weeks ago, I explain. And then rub at my forehead with the heel of my palm because sometimes I feel like my entire life has been reduced to telling and retelling these condensed medical narratives. They just kept her in to hydrate her and keep her comfortable.

I thought it had cleared itself up. Well, obviously not, Tyler says impatiently. And while I agree with him, I also bite back a surge of my own impatience.

Because he's not fucking here. He's off in Ivy League land publishing best selling memoirs and fucking his hot wife. And he hasn't had to spend the last eight months listening to doctors and negotiating with insurance companies and learning how to flush pick lines.

I've been the one to do it. I've been the one to bear the brunt of mom's illness and dad's stress. Because Tyler's too far away, and Ryan's too young, and Aiden's too flaky, and Lizzie's too dead.

Shit. My eyelids burn for a moment, and I hate that. I hate the feeling of powerlessness and guilt and loss, and I fight it back.

I couldn't save Lizzie, but I can save mom, and God damn it, I will. They think it's possible it got worse or that it's a complication from the radiation treatment she had two days ago. I say, after I've regained control of my stupid feelings.

It's a total obstruction, so they're doing surgery now. And for whatever it's worth, they're extremely optimistic. Tyler lets out a long breath.

I should come home. The million dollar question always, what if this was the time? What if this was the time when everything spiraled out of control? When everything cascaded into bleak certainty? When I was 17 when he found our sister's body hanging in the garage.

And I knew that moment had scarred him as much as it had scarred the rest of us, maybe even more. And then he'd spent years serving a hollow, absent God in some sort of pointless dance of atonement. I have no doubt that the thought of missing mom's final moments would haunt him even more than not being able to stop Lizzie's.

Simply because with Lizzie, there was no way to know what was going to happen. But with mom, the inevitability of her death becomes clearer with every passing day. We all know what is going to happen.

Stop it. I order myself with some annoyance. Nothing's fucking inevitable, nothing.

If you want to come home to see her, I get it, but she's going to be okay this time. It's just a laparoscopic thing, and it will be over any minute. Tyler's silent for a moment, and I know what he's doing.

I know how easily his thoughts stray to things like guilt and shame. Look, Tinkerbell, I add, knowing the nickname drives him crazy. No one blames you for having a life in another state.

Mom is super proud of whatever it is you do, write books. Tyler interjects dryly. And whatever it is that Poppy does in Manhattan, an arts non-profit.

Do you actually even listen to me when I talk? Sure don't, so don't feel guilty for not coming out, okay? If I honestly thought it was time for you to fly out, I'd buy your fucking ticket myself, but it's not time.

My worry is that you won't be able to admit it to yourself when it is time, much less tell me. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I pause, and I know Tyler's sifting through his words, and that pisses me off even more.

I don't need fucking kid gloves, I snap. Just say whatever it is you wanna say. Fine, he says, and I'm a bit pleased to hear that I've made him snappish, too.

I think you haven't dealt with the fact that mom's going to die. Everybody's going to die, kiddo. Or did you forget that part of being a priest? Sean, I'm serious.

I know you think this boils down to having the best doctors, the best treatments, the most money, but those things might not change anything. You get that right, that you can't control what happens next. I don't answer, I can't.

My hand is gripping the phone so hard I can feel the edges of the glass pressing against my finger bones. There's no agenda for life, there's no itinerary, there's no strategic plan. Tyler continues, everything can go perfectly until it doesn't, and there's nothing we can do to change it.

There's nothing you can do to change it, don't you see that? I see that you've given up on mom already, and you aren't even fucking here to actually know how she's doing. It's okay to feel angry, Tyler tells me quietly, and lost.

Don't do that priest shit with me, I hiss, pacing across the room, wishing he were here because I'd hit him. I'd hit him right in his fucking know-it-all mouth. You're not my fucking priest, Tyler, you're not even a priest at all anymore.

Maybe not, he replies calmly, but I'm still your brother, I still love you, and God still loves you. I snort, then he needs to try a little fucking harder. Sean, I've got to go, I told Aiden I'd call.

And then I hang up before Tyler can answer, which is a dick move, I know. But he was a dick first, bringing fucking God into this. A God I don't believe in, a God I hate, a God who let one of his priests hurt my sister over and over again, and then instead of comforting her, let her cinch a noose around her 19-year-old neck to escape the pain.

A God who's now killing my mother in the slowest, most dehumanizing way possible. Fuck Tyler, and fuck his God, I don't need either of them, and neither does mom. Mr.

Bell? I look up to see someone in scrubs standing at the door. Yes, I say hoarsely.

Your mother's in the post-op ward now, and she's sleeping, but she's doing great. Would you like to come up and sit with her? Of course, and I go to my mother, leaving all of Tyler's lectures and my anger at God behind, knowing they'll be waiting for me when I come back.

Chapter three. Harry Valdman is a selfish, greedy asshole who cheats on his wife, ignores his children, and routinely swindles people out of their hard-earned money. But he's a fairly decent boss.

As long as I bring in lots of money, he doesn't care what I do or how often I'm in the office, which has been immensely helpful over the last eight months since mom was diagnosed and I became son in a leading cancer role. I've still been nailing big deals and even bigger clients left and right, even if I'm doing most of my work now from various infusion rooms. So I assume it won't be a problem when I leave a message with his secretary that I won't be into the office that day, but then I get a call back from Trent the secretary right away.

Good morning, Mr. Bell. Trent the secretary sounds a little nervous.

Mr. Valdman says he wants you in his office as soon as possible. Something big's come up and it's an emergency.

I look across the room to where my mom sleeps fitfully, surrounded by a cluster of poles and wires and bags and screens. I sigh. My mom's in the hospital right now.

Is there any way it can wait? Hold on, I'll ask, Trent says, and I hear the electronic piano tones of a list piece as I'm put on hold. Then Trent returns.

Mr. Bell, I'm really sorry, but Mr. Valdman says he needs to see you right away and that it can't wait.

Should I tell him you're on your way? Fuck. I mumble, running a hand over my unshaven face.

I look down at my wrinkled tuxedo. Yes, I'm on my way, I have to swing by home to change, then I'll be in. Yes, sir, I'll let him know.

Fuck a damn duck. I hang up the phone and stand up, reluctant to leave mom alone. I'd made dad go to work.

He's a warehouse manager for a small plumbing company, and his boss is not very forgiving of dad missing work for any reason, even a sick wife. And Ryan's all the way in Lawrence, getting settled into his new office campus digs, Aiden's at work, and obviously Tyler isn't here. I drop a kiss on a mom's cool forehead and she stirs, but she doesn't wake up.

I find a nurse and explain that I have to go into work, but to call me at the slightest sign of trouble. And then I leave her every number of every person I can think of in case she can't reach me, although she'll be able to reach me. Valdman will understand if I have to dash out of our meeting, I'm certain of it.

Mostly certain, like halfway certain, shit, maybe I'm not that certain at all. I chew over this as I get into my car and speed back to my apartment, tapping my fingers anxiously on the steering wheel. It's legitimately the first time taking care of mom has been a problem with my job.

And I have to admit, even knowing that Valdman's an asshole, I'm surprised he still insisted on me coming in. Trent said it was an emergency, but what fucking investment emergency is more important than my mom's surgical emergency? And then I feel like an idiot, because I didn't get all the money I have now by asking myself those kinds of questions.

I've always, always put work first, at least until mom's illness. And even after, I've done my best to give this firm every part of me, not locked down by chemo, chauffeur duties, and pharmacy runs. If Valdman says it's an emergency, then I fucking believe him, and I need to fix it, whatever it is.

But Jesus, for real, what could it be? I get to my place, take the world's fastest shower, and jump into a clean suit without bothering to shave. I won't be seeing any clients anyway, so it's fine, although the foreign sensation of stubble abrading the fabric of a clean shirt collar is distracting.

I feel unkempt, and when I glance up at the mirror to make sure my tie knot is straight, I barely recognize the grim, scruffy man looking back at me. Well, it can't be helped. It was a long fucking night, and not the good kind, except for the part with Mary, because I could have spent 1,000 long nights with her.

Which means I'm going straight to hell. 36-year-old men like me have no business wanting to see a college student's pussy. Wanting to lick and rub her until she's wet and mewling.

Wanting to split her legs open and mount her. Wanting to fuck and thrust and grind until she's come so many times under me that she's forgotten her name, and her fake name. And now I'm hard, which is great, just fucking great.

I toss all my shit into a leather satchel and wear it to meet my boss, boner be damned. Lord knows it will shrivel the moment I get to his office anyway. Rosacea decorates Valdman's cheeks like red, splotchy spiders.

And I find myself staring at the tiny, ruptured capillaries and veins as he talks, wondering if all rich white guys end up gouty and drink-ruddy, and wondering what I need to do to avoid getting the Henry VIII look myself, stop drinking probably, although I do eat a lot of kale, and that feels like it should count for something. He's been ranting since I came in and sat down a few minutes ago, and I still have no idea what's wrong. Fucked, Sean, we're fucked, and I've already heard from two clients complaining about the bad PR bouncing back onto them, and the news.

Jesus, you would not believe those vultures. They've been wringing everyone off the hook, even the fucking interns. I force myself to tear my eyes from his cheeks.

If you'll tell me what's happened, I'll fix it, I promise. Valdman heaves himself into his chair and reaches for the globe bar he keeps next to his desk. You want a drink? He asks, already rummaging for a glass in the scotch decanter.

I glance discreetly over at the clock. It's a little after 9 AM. I'm good.

I decline cautiously. Now, sir, about whatever's happened. Right, right.

He mumbles, taking a drink and then setting the scotch decanter on the desk between us. The Keegan deal, I'm honestly confused. The Keegan deal, sir? Valdman blinks at me with bloodshot eyes, takes another drink, waiting for me to say something.

But what is there to say? Every version of that deal went through legal at least twice. I offer, racking my brain, trying to think of any potential snags that would have Valdman in such apoplexy, but there were none, seriously, fucking none.

It was a good deal. Every contingency prepared for, every clause examined, every city code and sales tax bond painstakingly referenced and braided into the agreement. And we did have to get special approval from the city council, but that went better and easier than we ever could have planned for.

And then we sent it through our legal a final time after the Keegan team's legal went through it. There's nothing even close to illegal or unethical in there. I promise you, sir.

Valdman grunts, illegal maybe not, but unethical, you sure about that? I stare at him. I know I'm wrecked from no sleep and stress.

I know I'm thoroughly wrung dry from the last four weeks of late nights and early mornings trying to get this deal to paper. But my mind has always worked best when pushed like this, and so I know I'm genuinely stumped. I mean, I'll be the first to admit that in the past, I've drafted some deals that nudged a few moral boundaries.

The best money is made on the frontiers of morality after all. But there wasn't even a whiff of that in the Keegan deal. No trace of anything slimy or suspicious.

Just some old brick buildings that will be turned into shiny new profit centers. Hell, even as a citizen, I think it's a good deal. Valdman finally sees that I honestly have no idea what he's hinting at, and he sets his glass down with an irritated thump.

The man selling the property, Ernest Ely, did he ever mention anything about a lease, tenants? Easy question. Not once, I say firmly.

And we pulled every agreement logged in those three buildings for the last 40 years. No standing leases, no liens, no surprise historical registry shit. It's clean property, sir, I promise.

You're wrong, my boss tells me, because there is a lease and there are tenants. I shake my head. No, we checked.

Ely lied to you, son, or he just plain forgot because it was a handshake agreement done 20 years ago. If it wasn't disclosed, I don't care about fucking disclosure right now, Valdman says. I care about the fucking newspapers breathing down my neck.

I'm sorry, sir, I still don't understand why the press would care about some random tenants. Nuns, Sean, Valdman interrupts, they're fucking nuns. Of all the things he could have said, the word nuns was probably the farthest down on my list of possibilities.

And I'm still asking myself if I heard him right when he continues. They run a shelter and soup kitchen there. And in the last year, they've used it as a place to put up victims of human trafficking.

Nuns, shelter, human trafficking victims. I blink and blink because this is bad. Good old Ernest Ely couldn't sell those buildings for years, so he rented them out to the nuns for $1 a year to get the tax write off.

$1 a year, I echo. Shit, this is so bad.