Sacred Sins

by C. D. Reiss

  Thorensen. Emerson. Sen. Son.

  “The challenge is not the surgery itself…”

  Sen son sen son the universe was taunting me with my son’s doctors’ names.

  …if we’d known…

  “But a donor. Jonathan has a rare blood type which…”

  …about the condition…

  “We can continue to drain his chest…”

  …before we started…

  “But his chances without a—”

  “Stop!” I shot up straight. “Stop it! There’s something you don’t know.”

  “Margie,” Dad said softly.

  “Before you touch him again,” I continued, “you need—”

  “Margaret!” Dad stood. “You’re confused.”

  “No, I’m not. He’s not your son.”

  Mom gasped. “Margaret!”

  “Mom,” I said, looking at her.

  She was white as a sheet, eyes wide, lower lip trembling. She thought I was accusing her of being unfaithful to Dad, but that was the least of it.

  My father was already at our side of the table, hands on my mother’s shoulders.

  “Jonathan is…” I started the sentence but couldn’t finish it. My son. Those were the two words I had to say. Two simple syllables. I ordered myself to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Never, ever tell.

  Jonathan was my son.

  Say it.

  The secret made it past my throat, but my tongue held the words as it had done for two decades. I didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know how to break the box I’d put the secret in.

  “I’m sorry, doctors,” my father said, “but my daughter is suffering from a bit of a hysterical delusion. Eileen—”

  “She’s lying, Deck. I never, ever did such a thing.”

  “I know. Let’s take a walk, darling.”

  Mom didn’t push him away. My accusation covered her rage against my father like an old stain getting a new coat of paint.

  Dad hustled her out, and when the door closed behind them, Mom wouldn’t hear.

  So be it.

  So fucking be it.

  Maybe I didn’t have to smash the box. Maybe I could just describe it and let them figure it out.

  “Doctors,” I said, sitting, “I’m going to tell you a story about me and a guy named Stratford Gilliam.”

  “The musician?” Thorensen asked.

  Emerson shifted the laptop back to the admin, who started tapping at it.

  “No typing,” I said, getting my voice back. “This isn’t part of the permanent record, and to be honest, everyone has to leave but the doctors.”

  After an uncomfortable pause I sat through like a woman in total control, Thorensen dismissed the staff. Then it was just the three of us and the scan of Jonathan’s heart.

  I cleared my throat. “In 1982, I did a one-year study abroad in Ireland.” I danced around the story, going from the easiest part to the hardest. “In a convent. I gave birth to a baby.”

  I looked in the direction of the doctors, but not at them. I was looking through them to those moments with my son. “A boy.”

  He smelled so good.

  “He was taken from me and put up for adoption.”

  “1982?” Emerson asked, glancing at the laptop where Jonathan’s stats were. His height, weight, birthday.

  “I had him in ’83.”

  And his eyes were blue…

  “Are you all right?” Thorensen asked.

  …before they turned green as rarest jade.

  “My father came and took him. And when I got home, I had a baby brother.”

  “Ms. Drazen—” I didn’t know which one said my name. They were smothered in a mass of gray and black. Only the memories were clear.

  “Strat, his real father, had an undiagnosed heart condition.”

  “—you may need to rest—”

  “He died from it. He overdosed and he would have lived, but his heart gave out.”

  “—this is—”

  “I never told anyone. I had to protect my mother and Drew.”

  “—check her pulse—”

  “He’s mine.” The words spilled out.

  A voice in my head told me they didn’t believe any of it, but I couldn’t have stopped the four words if I’d wanted to. They left my lungs at speed, spinning my heart like a top, centrifugal force pounding the blood against the outer walls.

  11

  Far away voices. Metal scraping. Wheels squeaking. Phones ringing. Sounds at the end of a long, dark tunnel moved toward me until they were made in real time, real space, on the other side of my consciousness. I was lying down. Closed eyes were a choice now, my eyelids turning bright lights soft gray.

  Did I tell them?

  Regret.

  Did they believe me?

  Hope.

  Was Jonathan still dying?

  Fear.

  Opening my eyes to the dropped ceiling above, I felt groggy and thick with an ache in my bicep. My eyes were too cloudy for the wall clock, but I could see the whiteboard with my name and (17mg diazepam). I looked at my wrist. There was a band around it. I moved it aside so I could see my watch.

  Seventy minutes had passed.

  Did I tell them?

  Hope.

  Did they believe me?

  Fear.

  Was Jonathan still dying?

  Regret.

  The fist with the watch clutched something with corners. I uncurled my fingers to find a yellow Post-it. I sat up on one elbow, fighting the Valium’s demand that I sleep, and opened the square.

  One handwritten word.

  I blinked.

  Rubbed my eyes.

  Blinked again and made out the letters.

  Palihood.

  * * *

  The cab driver made eye contact in the mirror. “You all right, lady?”

  “Yeah.” My voice was thick and slow. I’d been fighting to keep my eyes open. I thought I was winning, but obviously the battle had been all too visible. I’d made the right choice. If I’d taken one of our cars, the driver wouldn’t have asked questions, but I wouldn’t mistake his silence for discretion.

  “If you OD in my car and I don’t take you to the hospital—”

  “Picked me up a block from the hospital.”

  “I know, but I’m liable.”

  “Not OD. Administered by best.”

  I had to stop dropping pieces of sentences. That wouldn’t look right.

  Deep breaths. I took deep breaths and fell asleep on the 10 freeway. Two blocks from my destination, I snapped awake.

  “There’s a shortcut through this alley,” I said, pointing down what looked like a driveway but wasn’t.

  He turned into it, car rocking on the cracked pavement like a ship at sea. Some things never changed no matter how much property values went up.

  “Here.” I leaned forward, pointing at a familiar house. It had a real estate’s For Sale sign and a gate with a chain and a lock box holding it closed.

  Drew had sold the studio to buy our place in New York and it had obviously changed hands a few times since then. It had been reroofed. Re-stuccoed. The front door was new and truly awful. Chain-link fencing surrounded the property.

  I opened my wallet and took out a hundred dollar bill. “This is for the ride here.” I laid it in his hand, then took out another. “This is for you waiting for an hour. If I don’t come out, you can go. Got it?”

  “If you don’t come out, are you dead or something?”

  “Maybe.” I left the cab before he could ask more stupid questions.

  Walking more or less straight, I checked the keybox. Locked. The padlock. Locked.

  We’d forgotten the keys a few million times. Locks weren’t a deterrent. I went down the neighbor’s driveway, trying to look as if I belonged there, which I didn’t. Not in 2015.

  The chain link ended where the neighbor’s fencing began. They’d built a gate in their fence between the properties—ostensib
ly as a fire egress, but really, they’d been fans. Decades later, it was still latched but lockless.

  I snapped the gate closed behind me. The yard was paved over with patches of thorn bushes and volunteer tomato plants. I went up the cracked back steps. The door was ajar. I pushed it open, realizing that what I was doing was crazy and dangerous. That I didn’t know who’d put the note in my hand. That the Valium was making me pay so much attention to basic functions that I was a slave to inertia.

  The kitchen smelled of mildew and dust. It was dark except for stripes of sunlight through the blinds. I flipped a light switch. It clicked, but nothing happened. Electricity must be shut off. I put my bag on the counter of the kitchen island. It was probably filthy and I didn’t care. I wanted my hands free.

  “Drew?” I said into the darkness. “Indiana Andrew McCaffrey, stop fucking with me. I’m in no mood.”

  My eyes adjusted. I stepped farther in, letting my hand drift over the counter edge. They’d changed it to cheap flipper granite. The cabinets were presswood veneer. But still, I touched them as if they were original Douglas fir and my name was Cin.

  “Margaret.”

  His voice didn’t surprise me. I didn’t jump ten feet or stiffen with shock when I saw his silhouette against the doorframe. Hearing him was a relief. The binds keeping my shit together weren’t unknotted completely, but they loosened. I hadn’t felt tense in a long time because I was so used to being in a state of taut readiness.

  “Indy.”

  His stage name came from my lips without a thought.

  “I’m glad you came.”

  Sixteen years, and he was glad I came. Fuck him.

  “I didn’t have your number.” I tossed his Post-it on the counter. “Or I would have called and told you to shove this cryptic little note up your ass.”

  “Not for lack of trying.” He stepped into the kitchen. The stripes of light caught the blue of one eye and curved along the lines of his face. I swallowed so hard it hurt. He’d aged, but hadn’t we all? “You sent someone to look for me.”

  He was a shadow. Blue-black on gray-black. A ghost in a dark room. A phantom with a voice cobbled together from memories. When he raised his hand, I wasn’t afraid, because he didn’t exist, but when he touched me, he became form and substance.

  I jerked away. “Don’t.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You should be.”

  “I can’t believe it’s you.”

  “I’d clock you if I didn’t think I’d fall over doing it.”

  “Let me explain.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “By the time I’m done, the Valium will be worn off. If you don’t like the explanation, you’ll be able to stay on your feet when you punch me. You might even get in two.”

  I wanted to hear him. I wanted to clock him, sure. But I was curious and I wanted to bathe in the sound of his voice for a while.

  Then I would tell him to fuck off, with or without punching him.

  “Are we having this conversation in the kitchen?”

  “The guitar room’s still there, more or less,” he said.

  “Lead the way.”

  I knew how to get to the guitar room, but I needed a moment to walk behind him. My thoughts weren’t going to get gathered if he was next to me.

  New fact. They weren’t doing so well from behind either. Not with those jeans or the way his jacket hugged his shoulders.

  The guitar room had been a private studio used for experimentation and noodling. With the blinds pulled, I saw that the counters were bare and the instrument hooks on the walls were empty, but the room hadn’t otherwise changed. I sat on a linoleum counter and Drew stepped into the light.

  His eyes shone from within as he looked at me, top to bottom. The harsh light shadowed the crow’s feet at the corners and highlighted the years of concern on his cheeks. The scruff on his chin had gone gray at the edges of his mouth to match the gray at his temples.

  “Hard years,” I said.

  “Not for you.” He smiled. “Apparently.”

  “Flattery’s beneath you.”

  He sat on the counter opposite me, where a mixing panel used to be. He opened a cabinet and reached for a case of bottled water.

  “I brought provisions.” Leaning forward, he put one bottle next to me.

  “Always the Boy Scout.”

  He cracked his bottle open. “You need help with yours?”

  The Valium’s drowsiness was no match for the last few minutes, but it made gripping the bottle cap difficult.

  “Jesus, McCaffrey.” His insult to my competence gave me just enough strength to open my bottle.

  “You look good,” he said as I drank. “Not flattery. Fact.”

  “Yeah, I know. I own a mirror.”

  He let out a short laugh. “Same.” He shook his head, looking down. “Same but better.”

  What was he after? He had me at a disadvantage. He knew who I was and where to find me. He was still a shadow with a voice and face I recognized, answering to the name of a man I’d once loved.

  “Okay, look. You show up in the middle of a crisis, throwing around compliments like pretty beads. Tell me what you want. If it’s to tell me how much you missed me, you can sleep well at night knowing I missed you too. But that’s all irrelevant. I have to get back to the hospital. There’s a lot going on.”

  “I know about Jonathan.”

  “You watch the news. Good for you. So you know this was a shitty time to stick notes in my hand.”

  “It is. And I’m sorry.”

  “Great.” I slid off the counter and, wresting control from the drug in my veins, stood without swaying. “Can we reconvene?”

  “Please sit down.”

  The command was unimpeachable. My mind told him to fuck off, but my body obeyed.

  He’d never spoken to me like that.

  He’d never spoken to anyone like that.

  “Thank you,” he said when I settled my ass back down.

  “It’s your pleasure.”

  “I guess there was no way to start out on the right foot.”

  “Two lefts don’t make a right.”

  “But three do.”

  “Zing.” The word was barely a whisper. I wasn’t in the mood for snappy rejoinders, even if I’d started it.

  He settled back, rubbed his nose. I’d forgotten that it was a little crooked from when his father broke it, or how the forced angle was so beautiful against the symmetry of the rest of him. If he’d stayed, would he look the same? More gray hair? Or less?

  “I’m not here for forgiveness.” His voice was huskier. Older, without questions in every vowel.

  “I’m glad you didn’t waste a trip.”

  “I never expected this to be easy.”

  “So why did you come back?”

  “I heard about Jonathan. I knew you’d need me.”

  I leaned back, relaxing my posture enough to show him I was paying attention but I wasn’t open to bullshit.

  “When I went home to New York that Christmas,” he continued, “I didn’t intend to disappear.”

  The memory of the empty apartment with his clothes gone was a shot of adrenaline to the chest.

  “When I got back to New York,” I said, “the apartment was empty. You saying you didn’t intend that?”

  It was hard to keep that from sounding like an accusation.

  “I went to the old house in Nashville. I thought I’d come back, but I didn’t.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “You chose this, Margie. As much as I did. I told you what I needed, and you couldn’t give it to me. You chose your family. So what was I supposed to do? Keep you from them? Chase you? I respected your wishes. I stayed away because you wanted me to. Stop making it sound like I left you in a ditch.”

  If my face didn’t flinch, it was only with extreme effort. He’d hit me in a place I hadn’t looked at in a long time. I hadn’t given a single thought to my culpability.

 
I’d left him in a ditch.

  A part of me that I considered strong got sick and withered away.

  “Shifted blame and handsome faces,” I said and continued before he could interrupt. “Things that improve over time. I blamed you, and you stayed guilty. It got easier over time. And your face. I didn’t think it could improve, but here we are.”

  He ran his hand over his scruffy cheek as if he wanted to hide it from the compliment. What else about him had improved with age?

  “You’ve changed,” I said.

  “We all change, and we’re all the same.”

  “Did you come early to take an inventory?”

  He rubbed his hands together with a dry hshh. “Sixteen years. I’ve been drifting for more than a decade and a half. I’ve had seven different names.”

  “What was your favorite?”

  “Indy McCaffrey.” He smiled with the pain of regret. “Most days, I wish I could go back. Protect you. Protect us both.”

  “You know what I wished for?”

  “Tell me.”

  “The exact same thing.”

  “I was…” He considered what he was going to say before he continued. “I was with this woman for a while.” He took in my reaction, and seeing that I wasn’t shocked or hurt, he continued. “She owned a little dress shop outside Tucson. Didn’t have a serious bone in her body. It was like a vacation.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “I wanted to come home to you. Every day. I didn’t even realize it. But no woman compares to you. We had something, Cinnamon. We had something great.”

  Youth was insidious. Taken for granted. Dismissed. It was scorned by those who had it, and those fortunate enough to live through it craved its return.

  “Did you ever think of me?” he asked.

  I slid off the counter and went up to him. If he told me to sit down, I wouldn’t this time. “Can I see your hands?”

  He tilted his head with an unspoken question.

  “Come on,” I said, waving my fingers over my outstretched palms. “Show me.”

  He held out his hands. I laid mine underneath, raising and turning them so I could see what I needed to in the stripes of light. Dark, rough spots at the tips of three fingers from pressing guitar strings against wood.

  “Your callouses haven’t softened.” I ran my thumb along them. I had fond memories of that spot where it was rough on my clit and hard on my tongue when I sucked his fingers.