Sacred Sins (39 page)

Amused, Ben polished off his wine. “How'd I do?”

“Good enough,” Writemore told him. “Damn good enough.”

Surprisingly in tune, both men turned as Tess entered the room again. Ben only had to see her face to be out of his chair. “What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry.” Her voice was calm, without a tremor, but her cheeks were very pale. She stretched out a hand
as she walked to her grandfather. “I've got to go, Grandpa. I have an emergency at the hospital. I don't know if I'll make it back.”

Because her hand was cold, her grandfather covered it with both of his. Better than anyone, he understood how much emotion she kept locked inside. “A patient?”

“Yes. Attempted suicide. He's been taken to Georgetown, but it doesn't look good.” Her voice was cool and flat, a doctor's voice. Ben studied her carefully, but other than the lack of color, he could see no emotion. “I'm sorry to leave you like this.”

“Don't you worry about me.” The senator had already risen. His arm was draped around her as he walked her from the room. “You give me a call tomorrow, let me know how you are.”

Something inside her trembled and shook, but she held steady. She pressed her cheek to his, wanting to draw a bit of his strength. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, little girl.”

As they walked into the snow-swathed night, Ben took her arm to keep her from slipping on the stairs. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“A fourteen-year-old boy decided life was too much to handle. He jumped off the Calvert Street Bridge.”

T
HE SURGICAL FLOOR
smelled of antiseptic and fresh paint. With the staff halved for the holiday, the halls were almost empty. Someone had covered a mincemeat pie in Saran Wrap and left it at the nurse's station. It looked cheerful and miserably out of place. Tess stopped there as the nurse on duty filled out a report.

“I'm Dr. Teresa Court. Joseph Higgins, Jr., was admitted a short time ago.”

“Yes, Doctor. He's in surgery.”

“What's his condition?”

“Massive trauma, hemorrhaging. He was comatose when they took him up. Dr. Bitterman's operating.”

“Joey's parents?”

“Down the end of the hall and to the left, in the waiting area, Doctor.”

“Thank you.” Steeling herself, Tess turned to Ben. “I don't know how long this might take, and it won't be pleasant. I'm sure I can arrange for you to wait in the doctor's lounge. You'd be more comfortable.”

“I'll go with you.”

“All right.” Unbuttoning her coat as she went, Tess
started down the hall. Their footsteps sounded like gunfire in the tiled silence of the corridor. As she approached the door to the waiting area, she heard the muffled sobs.

Lois Monroe was huddled close against her husband. Though it was overwarm in the room, neither of them had taken off their coats. She cried quietly, with her eyes open and unfocused. A Thanksgiving special danced soundlessly from the television mounted high on the wall. Tess motioned for Ben to stay back.

“Mr. Monroe.”

At the sound of her voice his eyes shifted from the wall to the door. For a moment he stared at her as if he didn't know who she was, then a seizure of pain ran through him, reflecting briefly, poignantly, in his eyes. She could almost hear the thoughts.

I didn't believe you. I didn't understand. I didn't know.

Responding to that even more than to the weeping, Tess went to them to sit beside Lois Monroe.

“She went up to see if he wanted some more pie,” Monroe began. “He—he was gone. There was a note.”

Because she understood need, Tess reached out and held his free hand. He gripped it tight, swallowed, then went on.

“It said he was sorry. That he—he wished he could be different. It said everything would be better now, and that he was going to come back in another life. Someone saw him …” Monroe's fingers vised on hers while he closed his eyes and fought for control. “Someone saw him jump and called the police. They came—they came to the house just after we realized he was gone. I didn't know what to do, so I called you.”

“Joey's going to be just fine.” With her hands kneading together, Lois shifted farther away from Tess. “I've always taken care of him. He's going to be fine, then we're going to go home together.” Maintaining the distance, she turned her head enough to look at Tess. “I
told you he didn't need you anymore. Joey doesn't need you or any clinic or more treatment. He just needs to be left alone for a little while. He's going to be fine. He knows I love him.”

“Yes, he knows you love him,” Tess murmured as she took Lois's hand. The pulse was rapid and thready. “Joey knows how hard you've tried to make things good for him.”

“I have. Everything I've done has been to try to protect him, to try to make things better. All I've ever wanted was for Joey to be happy.”

“I know that.”

“Then why? You tell me why this happened.” Tears dried up. Her voice went from wavery to venomous. Lois struggled away from her husband to grab Tess by the shoulders. “You were supposed to heal, you were supposed to make him well. You tell me why my boy's bleeding on that table. You tell me why.”

“Lois, Lois, don't.” Already grieving, Monroe tried to gather her close, but she sprang up, dragging Tess with her. Instinctively Ben started forward, but was stopped by a furious shake of Tess's head.

“I want an answer. Damn you, I want you to give me an answer!”

Rather than block the fury, Tess accepted it. “He was hurting, Mrs. Monroe. And the hurt was deep, deeper than I could reach.”

“I did everything I could.” Though her voice was quiet, almost level, Lois's fingers dug deep into Tess's flesh. Bruises would show the next day. “I did everything. He wasn't drinking,” she said with a hitch in her voice. “He hadn't had a drink in months.”

“No, he wasn't drinking. You should sit down, Lois.” Tess tried to ease her back on the sofa.

“I don't want to sit.” Fury that was fear spewed out until each word was like a bullet. “I want my son. I
want my boy. All you did was talk and talk, week after week just talk. Why didn't you
do
something? You were supposed to make him better, make him happy. Why didn't you?”

“I couldn't.” In a wave, the grief washed over her. “I couldn't.”

“Lois, sit down.” Strengthened by her need, Monroe took her by the shoulders and brought her to the sofa. As his arm went around her again, he looked at Tess. “You told us this could happen. We didn't believe you. We didn't want to. If it's not too late, we can try again. We can—”

Then the door swung open, and they all knew it was too late.

Dr. Bitterman still wore his surgical scrubs. He'd pulled down his mask so that it hung by its strings. The sweat on it hadn't dried. Though his time in the operating room had been relatively brief, there were lines of strain and fatigue around his eyes and mouth. Before he spoke, before he moved over to the Monroes, Tess knew they had both lost a patient.

“Mrs. Monroe, I'm sorry. There was nothing we could do.”

“Joey?” She looked blankly from the doctor to her husband. One hand was already clawing at Monroe's shoulder.

“Joey's gone, Mrs. Monroe.” Because the hour he'd spent trying to sew the boy back together had left him sick and defeated, Bitterman sat beside her. “He never regained consciousness. He had a massive head injury. There was nothing that could be done.”

“Joey? Joey's dead?”

“I'm sorry.”

The sobbing started, harsh, guttural sounds that poured out of her into the room. She cried with her mouth open, her head back, in an agony of grief that
twisted Tess's stomach. No one could truly understand the measure of joy a mother received from giving birth to a child. No one could truly understand the devastation a mother experienced upon losing one.

An error in judgment, a desire to keep her family whole with her own strength, had cost her her son. There was nothing Tess could do for her now. There was no longer anything she could do for Joey. With her own grief clogging her lungs, she turned and walked from the room.

“Tess.” Ben caught her arm as she started down the hall. “You aren't staying?”

“No.” Her voice was strong and icy as she continued to walk. “Seeing me now only makes it more painful for her, if possible.” She pushed the button for the elevator then jammed her hands into her pockets, where they curled and uncurled.

“That's it?” Dull and centered in his gut, the anger began to spread. “You just cross it off?”

“There's nothing more I can do here.” She stepped into the elevator, fighting to breathe calmly.

It was snowing hard on the way home. Tess didn't speak. Tasting bitterness in his own throat, Ben remained as coldly silent as she. Though the car heater poured out warmth, she had to struggle not to shiver. Failure, grief, and anger were so twined together that it made one hard knot of emotion that wedged in her throat; she could taste it. Control was often hard won, but never so vital as it seemed to her at that moment.

By the time they stepped into her apartment, the pressure in her chest was so strong she had to consciously school every breath. “I'm sorry you got dragged into this,” she said carefully. She needed to get away, away from him, from everyone until she'd pulled herself back together. The throbbing in her head was building to a roar. “I know it was difficult.”

“You seem to be handling it just fine.” After yanking off his jacket, he tossed it into a chair. “You don't have to apologize to me. I'm in the business, remember?”

“Yes, of course. Listen.” She had to swallow the bubbling heat in her throat. “I'm going to have a bath.”

“Sure, go ahead.” He walked to the liquor cabinet and reached for the vodka he'd stored. “I'm going to have a drink.”

She didn't bother to go into the bedroom to change. When the door was closed quietly behind her, Ben heard the sound of water rushing against porcelain.

He hadn't even known the kid, Ben told himself as he splashed vodka into a glass. There was no reason for him to feel this ugly squeeze of resentment. It was one thing to feel sorrow, pity, even anger at the useless loss of a life, a young life, but there was no reason for this helpless, shaking rage.

She'd been so detached. So goddamned untouched.

Just like Josh's doctor.

The bitterness lodged deep for years swirled into his throat. Ben lifted the vodka to wash the taste away, then slammed it, untouched, onto the cabinet. Not sure what he was going to do, he went down the hall and pushed the bathroom door open.

She wasn't in the tub.

Like thunder, the water hit the porcelain full force, then whirled down the drain she hadn't bothered to close. Steam was rising, already sweating on the mirror. Fully dressed, using the sink for support, Tess wept violently into her hands.

For a moment Ben stood silently in the open doorway, too stunned to go in, too shocked to close the door and leave her the privacy she'd sought.

He'd never seen her as the helpless victim of her own emotions. In bed there were times she seemed utterly guided by her own passion. Occasionally he'd seen
her temper flare, teetering briefly on full blossoming. Then she snapped it back, always. Now it was grief, and the grief was total.

She hadn't heard him open the door. Slowly, her body rocked back and forth in a rhythm of mourning. Self-comfort. Ben's throat tightened, driving back the bitterness. He started to touch her, then hesitated. It was harder, he discovered, unbelievably harder to comfort someone who really mattered.

“Tess.” When he did touch her, she jolted. When his arms went around her, she went board stiff. He could feel her fighting to block off the tears, and him. “Come on, you should sit down.”

“No.” Humiliation washed through her already weakened system. She'd been caught in her lowest and most private moment, stripped naked, without the strength to cover herself. She wanted only solitude, and the time to rebuild. “Please just leave me alone for a while.”

It hurt—her resistance, her rejection of the comfort he needed to give. It hurt enough that he started to draw away. Then he felt the shudder pass through her, a shudder more poignant, more pitiful than even the tears. In silence he moved over and shut off the tap.

She'd uncovered her face to wrap her fingers around the lip of the sink. Her back was ramrod straight, as if she were braced to ward off a blow or a helping hand. Drenched, her eyes met his. Her skin was already streaked and reddened from tears. He didn't say a word, didn't think of the angles as he lifted her into his arms and carried her from the room.

He expected a struggle, some fierce and furious words. Instead her body went limp as she turned her face into his throat and let herself cry.

“He was just a child.”

Ben sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her closer. The tears were hot on his skin, as if they had burned behind her eyes for too long. “I know.”

“I couldn't reach him. I should have been able to. All the education, all the training, the self-analysis, the books and lectures, and I couldn't reach him.”

“You tried.”

“That's not good enough.” The anger sprang out, full-blown and vicious, but it didn't surprise him. He'd been waiting for it, hoping for it. “I'm supposed to heal. I'm supposed to help, not just talk of helping. I didn't just fail to complete his treatment, I failed to keep him alive.”