Sacred Sins

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