Page 81 of Sinner (Priest 2)
I realized being furious with Him was not the same thing as wanting Him out of my life. That’s what my mom said the day I found her with the rosary. What if that were true for me too? Is hating God the same thing as not believing in Him? Can you hate a thing you don’t believe in?
And when I say I hate God, what do I mean? Do I mean that I’m angry about Lizzy, angry that humans who were supposed to serve goodness were actually monsters, and that it’s all His fault? Do I mean I never want to think about Him again? Or do I mean that I want to rage at Him, to howl and pace and scream, and have Him listen? Have Him witness and hear and see my pain?
And one night, in the dark as Zenny sleeps, I send up a thought like a balloon.
I still hate you, I think up to the ceiling. You let us all down and I’ll never forgive you.
Nothing happens. The ceiling remains a ceiling, my room remains quiet save for the soft snores of the little nun at my side. There’s no burning bushes or shimmering prophets poking their heads out of the walls.
Except when I tell Zenny about it the next morning, she gives me a knowing smile and eyes full of compassion.
“Sean,” she says. “That was a prayer. You prayed.”
It’s like looking up and seeing a green sky, this thought.
It haunts me for days.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Two weeks left.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I stare at my phone for a minute before I slide it back into my pocket. The property owner is ahead of me, talking in over-bright tones to the Reverend Mother and Zenny, gesturing around to windows and load-bearing beams. I should be up there with them, and I will be.
In just a moment.
It’s another bowel obstruction, Dad had explained. They don’t know if it’s the old site flaring up or something new—new mets in her intestines, maybe. Adhesions from the last surgery. They did a suction on her stomach to relieve the pressure; she’s about to go in for a scan now.
It’s funny how quickly everything can fall apart. Only last week she was putting away dishes and arguing about God…and now we’re back in the hospital, possibly facing another surgery.
I glance at my watch. It’s 4:13 now, and Dad thinks Mom will be done with her scan and back in her room before six. That should give me plenty of time to finish the tour and drop Zenny off at the shelter and the Reverend Mother back at the monastery.
Maintain, you idiot, I chastise myself. Because my hands are shaking, and for a dumb, terrible minute, all I can feel is this kind of stale fear and even staler exhaustion. Because I know once I get to the hospital, it will be the triple duty of comforting Dad and handling the doctors and keeping Mom company. I love my father, but he can barely be strong enough for her—he can’t be strong for himself. Or be counted on to ask hard questions and to chase down nurses and to demand every next step Mom needs.
It has to be me.
I take a breath and catch up with the group.
“And here, we can easily build in an office for you,” the owner is saying.
The prioress is nodding thoughtfully. “And the expense?” she asks.
“Well, ideally…” the owner trails off as the prioress studies him. She’s in her mid-seventies, black, short and stout, with massive glasses and wrinkled, expressive hands. They’re folded over her belly now as she waits for him to finish saying whatever stupid thing he’s going to say.
He wisely reconsiders. “I’d be happy to do the renovations myself.”
“Oh, how kind,” the Reverend Mother says. “That would be a lovely gift.”
She says it in a way that’s genuine, that even I feel, and I think she is warmly grateful. But I also recognize as a businessman that she’s getting exactly what she needs from him, and all it took was a silent look. I wonder if she gives lessons.
And then it’s done. The prioress approves the site, both parties sign a provisional contract I drew up, and then I’m driving the women away from the property. I can’t kiss Zenny goodbye at the shelter with the Reverend Mother waiting in my car by the curb, but I do get out and walk her to the front door and tell her things that have her lashes fluttering until she disappears inside. And then I climb back into the car, preparing to drive the Reverend Mother back to the monastery, which is a sprawling old house in Midtown.
“So you’re the man having sex with Zenobia,” the Reverend Mother says before I can even get my seat belt buckled.
My hand fumbles for a minute on the bel
t; a thousand awful, awkward scenarios roll through my mind, the worst ones featuring Zenny exiled from this vocation she holds so dear and the least worst involving unwelcome lectures about chastity and propriety.
