Page 49 of Sin of the Saints

I get to my feet and head to the main building, where the patient rooms and staff offices are. Ellis says nothing, but I feel his scrutinizing gaze. That’s the thing about this place – they all watch you, like you’re under a microscope. I’ve been in and out of here a couple of times, and I’ve heard the administrator call me a ‘complex case’ in front of other staff members. I’ve gradually felt that I’m becoming a subject of his private research. At first I resisted, but these days I’m not sure anymore that there’s a cure for whatever’s taken hold of his sanity and refuses to release me.

I walk down the empty corridors, everyone’s still asleep and the place is dead quiet, but these are my favorite hours here, before the chaos awakens. I knock on the door that has “Dr. Bartimaeus Abano” emblazoned on it, and I open it. The interior of the office is always spotless. Every pen and folder is where it should be, just like the first day they brought me here, years ago.

“Good morning, Belle,” Dr. Abano says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

I sit silently, shifting uncomfortably. Dr. Abano’s gaze seems to see right through me, so I’m always tense around him.

“I figured that if you weren’t coming to our meeting on time, you were probably watching the sunrise. How was it?” There’s no accusation in his calm tone, and I sigh in relief. He leans back and runs his pen across his lips.

“Beautiful, as always,” I answer carefully.

He says nothing as he looks me over, and I dare to raise my eyes and meet his unique stare. One eye is blue, the other green. I regret it, because as soon as our eyes meet he seems to hold my gaze, and I have trouble breathing.

“And what do we conclude from that?” he asks, still playing with the pen across his lips. My eyes are hypnotized by the supposedly innocent motion, but in my mind everything seems different.

I groan, realizing that I have to answer. “I suppose you expect me to say that I should be grateful to the Creator for having lived another day, but He wasn’t there. He’s never there.”

He writes something in his notebook for what seems like an eternity, and I focus on his furrowed brow as he concentrates. “You keep insisting He’s never there,” he says without raising his gaze from the notebook. “Yet you’re so fascinated by it.”

“I don’t know why,” I try to evade. He keeps writing. Silence hovers in the air for so long that I start getting chills, and I’m the first to crack. “Okay, ugh…” I take a deep breath. “Because Iconsider it the essence of creation. Not for the reason you want me to think, not because I’ve been given another day of life, but because it’s the start of everything. Everything from yesterday is erased. Today’s victory over the night births hope.” I close my eyes tight and fall silent. God, I’m just babbling nonsense. “I’m not sure I’m explaining myself properly.”

“It’s alright, take your time,” he says as he writes, lifting his eyes to ensure he has my attention. “We don’t always find the right words to express our thoughts and feelings. Sometimes what isn’t said most authentically expresses what resides deep within us.”

“Like reading minds?” I ask, and he tries to stifle a laugh.

“No, Belle, not like reading minds. More like learning to listen rather than just hear. Like musical creation. The notes create the tune, and sometimes the quiet between the notes is what gives it the power it seeks to create.”

I ponder his words. Is there truth to them? How is it even possible to listen to silence? “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. BecauseHe’snever there.”

“Then he’s not present in Judaism or Christianity.” He pauses to make a note in his journal. His eyebrows meet as he energetically scribbles more words. “Shall we continue our journey to another religion?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I think that’s enough for me. I don’t think I’m reading the texts you gave me correctly.”

“There’s no correct or incorrect when it comes to faith. There are countless interpretations and exegeses, and I must admit it was very interesting to read your interpretation.”

“If you say so…”

“It’s alright, I don’t mean to pressure you. You don’t have to follow this path, it’s just important to me that you know it’s there if you want it. We’ll find your path together.”

I chuckle bitterly, “I thought my father was paying you so I could find his faith.”

“That’s because he believes his faith will instill in you a desire to cherish your life. He’s just hoping you find it where he did.”

“The fact that he found it here doesn’t mean his way is necessarily mine, but he refuses to recognize that.” Frustration again overwhelms me.

My father told me that although he came from an observant Catholic family, he’d distanced himself from religion when he moved to the United States. Upon returning to his homeland for business, he met my mother. A short time later she was hospitalized here. Together they found their way back to God. He found his faith through love, and that’s what he wishes for me.

Of course the happiness was just momentary, as my mother and I share the same curse. Her illness emerged after my birth and ultimately consumed her, and my mother ended her own life. My end is predetermined, and always has been. You’d think he’d have lost his faith after his tragic loss, but he chose to embrace it more closely.

“It might or it might not,” Dr. Abano says. “You’ll never know unless you try, I mean really try.” Is he claiming I’m not trying? For God’s sake, I read all the scripture he gave me. I could just as easily have been reading Stephen King books. Those are far less shocking to me. Fear runs down my spine as I recall the troubling scenes many people choose to read on a daily basis.

“It’s not that simple,” I finally answer, and he writes something down in his notebook.

“I want us to spend some time on that.”

“Again?” I raise an eyebrow. We’ve talked about it too much as is. I feel like we’ve been treading water for years.

“Again.” He raises the pen back up to his soft lips. I lower my gaze so as not to stare at them. “Why did you think you had no alternative but death?”

---