Make Me Sin

by J. T. Geissinger

  She looks at me again, and now her eyes are wet. “He hated himself for letting you fall in love with him, knowing he didn’t have much time left. And at the end, he thought it would be better if he made you hate him, too. He thought it would be easier for you, when the time came, if you’d already put him far behind. He didn’t have the strength to walk away from you, so he made it so you’d be the one to leave. And he knew the only way he’d be able to stay away from you today is if he brought me, so you’d hate him all over again. He thought he was doing the right thing. For you.”

  Heavenly pauses, swallowing. She whispers, “Right or wrong, Chloe, everything A.J.’s done since the day he first met you has been for you.”

  I’m moving. The decision wasn’t made in any conscious part of my brain; my feet are just obeying some urgent, subconscious command. I run out the door, flying over the short path back to the ballroom with my heart in my throat.

  Dying. Dying. Dying. It echoes inside my head. I can’t let that happen. He can’t die, not now, not ever. I have to tell him, I have to let him know about the baby, make him change his mind about the surgery—

  The sound of people screaming makes me falter, then stop. Abruptly, the music inside the ballroom cuts off. The shrill, high-pitched squeal of feedback from a microphone fills the night air, and then there’s an eerie silence.

  From somewhere behind me, a cop comes running. He pushes past me, barking into a handheld radio. In his other hand he holds his gun.

  I bolt toward the ballroom. People have started streaming out in panic, some of them screaming, some silent and white faced with fear. I run past them, shove my way through one of the doors, and look wildly around, trying to find the cause of the uproar. Twenty steps in, I come to a dead standstill.

  In the center of the empty dance floor stands Eric. He’s got my terrified, crying mother in a chokehold.

  He’s holding a gun to her head.

  “Where is she?” he screams, looking around wildly. He drags my mother backward toward the abandoned stage.

  Everything takes on the quality of a dream. I move in slow motion, my feet heavy, the sound of voices muffled and distorted like I’m underwater. Someone is calling my name; it’s my brother, standing near our table, his arms stretched out toward me, his eyes terrified. I ignore him and keep moving, walking numbly toward Eric.

  This isn’t about my mother; she’s only a placeholder. I know he’ll let her go when he gets what he’s really come here for.

  He spots me. His lips pull back over his teeth. I notice he’s favoring his right leg, the one that A.J. broke. He snarls, “You!”

  My mother sobs.

  Several police officers with drawn weapons advance slowly through the retreating crowd, shouting for him to drop his weapon.

  Eric raises the gun and points it right at me. “You ruined my life,” he yells, his eyes wild.

  I’m frozen in terror. My vision narrows to a circle with my mother’s face and Eric’s behind it. I know this is the end. Instinctively, my hands cover my belly.

  Just before Eric squeezes the trigger, I’m shoved to the side. I start to fall, arms flailing. A shot rings out. I hit the floor hard; my breath is knocked from my lungs. I hear several more gunshots in quick succession—bam bam bam bam bam—and I scream.

  Someone else is screaming. It’s my mother; she’s standing stock still, her shaking hands covering her face.

  Eric is lying on the floor behind her. A widening pool of dark liquid surrounds his head.

  I turn to see who pushed me aside, and moan in horror.

  A.J. is lying on his back on the floor a few feet away, eyes closed, unmoving. A single, perfect hole is punched through the fabric of his shirt, just above his heart.

  Blood flowers from the hole, staining the pristine white fabric red.

  “Let me see him! I need to see him!”

  I’m screaming at the nurse who’s holding me back from the doors that lead to the corridor of surgical suites at the hospital. She’s trying to calm me, but I’m out of my mind.

  I can’t lose him again. I can’t. I won’t.

  “Chloe, shhh, let them do their job! Stop! Come with me now, stop it, bug!” Jamie envelops me in a bear hug, tearing me away from the nurse. I cling to him, sobbing hysterically. My parents are in the waiting room, along with the band; their manager, Saul; Kat and Nico; and Grace and Kenji, with about fifty cops stationed outside.

  “I have to see him,” I wail, my face buried in Jamie’s neck. “It can’t end like this.”

  “Nothing’s ending, Chloe. He’s in surgery, they’re taking care of him. He’s going to be all right.”

  “You don’t know that! You saw how much blood there was!”

  Jamie holds me tight, letting me cry on his suit jacket. He strokes a hand over my hair. “He’s going to make it, bug. And so are you. Now please try to calm down. Hysteria can’t be good for the baby.”

  He’s right. I’m probably dousing my baby in some really bad panic hormones. I try to breathe, and only manage to start hiccupping. Jamie gives me his handkerchief and makes me blow my nose.

  “We’re going to go sit in the waiting room until they have something to tell us, okay? There’s nothing else we can do now but wait.”

  I nod, whimpering as I try to hold back sobs. I know Jamie’s right, but waiting around doing nothing when I have so much to tell A.J., when we have so little time together left anyway, seems like cruel and unusual punishment.

  Jamie guides me through the quiet, sterile hallways of the hospital to the waiting room. Everyone rushes me when I come in. Kenji, Grace, and Kat—who is still in her wedding gown—surround me and get me into a group hug. My parents are right there with them, putting their arms around us. My mother is crying; I think she’s still in shock. My father is grim and tense, as is Nico, who stands behind Kat with his hand on her shoulder. Ethan and Chris stand a little apart with heads bowed, their arms folded across their chests. Brody is in the corner with his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

  Saul is the only one who remains sitting. From the look on his face, he might not be able to stand.

  “Nico,” I whisper.

  “Yeah, darlin’?”

  “Did you know? About A.J.’s brain tumor?”

  He blinks. His cobalt-blue eyes widen. “Brain tumor?”

  So he didn’t know. I look at Brody, Chris, and Ethan, who are all staring at me in horror. They obviously didn’t know either. But when I look at Saul, he just looks defeated.

  “Saul,” I say, my voice choked.

  He sighs. “He swore me to secrecy. He didn’t want anyone to know he was dying.”

  The room erupts into chaos. Nico, always a hothead, stalks over to Saul and starts barking questions. While Chris tries to get him to calm down, my parents look at Kat and Grace, and all of them start talking at once. Kenji is jabbering to himself like a crazy person, Brody is grilling Ethan for information, and he’s denying any knowledge of anything. My brother is the only one not saying anything, and that’s because he’s looking at the door.

  My heart leaps; is it the doctor?

  I whirl around to follow his gaze, but it’s not a doctor. There in the doorway stands a very ordinary-looking man in a suit, carrying a briefcase, gazing in bewilderment at the scene.

  “Miss Carmichael? Is there a Chloe Carmichael here?”

  The room falls silent.

  “Yes, that’s me. Who are you?”

  Saul rises. “This is Mr. Wells, Chloe. A.J.’s attorney.”

  Saul and Mr. Wells shake hands. “I got here as soon as I could,” says Wells, his voice subdued.

  Saul replies, “Thank you for coming.” He looks at me. “There’s some paperwork for you.”

  Hearing the word “paperwork” in relation to an attorney immediately raises my father’s hackles. He steps forward and demands, “What kind of paperwork?”

  Looking around at all the people staring back at him, Wells uncomfortably adjusts his ti
e. He glances at me. “Is there somewhere more private we could talk?”

  “Whatever you have to say you can say it in front of everyone. I’ll just tell them all anyway.”

  Wells lifts a shoulder. “As you wish.” He crosses to the coffee table, sets down his briefcase, and opens it with a flick of his wrists. From it he pulls a bound black notebook. He holds it out to me. “Mr. Edwards’ estate planning documents.”

  When I just stare at him silently, he adds, “Will, living trust, durable power of attorney, advance healthcare directive.” His voice softens. “He had a long time to prepare.”

  With shaking hands, I take the binder. “What does it have to do with me?”

  “You’re the beneficiary of his will, the trustee on the trust, which holds all his assets, including property, and his attorney-in-fact appointed to make financial and healthcare decisions on his behalf.”

  When I just continue to stare at him, openmouthed, he sighs.

  “If he can’t make decisions for himself, you’re authorized to make them for him, do you understand?”

  Saul says gently, “For instance, if he’s . . . in a coma.”

  In a flash, I understand. If it comes down to it, I’m the one responsible for making the decision whether or not to pull the plug.

  My brother catches me just before my legs give out. As I clutch the binder to my chest, he drags me to a nearby chair.

  “Someone get her some water,” Jamie barks.

  “On it.” Brody runs from the room.

  “Let me see that, Chloe.”

  I numbly hand the binder to my father. He flips it open, scans the first few pages, then flips around to several tabbed sections, reading quickly, his finger skimming the page. After a moment, he mutters, “Jesus.”

  “Thomas?” My mother’s voice pulls his attention back to the room, and everyone standing around waiting for him to speak.

  He looks around, then back at me. “Well, you’ll never have to worry about money again, that’s for sure. He owns property all over the US. Looks like hotels, mostly.”

  I close my eyes.

  Was it empty a long time before you bought it?

  Years. It was originally built as a resort hotel but never made it. I bought it because it looks how I feel.

  Alone?

  Corroded. Decayed.

  I’m certain all the hotels in A.J.’s will are just like the one he lived in, lonely, abandoned places with checkered pasts. Birds of a feather, he’d said. Birds of a feather.

  “There’s a mistake here.”

  I open my eyes. My father is frowning down at a page. He looks at Mr. Wells.

  “This is dated July 1 of this year.”

  Wells nods. “That’s correct. Mr. Edwards updated his living trust on that date to include Ms. Carmichael in the documents.”

  “But you and he were already finished by then,” my father says, looking at me.

  Tears stream down my cheeks. “He was never finished with me. He just wanted me to be finished with him, because he knew he’d be going away. He didn’t want me to have to watch him die. But I’m going to anyway.” Then I break down sobbing all over again.

  Brody comes back with a cup of water, which Jamie sets aside. He then kneels in front of me and takes my arms.

  “Bug, listen to me.”

  Devastated, I look at him.

  He says softly, “No matter what happens, you’ll always have a part of him. The baby, Chloe, that’s not just yours. It’s his, too. It’s yours together. And always will be. You’ll always have a part of A.J. with you.”

  I whisper, “Thank you.”

  In unison, Nico, Brody, Ethan, and Chris say, “Baby?”

  Kat goes to Nico and hugs him around the waist. “I wanted to let her tell A.J. first, honey.”

  He stares down at her. “A.J.’s having a baby?”

  “Actually it’s Chloe who’s having the baby, dear. Although your friend certainly did his part,” says my mother, who seems to be a little steadier on her feet. Probably because she’s just found out I’m a real estate heiress.

  Nico looks at me, his eyes alight for the first time in hours. “Kat and I are gonna be an aunt and uncle?”

  I shake my head slowly. “No. You’re going to be godparents.”

  Kenji says proudly, “Me and Grace are going to be the aunt and uncle!”

  Grace says, “Aunt Kenji does have a nice ring to it,” and smiles at Kenji.

  He replies, “So does Uncle Grace.”

  For a moment there’s a lighter quality to the air, but it’s shattered when a woman in a white coat and scrubs walks in the room.

  “Mr. Edwards’ group?” she asks, gazing at us. She’s a tall, slender brunette in her midforties, businesslike and cold, her face absolutely expressionless.

  My stomach drops. I stand, holding on to Jamie’s arm for support. “Yes?”

  Her cold gaze rests on me. Her eyes are the color of flint. “Are you the next of kin?”

  I mutely nod my head.

  She says, “I’m Dr. Rhoades. Come with me, please.”

  “What’s happening?” my brother demands. Everyone draws closer.

  Dr. Rhoades pauses for a moment. “We need to get some information. And I’m afraid we don’t have much time. Now, if you’ll please follow me?”

  She walks out of the room.

  “He’s in critical condition, I’m afraid. The bullet damaged the right ventricle of his heart, and he’s developed a hemopneumothorax—”

  “English, please!” I cut in, desperate to understand what Dr. Rhoades is saying. My brother, parents, and I are standing near the nurses’ station outside the operating room where A.J. is still on the table.

  “There’s an accumulation of blood and air in his chest cavity, causing one of his lungs to collapse. Also his heart isn’t pumping efficiently due to the damage to the ventricle. The wound is severe; we don’t know yet if it can be repaired.”

  “Oh God.” I clutch my mother’s hand.

  “When I get an update from the surgeon I’ll let you know, but in the meantime, does he have a DNR?”

  “DNR?” my mother repeats.

  “Do not resuscitate,” explains my father. “She needs to know if he wants to be on life support or not.”

  “Not only that, but what measures should be taken to revive him should he go into cardiac arrest—”

  “Do everything!” I blurt, so loudly Dr. Rhoades blinks. “Do anything and everything you can to save his life! Do you understand me? Do everything!”

  My father puts his arm around my shoulders. I turn my face to his chest and cry.

  “She has power of attorney,” he explains calmly to the doctor. “Do whatever you can.”

  “All right. I’ll let you know when I have more news. Do you have his healthcare directive with you by any chance? I’ll need to get a copy of the paperwork.”

  “Here,” says Jamie, handing her the folder.

  She nods. “I’ll just photocopy what we need and bring it back. You can have a seat in the waiting room and I’ll send it out shortly. Thanks, folks.”

  She turns and walks briskly away. I know she must deal with this kind of thing every day, but I think she’s heartless.

  Maybe that’s how you deal with this every day.

  My family leads me back to the waiting room, and after we give the group the update, we all sit down in silent misery, to wait.

  Four hours pass, then five. Nico and the guys bring in sandwiches and coffee from the cafeteria, but I can’t eat. I’m going over and over it in my head, everything A.J. ever said to me, every time we were together.

  It all makes complete sense now. Everything makes awful, perfect sense.

  The police take everyone’s statements about the events at the wedding. We’re told Eric was dead on arrival to the hospital. When I hear that, I feel nothing at all. Numbness has seeped into every cell and nerve of my body, and for that I’m grateful, because it’s the only thing keeping me g
oing.

  Then, at exactly twenty minutes after two in the morning, Dr. Rhoades comes back.

  Everyone stands. No one says anything. She looks exhausted.

  Finally she says, “He’s in recovery. The surgery went well.”

  My heart squeezes to a fist. “How is he?”

  She looks at me. For the first time tonight, she manages to smile. “We think he’s out of the woods.”

  Everyone screams. I start to bawl, sinking to my knees on the ugly gray carpet. Kat and Grace fall onto me and we crouch there in a sobbing huddle on the floor, three women in designer wedding attire with their arms around each other, crying their eyes out, until the doctor calls for everyone’s attention.

  “If he remains stable, he should be moved into a regular room within the next hour.” She looks at me. “I’ll come and get you, okay?”

  I stand, supported by Kat and Grace on both sides. Then I quickly close the few feet between us and throw my arms around her neck.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, “thank you so, so much.”

  She chuckles, patting my back awkwardly. “You’re welcome. But you should thank the surgeon. I’ll have him speak to you when he’s finished.”

  I release her, nodding, too exhausted to do much more than smile. She pats me on the arm, then leaves.

  Then, once more, we wait.

  When I walk through the door of A.J.’s hospital room, I have to slap my hand over my mouth so I don’t cry out in horror.

  He looks like death.

  His skin is a waxy, lifeless gray. His eyes are sunken deep in his head. His hair is matted with blood. There’s a tube in his nose, more tubes stuck in his arms, chest, and the back of one hand, and he’s hooked up to all kinds of blinking medical equipment that make disturbing chirping and sighing noises as he breathes.