Life in a Fishbowl Page 4

  Jackie didn’t know what else to do, so she sought solace in the one place she felt safe: the vast, anonymous ocean of the Internet. The clock on her computer said it was nine p.m., much earlier than she thought.

  First she looked for her father’s eBay listing. Jackie didn’t believe this part of Megan’s story; it just couldn’t be true. Her father would never do anything like that. How could he?

  But there it was. “Human Life for Sale.”

  She read it once and started to well up. She quickly clicked back to Google, which helped to bring her to a state of equilibrium. Little did Jackie know that each click on the World Wide Web released a microscopic hit of dopamine, anesthetizing her brain and dulling her senses. It was as habit forming as smoking.

  Next she needed to sort out the part of Megan’s story that made the least sense. What the heck is “ Youth in Asia”? Jackie wondered. She’d made her sister repeat the phrase three times. Jackie typed it into Google.

  The first result was for a 1980s British band that Wikipedia called “anarcho punk,” whatever that was. They had only one record, and that was something called “a cassette album,” whatever that was.

  The second result made a lot more sense. It was also a Wikipedia entry, and it was for euthanasia, which was apparently pronounced like “youth in Asia.” Jackie had heard of euthanasia. She knew it had something to do with a person deciding to end her own life, usually because she was really sick. The article said it was also sometimes called physician-assisted suicide.

  The main thrust of the argument in favor of euthanasia, Jackie read, seemed to be that people had the right to make up their own minds about when they lived and died. Jackie had never given it any thought before, and her immediate reaction was that any kind of suicide was wrong. They had taught her at Sunday school that life was precious; it was God’s greatest gift. Suicide, she’d learned, was a sin.

  But her gut reaction was different. In her heart, Jackie believed that people should be able to make up their own minds about anything they wanted, as long as it didn’t hurt anyone else. That should include when they lived and died, shouldn’t it?

  But the most interesting part of the Wiki entry was the role Oregon, her home state, played in the history of euthanasia. She clicked a link for something called the Death with Dignity Act. She was surprised, and maybe a little proud, to learn that Oregon was the first US state to protect doctors who helped terminal patients end their lives. She was even more surprised to learn that the state legislature, her father’s legislature, was considering a major expansion to the law right now that would also protect family and friends who played a role in helping the terminally ill end their suffering. That meant that her father, who was dying of a brain tumor, was also voting to make it legal to die a little sooner. Unbelievable.

  Jackie’s head started to swim; it was all too much for her to process. She was already fifteen years old and had stellar grades, but her emotional experience did nothing to prepare her for this.

  Jackie’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when she saw that her father’s quote to the reporters—from just a few hours earlier on her front stoop—was already referenced in the article. The speed at which information traveled was mind-boggling to Jackie.

  Retreating to the safety of Facebook, Jackie looked for Max, but he wasn’t online. It was twelve hours later in Saint Petersburg, so she didn’t really expect to see him.

  Jackie needed to tell someone about what was happening with her father, and Max seemed like the safest bet. Maybe it was because he was so far away, almost like he wasn’t real, like he couldn’t hurt her. Whatever the reason, she decided to send him a message:

  Jackie

  I know it’s the wrong time for you to be online, but I just wanted to say hi. So, hi. Okay, really, there’s more than that. Maybe I’ll look for you tomorrow.

  She read her note over and smiled at the thought of how her father would send her Facebook messages addressed to “Dear Jackie,” with a closing of “Love, Dad,” never really understanding that you didn’t need to identify yourself in a world where your identity traveled with you.

  Thoughts of her dad brought Jackie back to Earth. She tried to put those thoughts aside until she could figure out how to process them. She went back to mindlessly scrolling through her news feed, letting the dopamine wash over her frontal lobe. After a while, she crawled back into bed with Megan and drifted off into an uncomfortable sleep.

  ***

  Jared opened his eyes, but the room was trapped in darkness. There wasn’t even light seeping in from under the door. He knew he’d been having a dream, but he couldn’t remember any of the details. (The glioblastoma had eaten it.)

  The total absence of light made Jared realize that he’d slept for hours. Our shelf sport, he thought, making another anagram. At least he seemed to have his faculties.

  He knew his first order of business was to find his wife and daughters, explain everything, and try to set things right. But he wasn’t quite ready. He reached for Trebuchet and felt the fur on the dog’s abdomen, once black, now mostly gray, rising and lowering in time with his own rhythmic snoring. Trey grunted, acknowledging his master without fully waking up.

  Pushing himself up on his elbows, Jared made it to his desk and brought his computer back to life. Time to see if there are any new bids, he thought.

  There were none. But he did have a new message in his eBay in-box.

  Dear Sir—I’m interested in placing a bid on your auction titled “Human Life for Sale.” I’m a serious bidder with sufficient resources to meet your reserve and more. My question is this: Are you physically and mentally fit? Are you able to run, jump, crawl, climb, and react to new circumstances? Have you ever used a gun, knife, or bow and arrow? I’m interested to know what kind of life I’m bidding on. Thanks in advance for your answer, and sorry about your predicament. I hope I can help. You can respond to me via eBay, or you can send an e-mail to SKingsborough92@gmail.com.

  Jared had to read the note five times before he was con-vinced he had read it correctly. “Ever used a gun, knife, or bow and arrow?” he asked the still-sleeping dog. “What the heck am I getting myself into here?”

  Frightened, he lay back down and closed his eyes.

  ***

  Ethan Overbee was the first to place a real bid.

  Technically, he didn’t have the authority to spend $100,000 of the studio’s money, but in the world of television networks, a hundred grand was how much meeting planners spent, not programming executives. No one would question it. No one except Thad St. Claire, and that was exactly the point. In Ethan’s mind, this was the beginning of the end for his mentor.

  Thaddeus St. Claire was an old-school network executive who had clawed his way to the top. His first job for ATN had been forty years earlier, in the ad traffic department. He worked long and thankless hours to make sure advertisements for Tide and All laundry detergent didn’t run in the same commercial break. From ad traffic, he moved to a junior position in network operations, to a junior position in programming, to a senior position in programming, to the deputy executive in charge of programming.

  The executive in charge at that time was a septuagenarian with a penchant for Soupy Sales–variety hour specials and gin and tonics. Thad did the network and the world a favor when he ended the career of his predecessor. It’s true he did it by exposing his boss’s weaknesses to the network president and board of directors, but it was long overdue.

  The move gave Thad, somewhat unfairly, a reputation for being ruthless. (Thad’s assault on the character and behavior of his boss was more an act of mercy than of aggression.) But reputations become reality, and Thad’s reputation was all the justification Ethan needed; ascension by assassination, he convinced himself, was morally acceptable.

  Never mind that Ethan had been out of Wharton for only three years. And never mind that Thad had handpicked, trained, and groomed Ethan for the top job if Ethan would only wait.

&nbs
p; Not wanting to leave it to Monique to enter the bid—Ethan wasn’t about to trust something that would change his career to a glorified receptionist—he entered it himself. He saw right away that he hadn’t met the reserve.

  He still hadn’t made contact with the seller, some guy named Jared Stone up in Portland. Monique had tracked down his home number and address but had been unable to reach him. Ethan, who was working long past dark and was alone in the office, decided to try for himself.

  Answering machine.

  He put the phone down and considered his options. As he did, a new idea started to take root.

  ***

  Sister Benedict had never met a Cardinal before, which was funny, as she had already met two Popes. Of course, those “meetings” were actually mass rallies where she was lucky enough to have been granted a spot on the rope line so that she might have a chance to kiss the Pontiff’s ring. At the time, she thought of it as the Rope-a-Pope Line, and then immediately crossed herself for blaspheming. Today’s meeting with Cardinal Trippe was a face-to-face, sit-down affair, which, of course, began with the Sister on her knees.

  It hadn’t been easy for the Sister to gain an audience with the Cardinal. The officious priest who served as a buffer between Cardinal Trippe and the world was more than a little skeptical when the Sister first called to request the Church save Jared Stone’s life. The priest had dismissed her with grace and not a little condescension, the way a parent dismisses a child angling to stay up past his bedtime. The priest denied her request. But Sister Benedict would not be deterred.

  She and the Sisters of the Perpetual Adoration spent most weekends in service to the community. On one such weekend, they had painted the interior of the rectory of a nearby parish. The presiding bishop was so appreciative that he kept repeating, “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, Sister, just ask.”

  She called in the favor, and the audience with Cardinal Trippe was granted.

  Sister Benedict Joan’s mind was racing as she kissed the Cardinal’s ring. She’d spent hours finding out everything she could about the man and was going over her mental notes, steeling herself to the mission at hand.

  Cardinal Matthew John Trippe, whose name was pronounced “Trippy,” was the archbishop of the metropolitan province of Portland, which included dioceses in four northwestern states, and he was everything Sister Benedict was not. He was young and charismatic, and, far worse, he eschewed tradition, believing the Church should start down a path of change. He embraced Portland’s LGBT community, welcoming them to the flock; he wanted to see women take more leadership roles during mass; he believed in climate change and the need for conservation; and while Sister Benedict knew the Church had a true and deep-seated responsibility to care for those in need—as she herself had often done—this man actually seemed to believe that wealthy people should be compelled to share their hard-earned gains with the indigent. To the Sister, this was anathema to the entire idea of charity; it was socialism.

  As she knelt before the Cardinal and thought about these things, Sister Benedict almost shivered with disgust. Cardinal Trippe was like one of those awful Protestant priests who play guitar from the altar and sing “Kumbaya.” She secretly thought of him as Cardinal Hippie.

  From her research, she could see only two things she and the Cardinal had in common: their innate sense of piety and a shared belief in the sanctity of life. At least Trippe, liberal fool that he seemed to be, still opposed abortion. It was this last fact on which the Sister was counting.

  Sister Benedict stayed on one knee until the Cardinal bade her “get up, Sister, get up. Have a seat.”

  They were meeting in the office of the Portland diocese, where the Cardinal performed mass each Sunday when he wasn’t traveling. It was a modest, plainly decorated space. The only sign of opulence was a solid gold crucifix on the wall behind the Cardinal’s desk.

  “Tell me, Sister, what urgent matter brings you to this good office today?” Sister Benedict had to admit that the man did exude a kind of charm. His teeth were unnaturally bright, making her wonder if he’d had them whitened. The sin of vanity, she thought to herself. The truth was that the Cardinal came from a long line of people with very strong tooth enamel and he had been a near fanatic about oral hygiene from the earliest age.

  “Life itself, Father,” she answered. Trippe cocked an eyebrow and waited for her to continue. “The man on the news, the one with the brain tumor. The one who has put his life up for sale on the Internet. He’s here, in Portland! And unlike that unpleasant incident with that Schiavo woman in Florida, where the family intervened, it appears that the only issue here is money.”

  “And tell me, Sister,” the Cardinal asked, “how do you propose we intervene?”

  “Simple, Your Grace. We buy him.”

  “Come again?”

  “We bid on his eBay auction, and we buy him. And once he’s ours, we use all means at our disposal to keep him alive.”

  “Sister, I’m fairly certain the Holy See would not look kindly on nuns buying and selling human lives with church money. That went out with the Inquisition.” His smile suggested that she would see the wisdom of his words and that this meeting would end. Cardinal Trippe, a good and decent man, was not prepared for the depth of Sister Benedict’s resolve or for her growing obsession with Jared Stone.

  “Not buying and selling, Your Eminence. Buying and cherishing. There are any number of Catholic hospitals in the Northwest. Surely a man of your influence could persuade one to take this man as a patient.”

  “I see,” Cardinal Trippe said, sounding as if he did not see. “And how does keeping this one man alive benefit our Church?”

  “Because, Your Grace, all human life is precious. We honor the Lord with every soul we save in this world and prepare for the next.”

  The Cardinal nodded as he fished an almond out of a small bowl on his desk and chewed it slowly, carefully. Sister Benedict sensed that she had piqued his interest and decided to go for broke.

  “And because, Your Eminence, saving this man, keeping him alive, will be a news story to end all news stories. The press will camp out in this man’s hospital room for months, perhaps even years. All the world will look to our province, to your province, as a shining example of true divinity.” The Sister knew it was a bit of a Hail Mary, a term she had once thought blasphemous but now understood. She hoped that she was interpreting the whiteness of the Cardinal’s teeth correctly, and that an appeal to his vanity would be the deciding factor.

  “Tell me, Sister, have you ever used eBay before?” the Cardinal asked, sitting back in his chair. He was swiveling it slightly from left to right, making the Sister feel as if she and the entire room were in motion.

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “I have. My mother is a big Frank Sinatra fan, and I was able to find an original pressing of his 1955 album In the Wee Small Hours. Not my cup of tea, but Mother loves it. I got it for fifteen dollars, including shipping. A bargain. It’s really a remarkable use of technology.”

  The Sister had not counted on this, on the Cardinal sharing her fascination with technology, and it made her light up. “Yes, Your Grace, I couldn’t agree more. And now it will afford us an opportunity to do the good work of the Church. If we can win the bid—”

  Cardinal Trippe held up a hand, indicating the Sister should stop. “I’m sorry, Sister, we cannot, as I’m sure you will understand, actually appropriate the money to bid on a human life.” She started to protest, but the Cardinal cut her off again. “I understand what you’re trying to do, and it is laudable. The circumstances really do afford us a chance to demonstrate our commitment to life, to all life. But we cannot spend so many of our resources to save a single life when that money can help so many others.” The Sister was crestfallen, her mind racing for a way to sway the Cardinal, when he continued. “However, there is a much smaller sacrifice we can make that can perhaps stop this troubled young man—what was his name?”

  “Jared Stone,
Your Eminence.”

  “To stop Mr. Stone from going through with his ill-guided attempt to sell himself, while also accomplishing your goal of shedding light on the sanctity of life.”

  “A smaller sacrifice?”

  “Yes, Sister, a much smaller sacrifice. You will sacrifice your good standing on eBay.” The Sister looked perplexed, so the Cardinal leaned forward to explain his idea.

  Seven hours later, Sister Benedict Joan bid on Jared Stone’s life. The $1,000,000 was exactly enough to meet the reserve and to make the Sister and her Mother Church the leading bidder.

  ***

  Deirdre Stone liked her house. She liked it a lot.

  She liked the garden she and her daughters had planted under the bay windows in the front yard, with roses, hydrangea, and a holly bush; she liked the pale green color she and Jared had painted the living room walls when they first moved in; she liked the way that color had aged and matured with the house, with their relationship; and she liked the worn, comfortable couch that was her spot late at night to unwind from the day, after the girls went to bed and Jared had fallen asleep in his office.

  On this night, Deirdre spent what felt like an uncountable number of hours curled up on that couch, crying.

  After she watched Jared retreat to his office, stumbling up the stairs following the onslaught of media, she slammed the front door shut and collapsed on the sofa. Megan ran upstairs, no doubt telling Jackie everything that had happened. The girls stayed up there, never calling out for her, never asking about dinner.

  Deirdre finally cried herself to sleep, woke up, and cried some more.

  She tried to distract herself with television and work e-mail—Deirdre was the executive assistant to the CFO of a multinational insurance company with a West Coast office in Portland—but she couldn’t concentrate. She put her head back down and sank into a restless sleep, her dreams a jumbled narrative about cancer, coffee, and New York City.