Miracle Creek(104)
Elizabeth pulled over and stopped. None of it mattered. There was no parallel universe to teleport to, no time machine to take her back. All this week, when things got too bleak and she wanted everything to end, she’d tried to keep herself going with thoughts of vengeance for Henry, with the anticipation of seeing Shannon take down that vile woman, Ruth Weiss. Now that Shannon was refusing to go after the protesters, what was left to hope for?
She pressed the button that put the top down on Shannon’s car. It was funny—back in the courthouse, she’d wished she had her own car, but now she realized how much better a convertible would be. Less risk of anything going wrong. She thought it’d be cooler here, in the higher elevation of the hills that divided Miracle Creek from Pineburg, but the humidity overtook her quickly with the top down. She unlatched her seat belt and debated whether to move her seat forward or back; on the one hand, moving too close to the airbag was dangerous, but on the other hand, sitting too far back heightened the chance of falling out in a crash. She decided to keep her seat where it was and pulled the seat belt back on—she hated the dinging noise cars made when seat belts were off.
It was all done, it was time to go, but she hesitated. There were so many things she hadn’t considered. What if this didn’t work? Or what if it did, and Shannon kept on trying to clear her name and brought up that horrible insinuation about Victor and the scratches? What if Abe decided to go after Pak in her absence? Should she—
Elizabeth shut her eyes tight and shook her head. She needed to stop this nonsense and effing act already. The fact was, she was a coward. She was an inhibited ball of indecision who didn’t trust her instincts and hid her cowardice under a guise of deliberation. This was the real reason Henry was dead: she knew she should stop HBOT but she was afraid to, and she waited as always to make sure she didn’t forget anything, make her stupid pro/con list, think of every contingency. She hurt her own son, abused him and made him believe she hated him, and forced him into a chamber to burn while she sipped wine and popped bonbons in her mouth. It was time to unpause her plan and do what she knew she had to do, what she’d known for the last year she had to do, with no pros or cons, no analysis, no hesitation.
Elizabeth clutched the steering wheel and started driving. Her fingers pulsed against the leather as she turned to keep the car from veering into the guardrail and trees lining the road. The bright yellow CAUTION sign came into view, which meant the spot was just up ahead. The first time she drove by it, she’d felt that strange pull, like when you stand near a cliff’s edge and have the urge to jump. She’d seen the curve, the sudden clearing of trees, the guardrail crumpled and bent down, almost like a ramp into empty space, and she’d thought how easy it’d be to let go, just go straight and fly into the sky.
She slowed down to turn with the road, and saw it straight ahead. She was afraid they’d have fixed it by now, but it was still there. The bent spot in the guardrail. The gray metal crushed flat like a ramp. A bright beam of sun hit it like a spotlight, as if summoning her, wooing her. She pressed the button to unbuckle her seat belt, and she felt her heart pounding in her wrists, on the undersides of her knees, against her skull. She pushed the accelerator, all the way down. She saw it then. Beyond the curve, a round fluffy cloud with a dark spot in the middle, like the one she’d pointed out to Henry last summer and he’d laughed and said, “It looks like my mouth, with my missing tooth!” and she’d laughed back, amazed—he was right, it did look like his mouth—and lifted him up in the air, hugging him tight and kissing the dimple on his cheek.
In front of the cloud, the heat and sunlight created undulating waves in the air. Like an invisible curtain in the sky—inviting her, welcoming her, to flight, to fire. She leaned forward, and as the tires thunked onto the flattened guardrail, she saw the bright, beautiful valley below, shimmering in the sunlight, like a mirage.
PAK
HE HATED WAITING. Whether for the water to boil or a meeting to start, waiting meant being dependent on something outside his control, and rarely had that been as true as today, being stuck at home with no car, no phone, and no idea where Young was. After he and Mary finished burning everything, there was nothing to do, so they’d sat, waiting and drinking barley tea. Or rather, he had. Mary had poured herself some, too, but she hadn’t drunk any. She stared at the mug as if at a TV screen, blowing once in a while, making ripples in the amber liquid, and he thought about saying it wasn’t hot, hadn’t been for an hour, but he said nothing. He understood her need to break the oppressiveness of waiting, just waiting, and he wished he could pace. That was the thing—one of the many things—about being paralyzed: you couldn’t exactly wheel yourself back and forth to satisfy the achy craving for motion you got during stifling periods of stillness like this.
When Young finally walked in at 2:30, a surge of relief engulfed him. Relief that she’d returned, and alone, not with the police. (He’d told Mary not to be afraid, Young would never report them, but at the sight of her, he realized he hadn’t been quite sure of that.) “Yuh-bo, where have you been?” he said.
She didn’t answer him, didn’t even look at him, just sat with a cold steadiness that sent panic tingling in his chest.
“Yuh-bo,” he said, “we’ve been worried. Did you see anyone? Talk to anyone?”