Miracle Creek(19)

“Listen to that,” Teresa said. “She’s trying to talk. This whole week, she’s been making so many sounds. HBOT’s really working for her.” Teresa put her forehead to Rosa’s, mussed up her hair, and laughed. Rosa closed her lips and hummed, then opened her lips, making a “muh” sound.

Teresa gasped. “Did you hear that? She said Ma.”

“She did! She said Ma,” Mary said, and Young felt a tingle rush through her.

Teresa crouched down, looking up at Rosa’s face. “Can you say it again, my sweet girl? Ma. Mama.”

Rosa hummed again, then said, “Ma,” then again, “Ma!”

“Oh my God!” Teresa kissed Rosa all around her face, feathery pecks that made Rosa laugh. Young and Mary laughed, too, feeling the wonder of the moment ripple across them, binding them in shared amazement. Teresa put her head back, as if in a silent prayer of thanks to God, and Young saw it then: tears streaming down her face, her eyes closed in bliss so complete that she couldn’t contain it, couldn’t keep her lips from stretching so wide, her molars showed. Teresa kissed Rosa’s forehead. Not a peck this time, but a lingering savoring of Rosa’s skin against her lips.

Young felt a jolt of envy. It was ridiculous to feel jealous of a woman with a daughter who couldn’t walk or talk, with no college, husband, or children in her future. She should feel sorry for Teresa, not envious, she told herself. And yet, when had she felt pure joy like that radiating from Teresa’s face? Certainly not anytime recently, when everything she said caused Mary to frown and yell or, worse, ignore her and pretend she didn’t know her.

To Teresa, Rosa saying “Mama” was a miraculous achievement, something that gave her more happiness than … than what? What had Mary done, what could she do, to make Young feel that much wonder? Get into Harvard or Yale?

As if to underscore this point, Mary said a warm good-bye to Teresa and Rosa, then turned to leave without saying anything to Young.

Young felt her cheeks flush and wondered if Teresa noticed. “Drive safely, Mary.” Young put a false brightness into her voice. “Dinner is 8:30,” she said in English, not wanting to be rude to Teresa by using Korean, even though she felt self-conscious speaking English in front of Mary, knowing that her accent, like everything else, embarrassed Mary.

Young turned to Teresa and forced out a chuckle. “She is so busy. SAT classes, tennis, violin. Can you believe she is already researching colleges? I guess that is what sixteen-year-old girls do.” Even before she said it, she’d wanted to stop her words. But it was as if she were watching a movie already made, unable to stop what was coming. The fact was, for a moment—the briefest moment, but long enough to do damage—she’d wanted to hurt Teresa. She’d wanted to inject a dose of dark reality into her bliss and snap her out of it. She’d wanted to remind her of all the things that Rosa should be doing but was not and never would.

Teresa’s face went saggy, the corners of her eyes and lips drooping dramatically, as if some invisible line holding them up had been cut. It was exactly the reaction she’d sought, but as soon as she saw it, Young hated herself.

“I am sorry. I do not know why I said that.” Young reached out to touch Teresa’s hand. “I was very insensitive.”

Teresa looked up. “It’s all right,” she said. Young’s doubt must have showed, because Teresa smiled and clasped her hand. “Really, Young, it’s fine. When Rosa first got sick, it was hard. Every time I saw a girl her age, I’d think, ‘That should be Rosa. She should be playing soccer and having slumber parties.’ But, at some point”—she stroked Rosa’s hair—“I accepted it. I learned not to expect her to be like other kids, and now I’m like any mom. I have good days and bad, and sometimes I’m frustrated, but sometimes she does something that makes me laugh or something new she’s never done, like now, and then life is pretty good, you know?”

Young had nodded, but she hadn’t really grasped how Teresa could look happy, be happy, when her life was, by any objective measure, so hard and tragic. But now, kissing Pak’s cheek to wake him for dinner, seeing him smile as he said, “You made my favorite. That smells wonderful”—she understood. It was why all the studies showed that rich, successful people who should be the happiest—CEOs, lottery winners, Olympic champions—weren’t, in fact, the happiest, and why the poor and disabled weren’t necessarily the most depressed: you got used to your life, whatever accomplishments and troubles it happened to hold, and adjusted your expectations accordingly.

After waking Pak, Young walked to Mary’s corner and stomped on the floor twice—the faux knock they used to enhance the illusion of privacy—and opened the shower curtain. Mary was still asleep, her hair wild and mouth agape like a baby rooting for milk. How vulnerable she looked, just the way she’d looked after the explosion, body crumpled and blood streaming from her cheeks. Young blinked to dislodge that image and knelt next to her daughter. She placed her lips on Mary’s temple. She closed her eyes and let her kiss linger, savoring the feel of Mary’s skin against her lips, the rhythm of her blood pulsing underneath, and wondered how long she could stay like this, joined to her daughter, skin to skin.





MARY YOO





SHE AWOKE TO THE SOUND of her mother’s voice. “Meh-hee-yah, wake up. Dinnertime,” she said, but in a whisper—as if, contrary to her words, she were trying not to wake her. Mary kept her eyes closed and tried to quell the surge of disorientation she felt, hearing her mother say “Meh-hee” in a gentle tone. For the last five years, her mother had used her Korean name only when she was annoyed with her, during fights. In fact, her mother hadn’t said “Meh-hee” at all in a year; since the explosion, her mother was being extra nice and used “Mary” exclusively.