Miracle Creek(79)

“We should tell Abe,” Mary said. “Now. We need to stop torturing Elizabeth.”

“I’ve thought about that a lot,” Pak said. “But the trial is nearly over. Chances are good she won’t be convicted. Once the trial ends, we can move, start fresh.”

“But what if she’s found guilty? She could be executed.”

“If that happens, I’ll confess. I’ll wait for the insurance money to come through, and once you and your mother get away, somewhere safe, I’ll go to Abe. I won’t let her go to jail for something she didn’t do. I couldn’t do that.” He swallowed. “I did many things wrong, but no one, no one, intended to hurt anyone. Remember that.”

Mary said, “But she’s already suffering. She’s on trial for killing her son. She must be in so much pain, I can’t bear to—”

“Listen to me,” Pak said. “I feel horrible about what’s happened. I’d give anything to change it. But I don’t think Elizabeth feels the same way. She may not have set the fire, but I think she wanted Henry dead, and she’s glad it happened.”

“How can you say that?” Mary said. “I know they’re saying she hurt him, but to say she actually wanted him dead—”

“I heard her, with my own ears, through the intercom when she thought it wasn’t on,” Pak said.

“Heard what?”

“She told Teresa she wanted Henry to die, that she actually fantasized about him dying.”

“What? When? And why haven’t you said anything? You didn’t even testify about it.”

“Abe said not to. He’s going to ask Teresa about it on the stand, but he wants to surprise her, to get the full truth.” Was that why Young had never heard about this, because Teresa was her friend and Abe was afraid she’d say something? Was there anyone who hadn’t lied to her?

“The point is,” Pak said, “Elizabeth wanted Henry dead. She abused him. They were going to prosecute her for that anyway, and she’s already on trial. Will being on trial one more week make that much of a difference to her? And remember, if the verdict is guilty, I’ll come forward. I promise you that.”

Was that really true? Or was he just saying that to convince Mary to remain silent, and if the verdict was guilty, he’d come up with some other excuse and let Elizabeth die?

“Now, before we go in,” Pak said, “I need you to promise me. You will do as I say. Not one word to anyone, including your mother. Understand?”

At this reference to her, Young’s heart thumped her chest, hard and fast. Pak said, “Meh-hee-yah, answer me. Do you understand?”

“No. We should tell Um-ma,” Mary said, in English as always except for “Um-ma.” How long had it been since Mary called her Um-ma, what she used to call her before encasing herself in an armor of resentment? “You said she’s been getting suspicious. What if she asks about that night? What am I supposed to say?”

“What you’ve been saying all along, that everything is fuzzy.”

“No, we have to tell her.” Her voice shook, sounding unsure and small like a little girl’s.

“No.” Pak spat this out with so much force, it rang in Young’s ears, but he paused and took deep breaths, as if to calm himself. “For me, Meh-hee-yah, do this for me.” Forced patience coated his words. “It’s my decision, my responsibility. If your mother knew…” He sighed.

There was silence, and she knew that Mary must’ve nodded, knew he would’ve kept badgering her if Mary hadn’t obeyed. After a minute, she heard steps and the wheelchair moving. Closer and closer, then moving past, toward the house. She thought about waiting until they were inside and running away. Or maybe going in after them, pretending not to have heard anything and seeing what they’d do. Both acts of cowardice, she knew, but she was so tired. How easy it’d be to stay here and seal the world out, lie here entombed for as long as it took for things to stop spinning, for everything to just pass and disintegrate into nothing.

No. She couldn’t do nothing, couldn’t let Pak just push her aside and make her any more irrelevant than he already had. She pushed the hatch, hard. It squeaked open, the dissonance of the noise piercing her ears and making her want to scream. She tried to stand. Her head banged the steel above, the thud resonating in her skull like a beaten gong.

Footsteps entered the barn, slow and cautious. Pak said it was nothing, probably an animal, but Mary said, “Mom, is that you?” Her voice was sopping with fear, but something else, too. Maybe hope.

Slowly, Young raised her body. She crawled out and stood up. She reached out to Mary in invitation to join her, to grieve together for this loss that was uniquely theirs. Mary looked at her, tears streaming down her face in rivulets, but she didn’t walk toward her. Instead, she looked at Pak as if to ask permission. He held out his hand, and Mary hesitated before walking away from her and closer to Pak.

A memory: Mary as a baby between them, both Young and Pak reaching and calling for her, and their baby girl crawling to Pak, always Pak, and Young laughing and clapping, pretending not to be hurt, telling herself how wonderful it was that he was so close with their baby, unlike other men, how it was only because Meh-hee spent so much time with her—the entire day!—that she preferred the parent she hadn’t seen. It had always been this way with them—an imbalance, even their positioning now, the three of them forming a skinny triangle with Young the lone castaway far from the others. Maybe all families with only children were this way, inequality in closeness and the resulting envy being inherent in all three-person groups. After all, equilateral triangles with truly equal sides existed only in theory, not in real life. She’d thought the balance would change when they were together on a different continent from Pak, but ironically, he saw Mary more than she did even then: twice a week, through Skype (which Young couldn’t use, as the store had no Internet). The balance always skewed to Pak-Mary. It had in the past, and it remained so now.