Miracle Creek(89)

No, she didn’t want to leave the tranquility of this empty courtroom. Except for the temperature. When court was in session, it was hot, the old ACs too weak to fight off the steam emanating from the sweaty crowd, so she’d worn a short-sleeved dress without pantyhose. Cleared of the bodies, though, the room was downright cold. Or maybe what she felt was the chill of seeing Henry’s face—his skin soft and perfect in that little-kid way, unmarred by pimples, wrinkles, and other flaws life would eventually have brought—as he said “the cat” hated him and scratched him, then witnessing Elizabeth fall apart and confess there was no cat, which meant … what? That she was “the cat”? Teresa shivered and rubbed her hands against her arms. Her hands were clammy, made her shiver more.

A wide beam of sunlight was coming through the right front window. She crossed the aisle to the sunny spot, right behind the prosecutor’s table where she used to sit. She placed herself in the sun’s path and sat, closed her eyes, and lifted her face into the warmth. A blinding whiteness penetrated her closed lids, sending phantom red dots flashing and whirling before her. The buzz of the AC units seemed to get louder. Like waves in a shell, the white noise swirled and bounced around her ear canals to form an ethereal whisper, an auditory ghost of Elizabeth’s voice. There is no cat. There is no cat.

“Teresa?” a voice called from behind her. Young, peeking through a half-opened door like a child afraid of entering without permission.

“Oh, hi,” Teresa said. “I didn’t think you were here today.”

Young didn’t say anything, just bit her lower lip. She was wearing what looked like an undershirt and elastic pants, not her usual blouse and skirt. Her hair was in a bun, as always, but it was disheveled, strands falling as if she’d slept in it.

“Young, are you all right? Would you like to come in?” Teresa felt ridiculous inviting her in. Presumptuous, as if this were her home, but she had to do something to dispel Young’s discomfort.

Young nodded and walked down the aisle, but tentatively, as if she were breaking some rule. Under the fluorescent lights, her skin looked sallow. The elastic around her waist drooped, and she kept tugging her pants up every few steps. When she got closer, Young glanced left, then back to her, looking confused, and Teresa realized: Young was wondering why she’d changed seats. Of course. Anyone who saw her now would assume she’d returned to the prosecutor’s side to make some point. Shit. This was how rumors got started. She wouldn’t be surprised if some website already had a breaking news report about it (“Mommy Murderer’s Fickle Friend Switches Sides. Again.”).

Teresa motioned to the window. “I moved because I was cold. The sun’s warm here.” She hated how defensive she sounded and, even more, felt.

Young nodded and sat, a hint of disappointment on her face. She was wearing old loafers with the backs folded under her feet, like slippers, as if she’d been too rushed to put her shoes on properly. Her lips were chapped, and crust covered the corners of her eyes.

“Young, are you okay? Where’s Pak? And Mary?”

Young blinked and bit her lip. “They are sick. Their stomach.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I hope they feel better soon.”

Young nodded. “I arrived late. I saw Elizabeth yelling. People there”—she motioned to the back—“they said this means Elizabeth is confessing. She scratched Henry.”

Teresa swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah.”

Young looked relieved. “So you think she is guilty.”

“What? No. There’s a huge difference between scratching and murdering someone. I mean, the scratch could’ve been an accident.” Even as she said this, though, she knew an accident wouldn’t have caused Elizabeth’s breakdown. She could picture it now, Abe pointing to Elizabeth, saying to the jury, “This woman, a violent woman who hurt her son, an unstable woman on the verge of breakdown—we all saw it—on a traumatic day, after the police barged in with child abuse charges, after a huge fight with a friend—is it any stretch to think that this woman, on this day, would simply snap?”

Young said, “If she did child abuse but she did not start the fire, do you think she deserves punishment? Not death penalty, but prison?”

“I don’t know.” Teresa sighed. “She’s lost her only child in a horrific way. The entire world blames her. She’s lost any friend she’s had. She has nothing left in her life. So if all that happened and she didn’t set the fire? I’d say that’s enough punishment for anything she’s done.”

Young’s face turned red and she blinked rapidly to keep back tears that, despite her efforts, were welling in her eyes. “But she wanted Henry to die. I saw his video. What type of mother tells her son she wishes he would die?”

Teresa closed her eyes. That moment in Henry’s video had disturbed her the most, and she’d been fighting not to think about it. “I don’t know why Henry said that, but I can’t believe she ever told him anything like that.”

“But Pak said she said this same thing to you, she wants Henry dead, she has fantasies.”

“Pak? But how…” As she said it, though, the memory she’d been pushing away came to her. Sometimes, I wish Henry was dead. I fantasize about it. Said in whispers in the darkened chamber, with no one nearby, except … “Oh my God, did Henry hear us and tell Pak? But how? He was at the other end of the chamber, watching a video.”