Miracle Creek(90)

“So this is true. Elizabeth said she wants Henry to die.” It was more a statement than a question.

“No, it wasn’t like that. That’s not what she meant.” It was hard to explain without telling the whole story of what happened that day with Mary. But how could she tell Young, of all people? “Oh my God, does Abe know about this?”

Young pressed her lips together so hard they turned white, as if she was trying to keep her mouth closed, then abruptly said, “Yes. And he is going to ask you about it. In court.”

The prospect of having to explain, making people understand the context—was that possible? “It wasn’t … it’s not how it sounds. She didn’t really mean it,” Teresa said. “She was just trying to help me.”

“How does saying she wishes her son’s death help you?”

Teresa shook her head, couldn’t say anything.

Young came closer. “Teresa,” she said. “Tell me. I want to understand the meaning. I need.”

Teresa looked at her, this woman who was the last person she wanted to tell this story to. But if she was right, Abe was going to force her to tell it to everyone in court, and it would be transmitted within an hour to anyone with a computer.

Teresa nodded. Young was going to find out anyway, and she deserved to hear it directly from her. She just hoped Young wouldn’t hate her once she heard the story.



* * *



SHE’D BEEN IN A FUNK that day. She’d left home at the usual time for their evening dive, but as sometimes happened in August, there was virtually no traffic and they got to HBOT forty-five minutes early. She needed to pee, but she didn’t want to ask to use the Yoos’ bathroom. Not that they’d refuse—to the contrary, they encouraged it—but it embarrassed her, the way Young kept apologizing for the boxes everywhere and repeating “temporary” and “moving soon.”

She drove down the road and pulled into a secluded spot. She’d use the twenty-four-hour urine-collection container she kept in the van for times like this. It was disgusting, all right, but better than the alternative: stopping at a gas station, getting Rosa’s wheelchair out of the van, finding a kind grandmother type to watch her (those bathrooms being too small for the wheelchair), which inevitably led to questions about what condition Rosa had and if there was hope and how she could be so brave, and on and on, then getting Rosa’s wheelchair back and buckled in the van. It was exhausting, and it took fifteen minutes. Fifteen for a pit stop that should take two! She knew she shouldn’t whine; there were so many “bigger” things to deal with. But it was these everyday indignities, these small chunks of lost minutes, that got to her most, made her think how “normal” parents had no idea how good they had it. Oh, sure—moms of infants got a taste of this, but anything was bearable when it was temporary; try doing it day after day, knowing you’d do this until you died, that you’d be fricking squatting in a van peeing into a jar when you were eighty, driving around your fifty-year-old invalid daughter to God knows what therapies they’d have by then, worrying who’d take over when you died.

She ended up going outside to pee. Rosa was asleep, and she couldn’t get to the pee jar without moving her, so she got out and went to a hidden spot behind a shed, surrounded by bushes. Just as she was pulling down her pants, she heard a phone ring from inside the shed.

“Hey, hold on a sec,” said a girl’s voice, muffled by the wall. It sounded like the Yoos’ daughter, Mary. Teresa stood still. She definitely couldn’t pee. Noises—boxes being moved?—came from the shed. Then the same voice. “I’m here. Sorry about that.”

A pause. “Just putting some boxes back. You know, my secret stash.” A laugh.

Pause. “God, if they knew, they’d freak out. But they’ll never find it. It’s in a bag, in a box, under other boxes.” Another laugh.

Pause. “Yeah, schnapps is great. But listen, can I pay you next week?”

Pause. “I did get it, but my dad found out, he went totally berserko. I apparently put it back in the wrong spot. I mean, how am I supposed to know he’s totally OCD about the freaking order of the cards in his freaking wallet?” Scoff.

Pause. “No, I’ll find my mom’s and get the cash to pay you back. Next week, I promise.”

Pause. “Okay, bye. Oh, wait. Can I ask a favor?”

Laugh. “Yeah, another favor.” Pause. “Someone’s mailing me some stuff, and I don’t want my parents seeing it. Can I give your address, and you can bring it to class?”

Pause. “No, no. It’s just apartment listings. I’m trying to surprise my parents.” Pause. “Oh, thanks. That’s really cool of you. And listen, have you checked on Wednesday yet? You know, my birthday—” Pause. “Oh, okay. Sure, I understand. For sure. Tell David I said hi.”

There was the clack of a flip phone closing, then Mary impersonating her friend in an exaggerated, whiny singsong, “Oh my God, it’s David, did I mention how much I love David? And no, I can’t come to your birthday dinner because David might call me.” Switch to regular voice. “Bitch.” Sigh. Silence.

Teresa backed away slowly to her van. She closed the door quietly and drove away for a few minutes before stopping. She looked at Rosa, still asleep, her head flopped over like a rag doll’s. Her breaths were deep and even, with a soft rasp on each exhalation—lighter than a snore, gentler than a whistle. Innocent. Sweetly beautiful, like a baby.