Miracle Creek(91)

Rosa and Mary were the same age. If Rosa hadn’t gotten the virus that ravaged her brain, was that what she’d be doing—drinking, conspiring with frenemies, stealing her money, all the things mothers prayed their kids would never do? Well, Rosa never would—prayer answered, lifetime guarantee. So why could she not stop herself from sobbing?

The thing was, it was the unexpected, unenviable things about others’ lives that got to her most. People’s picture-perfect portrayals of their lives in holiday cards with those braggy collages (son in soccer uniform holding trophy, daughter holding violin and medal, parents in teeth-baring smiles advertising their oh-so-happiness) and braggy letters (“Just a sampling of my amazing kids’ most amazing achievements!”)—those, she could dismiss as fake.

But the ordinary, even bad stuff that went uncelebrated but defined life with growing kids—the eye-rolls, the door slams, the “You’re ruining my life!”—the loss of those things was what she grieved. She didn’t expect to; when Carlos started with the teenage near-bipolar nonsense, she’d even thought, Thank God Rosa’s not like this. But it was like multiple night feedings with newborns—yes, it was horrible, and yes, you prayed for it to stop, but not really. Because that was a sign of normalcy, and as bad as it could get, normalcy was a beautiful thing to those who lost it. So now, the fact that she’d never catch Rosa stealing a twenty from her wallet or sneaking liquor or saying “bitch” behind someone’s back—it gnawed at her insides and sent cramps throbbing through her gut. She wanted all that, and she hated that the Yoos had it, and she wanted to drive away and never see them again.

But she didn’t, of course. She drove back to HBOT and smiled at Young and Pak and got in the chamber. Kitt wasn’t coming (TJ was sick) and neither was Matt (stuck in traffic, apparently, which was strange given her no-traffic commute), so it was just her and Elizabeth. As soon as the hatch closed, Elizabeth said to her, “Are you okay? Is anything wrong?”

Teresa said, “Sure. I mean, no, nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired.” She stretched her lips, willed the corners to bend upward toward her ears. It was hard to remember the muscle movements to form a natural-looking smile when you were trying not to cry, when you were swallowing and blinking and thinking, Oh please, think about anything other than how life is shitty and this is how you might feel the rest of your life.

“Okay,” Elizabeth said. “Okay.” The way she said “Okay” twice—trying not to sound hurt, like a girl being told all the lunch-table seats were taken—made Teresa want to confide in her. Or maybe it was the chamber. The empty darkness with the DVD’s flickering light and the narrator’s lulling voice—it felt like a confessional. Teresa stopped swallowing and blinking, scooted away from the kids, and started talking.

She told Elizabeth about her day, about the back-to-back therapy sessions and Rosa falling asleep and the pee jar. She told her about twelve years ago, how she’d said good night to a healthy five-year-old girl, gone on a two-day trip, and returned to find her in a coma. She told her how she’d blamed her (now ex-)husband for taking Rosa to the mall, not washing her hands, giving her undercooked chicken, and on and on. She told her how the doctors said Rosa would probably die, and if she didn’t, there’d be brain damage, severe and irreversible.

Death versus cerebral palsy and mental retardation. Not death, please not death, nothing else matters, she’d prayed. But for the tiniest, most minuscule of moments, she’d thought about lifelong brain damage. Her little girl, gone, but her physical shell there as a reminder of her absence. Nursing her full-time, normal life broken like a twig. No job, no friends, no retirement.

“It’s not that I wanted her dead. Of course not. Just thinking about that, I can’t even…” Teresa shut her eyes to squeeze out the terrifying thought. “I prayed for her to live, and she did. I was so grateful—I am. But…”

“But you wonder if that was the right thing to pray for,” Elizabeth said.

Teresa nodded. Rosa’s death would have destroyed her, demolished her life. But she would’ve had the luxury of finality, of lowering the coffin and saying good-bye. And eventually, she’d have risen and rebuilt her life. This way, she was left standing, but in a purgatory state of descent, being whittled away, bit by bit, day by day. Was that better? “What mother thinks this way?” Teresa said.

“Oh, Teresa, you’re a good mom. You’re just having a bad day.”

“No, I’m a bad person. Maybe the kids would be better off with Tomas.”

“Stop, you’re being ridiculous,” Elizabeth said. “Look, it’s hard. It’s hard being a mom to kids like ours. I mean, I know Kitt says I have it easy, but it doesn’t feel easy, you know? I worry all the time, and I drive everywhere, trying one thing after another, and this double dive…” She shook her head and choked out a bitter laugh. “God, I hate it. I’m exhausted. So if I feel like that, I can’t imagine how you must feel, having to deal with so much more. I mean it, I don’t know how you do it. I’m in awe of you, and Kitt is, too. You’re an amazing mom, so patient and gentle with Rosa, the way you’ve sacrificed your whole life for her. That’s why everyone calls you Mother Teresa.”

“Well, now you know. It’s just an act.” Teresa blinked and felt hot tears wetting her cheeks, the familiar shame. Mother Teresa—what a joke. “God, what’s wrong with me? I can’t believe I told you all this. I’m sorry, I—”