Miracle Creek(93)

She felt silly now. What was she doing, getting a girl in trouble for doing stupid things all teenagers did? “Nothing. She was just moving boxes around. You know how kids are, they like having secret places to hide stuff. Carlos does the same—”

“Hide? Which box?”

“I don’t know. I was outside, and I heard her tell someone on the phone she had a secret stash in some box.”

“Stash? Drugs?” Young’s eyes widened.

“No, nothing like that. It was probably just money. She said something about Pak catching her taking cards from his wallet, so—”

“Card from wallet? Pak catch?” Young’s face blanched, like a photo transforming into sepia with the click of a button. It was obvious: Pak never told Young about Mary stealing money. Despite herself, Teresa felt a tinge of satisfaction at this additional proof of imperfection in Young’s life. She felt a pinch of shame, and said, “Young, don’t worry about this. Kids do this kind of thing. Carlos takes money from my wallet all the time.”

Young looked dazed, too upset to say anything.

“Young, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you all this. It’s not a big deal. Please forget about it. Mary’s a good kid. I don’t know if she ever told you, but last summer, she was working with a Realtor to find an apartment for you guys, as a surprise, which I think is so thoughtful and—”

Young grabbed her arm tight, nails digging in. “Apartment? In Seoul?”

“What? I mean, I don’t know, but why in Seoul? I assumed it was around here.”

“But you do not know this? You did not see?”

“No, she just said apartment listings, she didn’t say where.”

Young closed her eyes. Her grip on Teresa’s arm tightened, and she seemed to sway.

“Young? Are you okay?”

“I think…” Young opened her eyes and blinked a few times. She tried to smile. “I think I am sick also. I must go home. Please, tell Abe we are sorry to be absent today.”

“Oh, no. Do you want me to drive you? I have time.”

Young shook her head. “No, Teresa. You helped me so much. You are a good friend.” Young held her hand and squeezed, and Teresa felt shame spread through her body, a desperation to do whatever she could to relieve Young’s pain.

When Young was halfway down the aisle, Teresa called out, “I almost forgot to tell you.” Young turned. “I heard earlier, Abe said whoever used Matt’s phone to make the arson call speaks English with no accent. So Pak’s in the clear.”

Young’s mouth opened and her brow crumpled into a frown. Her eyes darted side to side and she said, “No accent?” as if she didn’t know those words and she was asking the tables in front what they meant, but then her frown dissolved and eyes stilled. She closed them, and her mouth twitched as if she was about to smile or cry, Teresa couldn’t tell which.

“Young? Are you all right?” Teresa stood to go to her, but Young opened her eyes and shook her head, as if pleading with her not to come. Without saying anything, Young turned her back to Teresa and walked out the door.





ELIZABETH





SHE FOUND HERSELF in an unfamiliar room, sitting on a hard chair. Where was she? She didn’t think she’d been asleep or unconscious, but she couldn’t remember getting here, the way you feel when you’re driving home and you suddenly find yourself in your garage, unable to remember the actual drive.

She looked around. The room was tiny, its four folding chairs and TV-tray-sized table taking up half the space. Plain gray walls. Shut door. No windows, vents, or fans. Was she locked up in some holding cell? A mental-ward unit? Why was it so hot and airless? She felt dizzy, couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, a memory: Henry saying, “Henry too hot. Henry can’t breathe.” When was that? He must’ve been five, when he was still mixing up pronouns and couldn’t use “I.” This was how it had been since he died: everything she saw or heard, even things having nothing to do with Henry, exhumed some memory of him and sent her reeling.

She tried to push it away, but the image came anyway: Henry in his Elmo swim trunks in a portable infrared sauna. Being inside this room—its heat, smothering austerity, sealed-in cubicle feel—was reminding her of the sauna in her basement. The first time he’d gone in, that’s when he’d said, “Henry too hot. Henry can’t breathe.” She’d tried to be patient, to explain about sweating out toxins, but when he kicked open the door—the brand-new door of the ten-thousand-dollar unit she’d spent God knows how many phone calls convincing Victor they needed—she lost it and screamed, “Goddammit! Now you’ve broken it,” even though she knew it wasn’t broken. Henry started crying, hard, and, looking at his tears mixing with snot into a mask of slime, she felt pure hatred. It was just for a moment, one she’d regret and cry over later, but right then, she hated her five-year-old son. For having autism. For making everything so hard. For making her hate him. “Stop being a crybaby. Right. Fucking. Now,” she said, and slammed the sauna door. He didn’t know what fucking meant, and she never used that word, but there was something so satisfying about saying it, the aggressive percussiveness of the f and k sounds spitting from her mouth, and combined with the slam—that was enough to release her rage and calm her. She wanted to run back and say Mommy was sorry and cradle him, but how could she face him? Better to pretend it never happened, to wait for the half-hour timer to ding, then praise him for being brave, with no mention of the crying or screaming. All the ugliness vaporized away.