by Angie Kim
No. She couldn’t not show up tonight. She couldn’t let that hateful, smug, so-called ProudAutismMom think that she’d won. She couldn’t give that bully the satisfaction of thinking she’d been shamed into hiding. And it was more than that. Now that the call with Kitt had popped her bubble of impulsivity for good and she was no longer giddy, she could see: her canceling everything left and right on a moment’s whim, without consulting any of Henry’s teachers—it was rash, irresponsible, downright cocky. And canceling HBOT tonight, with no way of getting any money back—what sense did that make? It wasn’t as if HBOT was harmful. Since she’d already paid the hundred bucks, why not do one more dive? Finish out the day, endure the driving one more time, which, knowing it was her last, might heighten her anticipation and bring closure. She could even sit out the dive, ask the others to supervise—Kitt had done that once when she was sick—and go to the creek to really mull things over in total peace and make sure she was making the right decision. And best of all, she’d pass by that silver-haired woman. She’d tell her she knew all about her plans, the CPS call, and if she didn’t stop, she’d file a complaint against her for harassment.
Elizabeth looked at the place setting for two already on the table, the crystal glass next to the chilled wine, and slid the serving spatula under the pizza slice on Henry’s plate. For the next year, every night when she lay down for sleep or sometimes when she woke up in the morning, she’d close her eyes and visualize a parallel-world version of herself doing what she should’ve done in this moment: shake her head, scold herself not to let this stupid woman she’d never see again affect her so much, leave the pizza on the plate, and call Henry to dinner. In this alternate universe, after dinner and wine at home, she’d be curling up with Henry on the sofa marathon-watching Planet Earth when Teresa would call about the fire, and she’d cry for her friends and kiss Henry’s head and thank God she’d decided to stop—and just today!—and months later, driving back from Ruth Weiss’s murder trial, she’d shudder to think how she almost went to that last dive just to spite that woman.
But in this reality, the one she was stuck in, she didn’t leave the pizza on the plate. She kept it on the spatula and—Mistake #4, the Biggest Mistake, the irrevocable act that sealed Henry’s fate, which she’d regret and relive every day of her life, every hour of every day, every minute of every hour, over and over for as long as she lived—she lifted the pizza off the fancy plate and moved it to a paper plate for the car and called out, “Henry, put your shoes on. We’re going for one last submarine ride.” Throwing everything in the car, she felt a pang, thinking of the beautiful table settings, the lights sparkling off the crystals, and she was tempted to turn around right there and go inside, but that woman’s smug smile and stupid silver bob popped up in her mind, taunting her, and she didn’t. She swallowed, told Henry to hurry, and tried to think of tomorrow. Tomorrow, everything would change.
In the meantime, though, she tried to make up for it. She brought wine and chocolates to have by the creek—she’d be too exhausted by 9:30 when she got home for her planned celebratory drink, and she’d be damned if she let those despicable protesters ruin everything. She usually didn’t let Henry watch Barney—“junk food for your brain,” she said, and always had him sit away from the DVD-screen porthole—but as a treat, she arranged for Henry to sit by TJ and watch it. She asked Matt to help Henry, but Matt seemed annoyed and she didn’t want to impose too much, so she crawled in and set everything up, hooking up his oxygen hose to the spigot and putting on his helmet. She told Henry to be good, and she wanted to kiss his cheek and tousle his hair, but his helmet was already on, so she crawled out and walked away. That was the last time she saw Henry alive.
Ten minutes later, sitting by the creek and finally sipping wine, she thought of Henry’s reaction when she said she was sitting out this dive. He was in the helmet he hated—he gagged and said the ring around his neck choked him—and yet his whole face relaxed. He was happy. Relieved. To be free for an hour from her, the mother who was never satisfied, the mother who constantly nagged. She gulped more wine, felt the cool acidity sting then soothe her roughened throat, and she thought how she wanted to rip that helmet off as soon as he came out, how she’d wrap her arms around him and tell him she loved him and she missed him, and she’d laugh and say yes, she knew it was silly to miss him when they were apart for just an hour, but she still did.
Alcohol gushed through her arteries, infusing her pores with warmth, her fingers tingling as if thawing from the inside, and she looked up at the sky, darkening into a dusky violet. Her eyes focused on a puffy cottonball of a cloud, a perfect white like whipped frosting, and she thought how tomorrow, she could bake cupcakes for breakfast. When Henry asked what that was for, she’d laugh and say they were celebrating. She’d say she knew she didn’t show it often, maybe ever, but she treasured him, adored him, and it was that love and the accompanying worry that made her so crazy, and they’d have a new life with much less craziness. Not a perfect life, because nothing and nobody could be perfect, but that was okay because she had him and he had her. And maybe she’d take frosting in her finger and dab it on his nose to be silly, and he’d smile—that huge, little-kid smile of his with the gap in his top teeth, just a sliver of white where the new tooth was growing in—and she’d kiss his cheek, not just peck but really squish her lips into his puffy cheek and squeeze him in her arms and savor the deliciousness for as long as he’d let her.
* * *
NONE OF THAT happened, of course. No cupcake, no kisses, no new tooth. Instead, she identified her son’s corpse, picked out a coffin and gravestone, was arrested for his murder, read op-eds debating whether she belonged in a nuthouse or on death row, and now she was driving a stolen car toward the town where he’d been burned alive because of her.
That was the crazy thing, that it was she—with her pride and hatred and indecision and miserliness—who’d caused Henry’s death. Had she really thought she could claim victory over the protesters by returning for one more dive? And the no-refund hundred dollars she’d prepaid—had her son really died over a hundred bucks? And when she got there and found out the protesters weren’t there anymore, and what’s more, the sessions were delayed and there was no AC, why hadn’t she left right then? And later still, when she found the cigarettes and matches—Smoking! Near pure oxygen!—she should’ve immediately thought of fire. Was it the alcohol she’d already had, or the giddiness of triumph in discovering that the protesters were locked up? She’d warned Pak earlier how dangerous those women were, so why did she assume the most they’d do was start a fire when everyone was gone? Why did she underestimate the lengths to which they might go for their cause?
Elizabeth pulled over and stopped. None of it mattered. There was no parallel universe to teleport to, no time machine to take her back. All this week, when things got too bleak and she wanted everything to end, she’d tried to keep herself going with thoughts of vengeance for Henry, with the anticipation of seeing Shannon take down that vile woman, Ruth Weiss. Now that Shannon was refusing to go after the protesters, what was left to hope for?
She pressed the button that put the top down on Shannon’s car. It was funny—back in the courthouse, she’d wished she had her own car, but now she realized how much better a convertible would be. Less risk of anything going wrong. She thought it’d be cooler here, in the higher elevation of the hills that divided Miracle Creek from Pineburg, but the humidity overtook her quickly with the top down. She unlatched her seat belt and debated whether to move her seat forward or back; on the one hand, moving too close to the airbag was dangerous, but on the other hand, sitting too far back heightened the chance of falling out in a crash. She decided to keep her seat where it was and pulled the seat belt back on—she hated the dinging noise cars made when seat belts were off.
It was all done, it was time to go, but she hesitated. There were so many things she hadn’t considered. What if this didn’t work? Or what if it did, and Shannon
kept on trying to clear her name and brought up that horrible insinuation about Victor and the scratches? What if Abe decided to go after Pak in her absence? Should she—
Elizabeth shut her eyes tight and shook her head. She needed to stop this nonsense and effing act already. The fact was, she was a coward. She was an inhibited ball of indecision who didn’t trust her instincts and hid her cowardice under a guise of deliberation. This was the real reason Henry was dead: she knew she should stop HBOT but she was afraid to, and she waited as always to make sure she didn’t forget anything, make her stupid pro/con list, think of every contingency. She hurt her own son, abused him and made him believe she hated him, and forced him into a chamber to burn while she sipped wine and popped bonbons in her mouth. It was time to unpause her plan and do what she knew she had to do, what she’d known for the last year she had to do, with no pros or cons, no analysis, no hesitation.
Elizabeth clutched the steering wheel and started driving. Her fingers pulsed against the leather as she turned to keep the car from veering into the guardrail and trees lining the road. The bright yellow CAUTION sign came into view, which meant the spot was just up ahead. The first time she drove by it, she’d felt that strange pull, like when you stand near a cliff’s edge and have the urge to jump. She’d seen the curve, the sudden clearing of trees, the guardrail crumpled and bent down, almost like a ramp into empty space, and she’d thought how easy it’d be to let go, just go straight and fly into the sky.
She slowed down to turn with the road, and saw it straight ahead. She was afraid they’d have fixed it by now, but it was still there. The bent spot in the guardrail. The gray metal crushed flat like a ramp. A bright beam of sun hit it like a spotlight, as if summoning her, wooing her. She pressed the button to unbuckle her seat belt, and she felt her heart pounding in her wrists, on the undersides of her knees, against her skull. She pushed the accelerator, all the way down. She saw it then. Beyond the curve, a round fluffy cloud with a dark spot in the middle, like the one she’d pointed out to Henry last summer and he’d laughed and said, “It looks like my mouth, with my missing tooth!” and she’d laughed back, amazed—he was right, it did look like his mouth—and lifted him up in the air, hugging him tight and kissing the dimple on his cheek.
In front of the cloud, the heat and sunlight created undulating waves in the air. Like an invisible curtain in the sky—inviting her, welcoming her, to flight, to fire. She leaned forward, and as the tires thunked onto the flattened guardrail, she saw the bright, beautiful valley below, shimmering in the sunlight, like a mirage.
PAK
HE HATED WAITING. Whether for the water to boil or a meeting to start, waiting meant being dependent on something outside his control, and rarely had that been as true as today, being stuck at home with no car, no phone, and no idea where Young was. After he and Mary finished burning everything, there was nothing to do, so they’d sat, waiting and drinking barley tea. Or rather, he had. Mary had poured herself some, too, but she hadn’t drunk any. She stared at the mug as if at a TV screen, blowing once in a while, making ripples in the amber liquid, and he thought about saying it wasn’t hot, hadn’t been for an hour, but he said nothing. He understood her need to break the oppressiveness of waiting, just waiting, and he wished he could pace. That was the thing—one of the many things—about being paralyzed: you couldn’t exactly wheel yourself back and forth to satisfy the achy craving for motion you got during stifling periods of stillness like this.
When Young finally walked in at 2:30, a surge of relief engulfed him. Relief that she’d returned, and alone, not with the police. (He’d told Mary not to be afraid, Young would never report them, but at the sight of her, he realized he hadn’t been quite sure of that.) “Yuh-bo, where have you been?” he said.
She didn’t answer him, didn’t even look at him, just sat with a cold steadiness that sent panic tingling in his chest.
“Yuh-bo,” he said, “we’ve been worried. Did you see anyone? Talk to anyone?”
She looked at him then. If she’d looked hurt or scared, he could’ve dealt with that. If she’d yelled, furious and hysterical—that, he’d prepared for. But this woman with a blank face like a mannequin—her features austere, her mouth unmoving—was not his wife of twenty years. It scared him, seeing this face he knew so well and yet didn’t recognize.
“Tell me everything,” she said, her voice like her face: flat, with none of the singsong up-and-down of emotion that, now it was gone, he realized formed its essence.
He swallowed and forced composure into his voice. “You already know everything. You overheard me telling Mary before you ran off. Where did you go?”
Young didn’t answer, didn’t seem to even hear his question. She fixed her eyes on his, and he felt heat, like a laser beam cutting into his eyes, his brain. “You need to look me in the eye and tell me everything. The truth this time.”
He was hoping she’d talk first, that she’d unload her anger by saying exactly what she’d heard, so he could tailor his story. But it was clear. She wasn’t going to talk. He nodded and put his hands on the table—the same spot where, just last night, she’d thrown the bag from the shed and he’d been forced to create plausible-sounding stories on the spot. After this morning, she had to be thinking those were all lies. He had to start there.
“I lied last night,” he said. “The Seoul listings weren’t for my brother. It was for us, to move to after the fire. I’m sorry I lied. I wanted to protect you.”
He expected her to soften at this show of vulnerability and atonement. But if anything, her eyes hardened, her pupils contracting into pinpoints of pure black, making him feel like a criminal. He reminded himself that this was his goal, for her to believe he was the villain, and continued with the mix of truth and lies he’d decided on. He said he called a Realtor and realized they couldn’t afford to move back. He said he decided on arson to get the needed money and called (on someone else’s phone, in case of an investigation) to verify the arson provision.
The part about the protesters was easier—truth always was—and he told her about that day: his frustration with the police for doing nothing, leading to his balloon power-outage plan; his temporary relief after its success, but that woman calling and threatening to return and cause more trouble; his decision to plant a cigarette exactly where their flyer said, to frame them and get them into real trouble so they’d stay away for good.
A few times, he tried to catch Mary’s eyes to warn her not to contradict him, but her gaze was still fixed on the full tea mug. When he was done talking, there was a long silence before Young said, “There’s nothing you left out? That’s really the whole truth?” Her face was composed, but there was pleading in her voice, a core of sadness wrapped by desperate hope, and he wished he could say of course not, she knew him, knew he wasn’t a man who’d endanger people’s lives for money.
But he didn’t. Some things were more important than honesty, even with your wife. He said, “Yes, it’s the whole truth,” and told himself it was for her own good. If she knew the real truth, the entire truth, that would devastate her. He had to protect her. That was his job, his highest duty, as head of the family: protect his family, no matter what. Even if that meant having the woman he loved consider him a callous criminal. Besides, he was responsible. He’d created the plan to frame the protesters for attempted arson. That day, as he lit the cigarette, watching the smoke swirl up from the red tip, his heart had thudded wildly, nervously, picturing pure oxygen flowing mere centimeters away, but he’d still gone ahead, sure he’d thought of everything and nothing would go wrong. Hubris. The worst sin.
Young blinked—rapidly, as if trying not to cry—and said, “So it was all you? You did everything with no help, no involvement from anyone else?”
He forced himself to keep his eyes focused on Young. “Yes. No one else knew. I knew what I was doing was dangerous, and I didn’t want anyone involved. Everything, I did alone.”
“You took Matt’s phone
and called the insurance company?”
“Yes,” he said.
“You called the Realtor about Seoul?”
“Yes.”
“You hid the listings in the shed?”
He nodded.
“You bought Camels and hid them in the tin case?”
Pak nodded, kept nodding as the questions kept coming with shorter pauses between, feeling like one of those bobblehead dolls. It made him nervous, her asking only about the things he’d lied about. And asking leading questions, like Shannon in court—was she goading him into a trap?
“And you meant for the cigarette to actually start a fire? You were really trying to get insurance, not just get the protesters in trouble?”
He felt dizzy, like he’d fallen underwater and he couldn’t figure out which way was up. “Yes,” he managed to say. Softly. Barely audible, even to him.
Young closed her eyes, her face pale and still, and he thought of a corpse. Without opening her eyes, she said, “I came back just now, thinking maybe, just maybe, you’d be honest with me. That’s why I didn’t tell you what I found out. I wanted to give you a chance to tell me yourself. I don’t know whether to be impressed or upset that you’ve put so much effort into making up such a complicated story to deceive me.”
All the air seemed to go out of the room. He breathed in and tried to think. What did she find out? What could she know? She was bluffing, had to be. She had suspicions, that was all, and he needed to maintain his stance. Silence and denial. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve confessed everything. What more do you want from me?”
She opened her eyes. Slowly, as if they were heavy curtains being raised one millimeter at a time for dramatic effect. She looked at him. “The truth,” she said. “I want the truth.”
“I’ve given you the truth.” He tried to sound indignant, but his words sounded weak and distant, as if someone said them far away, and what came through his lips was an echo.
