Miracle Creek

by Angie Kim

  Patients. Let them out. Barn.

  Those words whirled around her head like a cyclone, sending her spinning. She turned. Ran, as fast as her legs would move. Please, God, please let the fire have gone out. Let it have been a dream, a nightmare. Let her have misunderstood her father’s words. How could there be patients in the barn? The last dive was over long ago, Janine confirmed it. The AC was off. The lights were off. The cars were gone. What was happening?

  She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t run anymore, the rice alcohol was creeping up and burning her throat and the ground was moving up and down like waves and she was going to fall and somewhere in the distance her mother was calling out her name, but she kept running. Approaching the barn, she saw: the lights were out. Parking lot, empty. AC, off. It was quiet, so quiet, she couldn’t hear anything, except … oh God, there was noise coming from inside the barn, a faint sound like someone hammering, and from behind the barn, the crackle of flames, eating away at the wood. Smoke was rising from behind the barn, and when she turned the corner to face the back wall, she felt the fire, hot on her face, so hot she couldn’t get closer even though her brain was screaming at her to get right up next to it, to throw herself on the wall and use her body to put out the fire.

  She heard her mother’s voice, calling her, saying “Meh-hee-yah.” Quietly. Gently. She turned and saw her mother gaze at her, her unblinking eyes drinking her in as if she hadn’t seen her in years. Just before the boom, before she felt herself lift up in the air, she saw her mother walking to her, her arms wide open. She wanted to run to her. To hug her and ask her to hold her tight and make everything okay again. The way she used to when she was a little girl, when her mother was her Um-ma.

  YOUNG

  AS SOON AS YOUNG SAID THE WORDS accusing her daughter of murder, Mary looked up and met her eyes, the scrunched wrinkles on her face relaxing into the smoothness of relief. Finally, the truth.

  Pak broke the silence. “That’s crazy.”

  Young didn’t look at him, couldn’t stop looking into her daughter’s eyes and drinking in what she saw there: a need for her, a longing to connect, to confide. How long had it been since they’d had real intimacy, contact beyond the fleeting glances they exchanged while discussing the logistics of everyday life? It was strange, almost magical, how this connection changed everything. Even the difference in their language—Young and Pak speaking in Korean, with Mary responding in English, as always—which had felt awkward in the past, now added to their intimacy, as if they’d created their own private language.

  Pak said, “What exactly are you saying? You think we conspired? I set everything up and asked Mary to do the most dangerous part?”

  “No,” Young said. “I considered that, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized—you’d never start a fire with people inside. I know you. You could never be that callous with people’s lives.”

  “But Mary could?”

  “No. I know she’d never risk people’s lives.” She stroked Mary’s face, just the gentlest touch to let her know she understood. “But if she thought the barn was empty, if she thought the dives were done and no one was inside…”

  The creases remaining on Mary’s face vanished altogether, and tears pooled in her eyes. Gratefulness that her mother knew and, more than that, understood. Forgave.

  Young reached to wipe away Mary’s tears. “That’s why you kept saying how quiet it was. You kept repeating it after you woke up, and the doctors thought you were reliving the explosion, but that wasn’t it at all. You were wondering how people could’ve been inside and the oxygen on when everything was off. You didn’t know about the power outage.”

  “I’d been away all day,” Mary said, her voice sounding crusty as if she hadn’t spoken in days. “By the time I got back, the parking lot was empty. I was sure the dives were over. I thought the oxygen was off and the building was empty.”

  “Of course you did,” Young said. “The earlier dive was delayed, so the lot was full and the last group had to park down the road. When the earlier patients left, the lot became empty. How could you have known?”

  “I should’ve checked the other lot. I knew they parked there that morning, but…” Mary shook her head. “None of that matters. I set the fire. It wasn’t an accident. I did it. I meant to do it. It’s all my fault.”

  “Meh-hee-yah,” Pak said. “Don’t say that. It’s not your fault—”

  “Of course it’s her fault,” Young said. Pak looked at her, his mouth open in shock as if to say, How dare you say that? She said to Mary, “I’m not saying you intended for people to die, or even that you could’ve foreseen it. But your actions have consequences, and you’re responsible for them. I know you know that. I’ve seen you, how tortured you’ve been, all your tears. It’s been killing you, going to court, seeing how your choices have destroyed so many lives.”

  Mary nodded, a fresh wave of relief flooding her face at this acknowledgment of her culpability. Young understood—sometimes, when you were guilty of something, others’ pretense that you weren’t responsible was the unbearable part. It was infantilizing, demeaning.

  “When I first woke up in the hospital,” Mary said, “I thought maybe I imagined the whole thing. It wasn’t that I didn’t remember. I had a clear memory of that night—something happened earlier and I was really upset, more than I’ve ever been, and I was walking by the barn, and a cigarette and matches were right there. I didn’t plan to do anything, but when I saw that, it was like … like fate, like that was exactly what I wanted to do right then, just burn it down and destroy it, and it felt so good when I started the fire. I stayed there watching it and feeding the flames and making sure the barn caught on fire.” Mary looked at her. “But I was so confused because I didn’t think the oxygen tank would explode when it’s shut off, so I kept thinking, it must have been a dream, like the coma messed with my memory. And that made sense, because why would a cigarette have been right there?”

  “So that’s why you never came forward? You really didn’t know?” Young said, careful to keep doubt out of her voice. She could see how much Mary wanted to believe this, that she’d honestly dismissed her memory as fake until Pak confirmed today that the cigarette was real and told her how it came to be there.

  Mary looked away, toward a square of bright blue out their faux window. She breathed in deeply and looked at Pak, then Young, and smiled a sad little smile. “No, I knew that was”—she shook her head—“just me being stupid. I knew it really happened.”

  “So why did you not come forward?” Young said. “Why did you not tell me or your father right away?”

  She bit her lip. “I was going to. The day after I woke up, when Abe came to visit. But before I could, you told me about Elizabeth, how they had all this proof she planned to kill Henry, and I thought, she must be the one. She built the mound of twigs. She put the cigarette and matches there. I figured she ran away after she lit it, so she wouldn’t be nearby when the tank blew up, but the cigarette went out by accident before I found it, maybe a strong gust of wind. And it made me feel so much better, like I didn’t really start the fire. Elizabeth did, she’s the one to blame, and my relighting the cigarette was more a technicality, just allowing it to continue doing what Elizabeth meant for it to do.”

  Young said, “So that’s how you made peace with her being on trial?”

  Mary nodded. “I told myself she was guilty. She deserved it because she meant to do it and would have if the cigarette hadn’t happened to go out. I figured, she probably didn’t even realize anyone intervened at all. For all she knew, her plan worked, and everything that happened was what she planned. It made me feel less guilty, but then…” Mary closed her eyes and sighed.

  “But then you saw her this week.”

  Mary nodded and opened her eyes. “It wasn’t like what Abe said at all. There were so many questions at trial, and it occurred to me for the first time: What if she’s not the one? What if someone else set everything up,
and she had nothing to do with the fire?”

  “So you didn’t realize she might be innocent until this week?” This was what Young had guessed, hoped, but it was important to verify this, that her daughter hadn’t hurt an innocent woman on purpose.

  “No. Just yesterday, I started thinking it might be”—Mary bit her lip, shook her head—“some other person, but I still thought Elizabeth was the most likely one. But then this morning, Ap-bah told me it was him. That was the first time I knew it wasn’t her.”

  “And you?” Young turned to Pak. “When did you realize it was Mary? How long have you been covering for her?”

  “Yuh-bo, I thought it was Elizabeth. All this time, I was convinced she came across my setup and started the fire. But last night, when you showed me the stuff from the shed, I got so confused. I started getting suspicious, but I couldn’t figure out how Mary could possibly fit into all this. It scared me, just thinking about it, so I covered for her. She saw the bag from the shed when she came in, and she told me everything this morning. That’s when I told her that I left the cigarette, not Elizabeth. That’s when you heard us.”

  Everything made sense now. All the pieces fit so elegantly. But what was the picture they formed? What was the solution?

  As if in answer, Mary said, “I know I need to tell Abe everything. I almost did it earlier this week, in his office, but I kept thinking about the death penalty, and I was so scared, and I…” Mary’s face contorted into a mass of shame and regret. Fear.

  “Nothing will happen to you,” Pak said. “I’ll come forward if she’s found guilty.”

  “No,” Young said. “Mary needs to confess. Now. Elizabeth is innocent. She lost her child, and she’s on trial for killing him. No one deserves that kind of pain.”

  Pak shook his head. “We’re not talking about some innocent mother who’s done no wrong. You don’t know what I know about her. She may not have set the fire, but she—”

  “I know what you’re going to say. I know you overheard her saying she wants Henry to die, but I talked to Teresa, and she explained it. She didn’t really mean that. They were just talking about feelings every mother has, feelings I’ve had—”

  “That you want your child to die?”

  Young sighed. “We all have thoughts that shame us.” She took Mary’s hand and knitted their fingers together. “I love you, and in the hospital, I ached, seeing you in pain. I would’ve changed places with you if I could. But in a way, I loved that time. For the first time in so long, you needed me and let me care for you and hold you without pushing me away, and I…” Young bit her lip. “I secretly wished you wouldn’t get better and we could stay a little longer.”

  Mary closed her eyes, and pooled tears slid down her cheeks. Young grasped her hand tighter and continued. “And I don’t know how many times we argued and, just for a minute, I wished you’d disappear from my life, and I’m sure you’ve thought the same about me. But if that were to actually happen, that’d be unbearable. And if someone were to discover those worst moments and blame me for my child’s death … I don’t know how I could live with myself.” She looked at Pak. “That’s what we’re putting Elizabeth through. We have to end it. Now.”

  Pak wheeled away to the window. The cutout was above his head, so he couldn’t look outside, but he sat there, facing the wall. After a minute, he said, “If we do this, we need to say I started the fire, alone. Mary wouldn’t have done anything if I hadn’t put the cigarette there. It’s only right that I take the blame.”

  “No,” Young said. “Abe will connect Mary to the cigarettes, the Seoul apartments—everything will come out. It’s better to come clean now. It was an accident. He’ll see that.”

  “You keep saying it was an accident,” Mary said, “but it wasn’t. I set the fire on purpose.”

  Young shook her head. “You didn’t mean to hurt or kill anyone. You didn’t plan anything. You started the fire on impulse, in the heat of the moment. I don’t know if that matters in American law, but it does to me. It sounds human. Understanda—”

  “Shhhh,” Pak said. “Someone’s here. I heard a car door.”

  Young rushed to peer out over Pak’s head. “It’s Abe.”

  “Remember, keep quiet for now. No one is to say anything,” Pak said, but Young ignored him and opened the door. “Abe,” she called out.

  Abe didn’t say anything, just kept walking until he was inside. His face was flushed, the tight coils of his hair beaded with sweat. He looked at each of them in turn.

  “What is wrong?” Young said.

  “It’s Elizabeth,” he said. “She’s dead.”

  * * *

  ELIZABETH, DEAD. But she just saw her, talked to her. How could she be dead? When? Where? Why? But she couldn’t say anything, couldn’t move.

  “What happened?” Pak asked. His voice was shaky, sounded distant.

  “A car accident. A few miles away. There’s a curve with a broken guardrail, and the car went off the road. She was by herself. We think…” Abe paused. “It’s early yet, but there are reasons to suspect suicide.”

  It was strange, how she could hear her own gasp and feel her knees buckle and know she was surprised, shocked even, and yet she wasn’t. It was suicide, of course it was. The look on Elizabeth’s face, the way her voice sounded—full of regret, yet resolute. In hindsight—and if she was being honest, even at the time—it was obvious.

  “I saw her,” Young said. “She said she was sorry. She asked me”—she peered at Pak—“please apologize to Pak.” A look of shame coated his ashen face.

  “What? When was this? Where?” Abe said.

  “In the courthouse. Maybe 12:30.”

  “That’s right around when she left. And if she apologized … that makes sense.” Abe shook his head. “She had sort of a breakdown in court today, and, well, she apparently wanted to plead guilty. My guess is she felt too guilty to continue with the trial. And given that Pak was who her lawyers were blaming, it fits that she would’ve felt especially guilty toward him.”

  Elizabeth, guilty toward Pak. Dead because of that guilt.

  “So this means the case ended?” Pak said.

  “The trial’s obviously over,” Abe said, “and we’re searching for a note or something more by way of a definitive confession. Her apology to you, Young, would certainly weigh in on that. But…” Abe glanced at Mary.

  “But what?” Pak said.

  Abe blinked a few times, then said, “We have to follow up on some things before the case is officially closed.”

  “What things?” Pak said.

  “Loose ends, some new information Matt and Janine just gave us.” His tone was casual, like this wasn’t serious, but it made Young nervous, the way he focused on Mary, as if to gauge her reaction. And the way he emphasized “Matt and Janine”—there was subtext there. A secret message that, based on the way she blushed, Mary understood.

  “Anyway,” Abe said, “I’ll arrange to have you all come in for some questions. In the meantime, I know this is shocking and a lot to absorb. But hopefully, you and all the other victims can find some peace and move forward.”

  Victims. The word grated at Young, and she forced herself not to wince. Her legs felt weak. Achy, like she’d been standing for hours.

  Once Abe left, Young leaned against the door, her forehead on the rough, unfinished wood. She closed her eyes and remembered meeting Elizabeth in the courthouse, just a few hours ago. She’d figured out by then that it was Mary, had known that Elizabeth was innocent. She could see that Elizabeth was feeling ashamed and alone, and she let her apologize to her and said nothing. For all her talk of how they should confess immediately and save Elizabeth from one more moment’s torture, when given the opportunity to take action, to tell Elizabeth the truth, Young didn’t. She ran away. And Elizabeth died.

  Behind her, Pak sighed, long and heavy, again and again, as if he was having trouble drawing oxygen into his lungs. After a minute, Pak started speaking, back in Korean aga
in. “None of us could’ve known…” His voice broke. After another minute, he cleared his throat. “Maybe we should talk to Matt and Janine, find out what Abe was talking about. If we can get through this one last thing, maybe…”

  Young felt a tickle in her throat. Soft at first, then building as Pak continued talking about what they needed to say to Abe, and she couldn’t stand it anymore, she needed to laugh or sob or both. She clenched her hands into fists, shut her eyes tight, and screamed like Elizabeth had in court—was that just this morning?—until her throat hurt and she ran out of breath. She opened her eyes and turned. She looked at Pak, this man who hadn’t taken even five minutes to mourn Elizabeth’s death before planning the logistics of their cover-up, and said, back in Korean, “We did this. We killed Elizabeth, we pushed her to kill herself. Do you even care?”

  Pak looked away, his face crumpled up in so much shame that it pained her to look at him. Beside him, Mary was crying. She said, “Don’t blame Ap-bah. It was my fault. I set the fire and killed people. I should have come forward right away, but I kept saying nothing. And now, Elizabeth is dead, too. I did this.”

  “No,” Pak said to Mary, “you kept silent because you thought Elizabeth set up the fire to kill Henry. This morning, as soon as you found out she didn’t, you wanted to go to Abe. If I hadn’t stopped you…” Pak’s voice trailed off. He shut his eyes tight and clenched his teeth, as if it took all his effort to keep his face from crumbling.

  “We can all make excuses,” Young said. “Until this morning, you both thought Elizabeth was guilty in her own way and deserved to be punished. And maybe, given the way everything unfolded, that’s even understandable. But that doesn’t change the fact that we all lied—to each other and to Abe. We’ve been lying about so many things for a year, deciding for ourselves what’s just or not, what’s relevant or not. We’re all to blame.”