by Angie Kim
Teresa motioned to the window. “I moved because I was cold. The sun’s warm here.” She hated how defensive she sounded and, even more, felt.
Young nodded and sat, a hint of disappointment on her face. She was wearing old loafers with the backs folded under her feet, like slippers, as if she’d been too rushed to put her shoes on properly. Her lips were chapped, and crust covered the corners of her eyes.
“Young, are you okay? Where’s Pak? And Mary?”
Young blinked and bit her lip. “They are sick. Their stomach.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I hope they feel better soon.”
Young nodded. “I arrived late. I saw Elizabeth yelling. People there”—she motioned to the back—“they said this means Elizabeth is confessing. She scratched Henry.”
Teresa swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah.”
Young looked relieved. “So you think she is guilty.”
“What? No. There’s a huge difference between scratching and murdering someone. I mean, the scratch could’ve been an accident.” Even as she said this, though, she knew an accident wouldn’t have caused Elizabeth’s breakdown. She could picture it now, Abe pointing to Elizabeth, saying to the jury, “This woman, a violent woman who hurt her son, an unstable woman on the verge of breakdown—we all saw it—on a traumatic day, after the police barged in with child abuse charges, after a huge fight with a friend—is it any stretch to think that this woman, on this day, would simply snap?”
Young said, “If she did child abuse but she did not start the fire, do you think she deserves punishment? Not death penalty, but prison?”
“I don’t know.” Teresa sighed. “She’s lost her only child in a horrific way. The entire world blames her. She’s lost any friend she’s had. She has nothing left in her life. So if all that happened and she didn’t set the fire? I’d say that’s enough punishment for anything she’s done.”
Young’s face turned red and she blinked rapidly to keep back tears that, despite her efforts, were welling in her eyes. “But she wanted Henry to die. I saw his video. What type of mother tells her son she wishes he would die?”
Teresa closed her eyes. That moment in Henry’s video had disturbed her the most, and she’d been fighting not to think about it. “I don’t know why Henry said that, but I can’t believe she ever told him anything like that.”
“But Pak said she said this same thing to you, she wants Henry dead, she has fantasies.”
“Pak? But how…” As she said it, though, the memory she’d been pushing away came to her. Sometimes, I wish Henry was dead. I fantasize about it. Said in whispers in the darkened chamber, with no one nearby, except … “Oh my God, did Henry hear us and tell Pak? But how? He was at the other end of the chamber, watching a video.”
“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.
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—”
“What? No. I’m glad you told me.” Elizabeth touched her arm. “I wish more moms would talk like this. We need to tell each other the ugly stuff, the stuff we’re ashamed of.”
Teresa shook her head. “I can’t imagine what my CP support group would do if they heard this. Kick me out, probably. Other moms just don’t think things like this.”
“Are you kidding?” Elizabeth looked at her. “Come here.” She scooted all the way next to the hatch and intercom, as far away from the kids as possible. She said in a hushed voice, “Remember what Kitt said about TJ and fever?”
Teresa nodded. Kitt had been talking about the phenomenon of some kids’ autism symptoms lessening with high fever, and how TJ stops head banging and even says one-syllable words when he gets sick and how heartbreaking it is when his fever breaks and he reverts. (“It’s wonderful and terrible, seeing this glimpse of who he could be for just a day.”)
Elizabeth continued. “Henry’s the opposite. When he’s sick, he gets completely spacey. Last time, he couldn’t get his words out, even started rocking, which he hadn’t done in a year. I was so scared it was permanent. I freaked out and yelled at him, thinking maybe I could snap him out of it. I even…” Elizabeth looked down and shook her head, as if telling herself no. “Anyway, I had this moment where I thought, why did I have him? If he hadn’t been born, my life would be so much better. I’d be a partner by now, and Victor and I’d still be married, taking vacations around the world. I stopped researching regressions and started looking up islands in Fiji.”
Teresa said, “That’s nothing. It’s like fantasizing about an actor.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Since then, when I’m really frustrated, sometimes I wish he didn’t exist. I once even fantasized about him dying. In some painless way, maybe in his sleep. What would life be like? Would it really be that bad?”
“Mom,” Henry called out. “The DVD’s done. Can you put in another one?”
“Sure, sweetie.” She buzzed Pak, asked for the next DVD, and waited for it to start before whispering to Teresa, “Anyway, my point is, we all have our moments. But they’re just moments, and they pass. At the end of the day, you love Rosa, I love Henry, and we’ve both sacrificed everything and we’d do anything for them. So if a tiny part of us has these thoughts a tiny part of the time, thoughts we shut out as soon as they creep in, is that so bad? Isn’t that just human?”
Teresa looked at Elizabeth, her kind smile that made her wonder if she’d made up the whole story to make Teresa feel better, less alone.
She thought of how life might’ve played out: Rosa’s body, long ago pillaged by maggots, now a pile of bones six feet under. She looked over at Henry and Rosa, sitting together in their fish-tank oxygen helmets, their faces bathed in the glow of the screen. She thought how Rosa would never be like Mary, who by now was probably drinking and stewing over her friend with David and God knows what else. Maybe it was okay that Rosa was sitting here instead, gurgling and laughing at the sounds of dinosaurs.
* * *
BACK ON THAT DAY, and many times since (especially right after Mary awoke from her coma with no brain damage), she’d imagined telling Young about Mary’s misdeeds, the satisfaction she’d feel as Young realized that her flaunted daughter was not the flawless specimen of parental satisfaction she’d portrayed. And now, finally, was the perfect opportunity to tell her, not out of sheer pettiness, but to give context to the I-want-my-child-dead conversation. But she couldn’t do it. She looked at Young’s face, so tired and confused, and she replaced Mary’s name with “a teenager at McDonald’s.”
After Teresa’s story, Young said, “Pak was right. Elizabeth said she wanted Henry to die. How can any mother say this?”
Teresa had told the whole story with no emotion, but now a lump was rising in her throat. She swallowed. “I said it, too, about Rosa. I said it first.”
Young shook her head. “No, you … your situation is very different.”
Different how? she wanted to ask. But she didn’t have to. She knew. What Young thought, what everyone thought: Rosa was better off dead. Not like Henry, whose life was valuable, whose mother shouldn’t be wishing for his death. It was what Detective Heights had said in the cafeteria. Teresa said, “It’s hard when you have a disabled child, of any kind. I don’t think you can understand if you’ve never experienced that.”
