The Unraveling of Mercy Louis (36 page)

June 2000

T
HERE'S A PLACE
in Austin that makes me believe in the full-throated freedom of summer, a natural spring in the middle of the city that bubbles up from a hidden place beneath the drought-parched earth, cold and clear and miraculous.

This June Saturday, we pack a picnic lunch and go early to beat the crowds. On our way, Charmaine asks if I'm nervous, and I say yeah, a little. But it's the good kind of nervous, the kind that makes you tingle in anticipation. Today Travis is driving up. He's got orientation at UT this week. He asked to see me, and I said okay.

We spread our towels over the Bermuda grass on the hillside that flanks the pool, slip out of our shoes and shorts, grab our goggles, and scramble to the concrete ledge, where we count three and leap in. My body absorbs the frigid shock of water, the pleasant sensation of dropping down, down, before naturally reversing direction to bob to the surface.

Treading water to secure my goggles, I then pull myself the length of the spring, using the ugly but functional freestyle I developed last winter at the Y, where me and Charmaine swam laps together every morning before she went to her NA meeting and then to work. She thought swimming might help with my arm the way it helped with her cravings, the repetitive strokes a replacement for bringing a longneck or a pipe to her lips.
It's amazing how little you can think about when you're trying to keep yourself from drowning,
she said.

Amazingly, she was right. Where Xanax and therapy had failed, swimming saved me. When I threw myself into the deep end of the pool, I guess my survival instinct kicked in, my arms doing what I told them to simply because I would sink if they didn't. I swam and swam, losing myself in the numbing routine, focusing only on taking a breath every two strokes, kicking my legs, drawing my arms close to my ears and back through the water. Afterward, I showered and caught the city bus to the big high school where Charmaine enrolled me, letting my hair air dry in first period like I used to after morning practice.

After two months of swimming, the twitching stopped. I started playing basketball again, over on the courts by the community college. First just games of horse against myself, then knockout with the middle school kids who showed up after the last bell, then street ball with the men who strapped braces over aging knees but still played fierce.

Through my goggles, I watch fish dart between the fronds of vegetation that grow thick along the rocky bottom of the spring. Each time I turn my head to take a breath, I hear the squeals of children splashing nearby, mothers calling to them, the lifeguard whistle, the groan of the diving board as it releases someone into the air.

I was on the blacktop when the assistant coach from St. Ed's walked by.
What's your name?
he asked after the game.
Mercy Louis,
I said.
I'll be damned,
he said before asking me how I'd feel about being a Hilltopper. I called Charmaine at work, and she met me at his office. We signed the papers that afternoon. There was a time when I would've been disappointed to play D-II ball, but I was so happy dragging the pen across those papers that day, I about kissed the man. When I asked him if there was a team meal plan, he laughed and said,
Girl, this is college, not the army.

When I'm too tired to draw another stroke, I climb the ladder out of the spring and scramble up the hill, where Charmaine is shaking water from her curly hair. She gives me a wet kiss, then pats the towel next to her; I sit and devour a PB and J. Later, dreamy from the sun, I scoot to her and lay my head in her lap like a puppy dog. She brushes my hair away from my forehead and tucks it behind my ear, then strokes my cheek absently with her thumb.

This is how we sat on the chilled pavement of her driveway the night of December 31. Only I shook uncontrollably then, scared the earth would split open and tumble me into hellfire. When the clock struck midnight, though, all we heard were the pop and fizz of bottle rockets, the distant cannon boom of fireworks. Holding tight to Charmaine, I wept with relief.

By that point, two months had passed since I'd left Port Sabine, and I was still a mess, twitching, wrecked over Lucille, missing so much about my old life even though I hated who I had become down there. But one thing emerged with clarity on that cloudless New Year's morning: Maw Maw was wrong. It made me wonder if, when she woke to discover herself in bed in the stilt house, she was sad or glad. And it made me wonder what else she had been wrong about all those years. When we got news of her death, my first thought was that she had done it to spite everyone because she couldn't bear to be wrong. But even Maw Maw didn't have the power to will herself to death, and I realized what I'd failed to see for so many months: that she had been sick and hadn't told me, or anyone, maybe because she was afraid she would pass before the Rapture, or maybe because she saw illness and weakness as the same thing. Sometimes I wonder if she was in pain, and I wish she would have told me so I could have tried to comfort her. But then, she never believed in the power of love or touch unless it was divine. What she didn't understand is that when we hold each other, when we love each other, God feels closer than ever.

Sometimes I miss my grandmother, and when I confess it to Charmaine, she tells me stories about Evelia in the early days, before fear and pride and disappointment ruled her. Like when she found toddler Charmaine hiding behind the Christmas tree, eating all the candy canes, and, instead of scolding, crawled in beside her to eat one, too.

If forgiveness can be found in us, it will be through these small reparations to our memory of Evelia Boudreaux. I know goodness existed in her, and I love her because I've always loved her, and love is not something that you can will away because you no longer want to feel it.

With my eyes closed, I relish Charmaine's fingertips on my brow, the lacy, delicate feel of them. I picture Travis in his truck on the highway. He is coming to me. After so long, me refusing his calls for months out of guilt over Lucille, he is coming. I think of Evangeline and Gabriel and wonder if, when we embrace, the boys playing street ball at Park Terrace will pause at the sound of the wind like lovers' voices through the leaves of the big oak. See, I am ready for my corny story now. A happy heart can stand sentiment better than an unhappy one.

Lazy with contentment, I launch us into another round of our game. “Favorite time of day?” I ask Charmaine.

“Sunrise,” she says. “You?”

“Just after sunset on the blacktop,” I say. “Before the lights kick on. You guide the ball on faith, the bucket just a suggestion.”

“Nice,” she says. “Burger or hot dog?”

“Burger, for sure,” I reply. “Extra ketchup and pickled jalapeños.”

“Mmmm,” she says. “What about hot sausage? I love me some Elgin hot sausage. Does that count?”

“Why not?”

“Favorite word?”

“Hmmm.
Euphoric
?
”

“A real college girl already.”

“Learned it from a friend.
Et toi, maman?
”

“That's the first time you've called me
mother
.”

“It won't be the last. Answer the question.”

“Easy one—
mercy
.”

F
OR WHAT SUCCEEDS
in this novel, I am indebted to a number of generous souls. I thank Rebecca Gradinger for her keen editorial eye, tireless advocacy, and steadfast encouragement. Thanks, too, to Sylvie Greenberg, Grainne Fox, Melissa Chinchillo, Jennifer Herrera, and everyone else at Fletcher and Company. Thank you to Maya Ziv for believing in this book when it was just a will-o'-the-wisp idea I was chasing, and for shepherding the eventual manuscript through every step of the publication process so graciously and thoughtfully. I'm grateful to my team at Harper: Gregory Henry, Katie O'Callaghan, Amanda Pelletier, and so many others. Huge thanks to my insightful readers: Signe Cohen, Jennifer duBois, Jill Hicks, Aisha Ginwalla, Adam Krause, Marlene Lee, Susan Maxey, Laura McHugh, Rose Metro, Carolyn Nash, Jill Orr, Leah Sanchez, Allison Smythe, Lauren Williams, Michael Robertson, and Mark Viator, who hails from Southeast Texas and told me many colorful stories about the area, traces of which found their way into the book. For providing a beautiful writing refuge when I needed one, I thank Alan and Lori Kehr, Emily Edgington Andrews, Janice Gaston, Steve Weinberg, and Katie Tesoro. In this area, I would like to especially thank my dear neighbors Sarah Wolcott and Andrew Twaddle, for opening their home to me for several months, offering not only a cozy writing office but also interesting conversation and an endless stream of delicious smells wafting from their productive kitchen. Dr. Joel Shenker and Dr. Barbara Bauer helped me understand more about conversion disorder and mass psychogenic illness. Dr. Chris Greenman elucidated the ins and outs of emergency room procedure. Detectives Richard Faithful and Angel Polansky of the Austin Police Department were kind enough to speak with me about Baby Doe cases. Krystle Wattenbarger, MS, RD, CDE, walked me through the basics of type 2 diabetes. Shannon Brown helped me understand more about the legal ramifications of industrial disasters in Texas, and Shane Epping guided me into the mindset of a photographer. Thanks to my students at the Quarry Heights Writers' Workshop and Louisiana State University, who inspire me. Finally, thank you to my family: Michael, my true love; Malcolm Fionn, my sweet, scrumptious boy; Mom, Dad, Malcolm Lee, Janice, John, Laura, and the Settles and Sloan families. Your love and support give me strength, joy, and purpose.

KEIJA PARSSINEN
is the author of
The Ruins of Us
, which won a Michener-Copernicus award, was chosen by Don George as
National Geographic Traveler
's Book of the Month, and was a 2012 Ingram Book Club pick. A graduate of Princeton University and the Iowa Writers' Workshop, where she was a Truman Capote Fellow, Parssinen was a visiting professor of creative writing at Louisiana State University in 2014. She grew up in Saudi Arabia and Texas, and now directs the Quarry Heights Writers' Workshop in Columbia, Missouri, where she lives with her husband and son.

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The Ruins of Us

COVER DESIGN BY MILAN BOZIC

COVER PHOTOGRAPHS © SADEUGRA / GETTY IMAGES
(HANDS); VEENA NAIR / GETTY IMAGES (BRACELETS);

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE UNRAVELING OF MERCY LOUIS
. Copyright © 2015 by Keija Parssinen. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

“Slam Dunk and Hook” from
Pleasure Dome: New and Collected Poems
© 2001 by Yusef Komunyakaa. Reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press.

Scripture quotations are from the ESV
^®
Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version
^®
), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

FIRST EDITION

EPub Edition March 2015 ISBN 9780062319111

ISBN: 978-0-06-231909-8

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