The Unraveling of Mercy Louis by Keija Parssinen

cause some kind of a scene, but instead, Mama sat quietly in the shadow of the Praying Hands memorial with the other people who’d been injured that day, listening as Mayor Sanchez read out the names of the dead while the rest of the town looked on, heads hung in memory or prayer.

    At the end of the ceremony, Mama remarked that Sands hadn’t even bothered to send a representative. “See, Illa?” she said. “This is why I can’t touch that money. Company pays everyone off, and then they can pretend like it never happened. If they started putting those suits in jail, you bet Sands would start giving a damn about safety.” And Illa wanted to say that no, actually, she didn’t see, didn’t understand for a second why Mama wouldn’t use the money her agony had earned her and that they needed so bad. But there was no talking to her; she possessed the stubborn righteousness of the badly wronged.
    What would happen if Illa took the dress to her now, demanded that she put it on, and then drove her downtown? Where would they go? Was there a place left in town where Illa could bear to be seen with her mother? Mama hadn’t died in the explosion, not technically. Her heart still beat inside her body. Her brown hair still grew thick to her shoulders. She still insisted on holding Illa’s hand when they watched rented horror movies together. Initially elated over her mother’s survival, Illa hadn’t acknowledged the change in her mother’s personality. Only when it became clear that Mama didn’t intend to resume the physical therapy to try to walk again did Illa have to face the truth that while her mother hadn’t died in the blast, she hadn’t emerged fully alive, either.
    â€œIlla?” her mother calls now from the bathroom.
    Illa exhales. “Coming,” she answers, leaving the black dress on the hanger but tucking the yearbook under her arm. In the bathroom, she sets it on the counter next to the sink. She helps Mama maneuver from the tub back into the wheelchair, then angles her mother’s arms through the sleeves of her bathrobe. Once Mama is comfortable and clothed, Illa asks: “Were you and Charmaine Boudreaux friends?”
    â€œWhy? Who’s been talking to you?” Her voice is defensive, and Illa notices she’s gripping the wheelchair’s armrests so firmly that the veins in her hands stand out.

    â€œNo one, I just saw that photo in the yearbook.” Mama relaxes her grip on the chair. Illa hesitates but then forges ahead. “So, were you? Friends?”
    â€œWe were,” Mama says. “Some people would say we were good friends.”
    Illa smiles to herself; this seems like the best news. Like maybe because of this history, she and Mercy are destined to be close. “That photo in the yearbook. Why didn’t you ever tell me? You’ve heard me talk about Mercy. You know she’s on the team.”
    â€œI . . . I don’t know . . .” Mama stutters. “I guess I just never thought of it . . . it’s been such a long time . . .”
    â€œWhat was her deal?” For years, Illa’s wanted to know more about Mercy, and all along, Mama’s had the inside scoop on the girl’s mysterious mother. “What was she like? Was she nice?”
    â€œNice? It was more than that. Charmaine was gentle. That’s how I’d put it. People thought she was weird. Well, she was. It was like she’d been spit out of a time-travel machine. She had an old-fashioned quality to her. But that’s what I liked . She was different from other people.” In the mirror, Illa can see Mama smiling with the memory. “She could be funny, too. Char wasn’t anybody’s fool, even if she was naive about some things. She didn’t go out of her way to make people try to like her, just kept to herself, mostly.”
    â€œWhen did y’all become friends?”

    â€œMy senior year,