Free The Unraveling of Mercy Louis by Keija Parssinen Page A

home-video footage that ran on every news station in the wake of the disaster. Into the gray February sky the fireball roars, billowing a hundred feet up, the force of the blast knocking the amateur cameraman on his ass. Illa gropes for the remote, trying to shut out the terrible whooshing sound that must roam through Mama’s nightmares. Mama covers her ears and folds forward as if trying to duck and cover. Three years ago this February, Port Sabine got hit by one of the worst industrial disasters in U.S. history . . .
    Illa clicks off the set, then blurts: “Mama, I think it’s time for a bath.” Anything is better than seeing her mother reminded of that hellish day, even the shame that shadows her face now. Though it cracks Illa’s heart to see her like this, she’s thankful for that look. It reassures her that Mama hasn’t lost pride altogether—that somewhere inside the folds of flesh that cling to her like the layers of a failed cake, the woman she once was still exists.
    â€œI’ll need your help,” Mama says, sighing.
    â€œYes ma’am,” she says officiously, glad to be able to steer Mama away from the TV. In the bathroom, Illa plugs the drain and opens the hot-water tap.
    â€œYou can go out and I’ll get myself ready,” Mama says. “It’s really just the lowering down that I need help with.”
    â€œSure,” Illa says, slipping back out the door and pulling it closed behind her.
    Her mother’s body, with its bear-in-winter metabolism, its cascades of pale flesh that she seems doomed to wear like some great, cushiony straitjacket, baffles and embarrasses Illa, so it thrills her to witness, day in and day out at the gym, bodies that work. With their rangy arms and loping legs ending in mean little calves, the girls on the basketball team are another species altogether. When they’re on the court, they are serious and strong. After the games, people talk to them and about them like they matter.

    Illa knocks on the bathroom door. “Ready?”
    â€œOkay,” comes Mama’s muffled voice. “I’m ready.”
    Illa takes a breath, pushes open the door. Don’t close your eyes, she admonishes herself. Mama would be able to see her flinch in the mirror. Her mother has situated herself at the lip of the bathtub and looks poised to dive in. Rising pale and broad above the blue plastic back of the chair, her shoulders melt into bulging upper arms, which are demarcated by a dark seam where the two seas of flesh meet.
    â€œIf you want to stand up, I’ll pull the chair back and get you under the arms,” Illa instructs. Wordlessly, her mother rises, and Illa shifts into position. She wants to avoid seeing the contours of Mama’s deformed body, but she rubbernecks, steals a glance downward. On Mama’s left hip and buttock, a bruise large and purple as a slab of steak spreads outward, sustained perhaps during her last attempt at a bath. Her legs are a mass of pink and red scar tissue from the burns. Illa chokes down a gasp. In all the trips to the doctor, through all the shots administered and medicine doled out, Illa has never seen the ruined legs. The sight speaks of suffering so intense that Illa feels a stab of sympathy pain shoot through her femurs. Spontaneous tears form at the corners of her eyes.
    â€œIlla?” Mama says, bringing her back to the task at hand.
    â€œSorry,” she says. Pressing into the soft flesh of Mama’s back, she positions her arms like bars beneath the armpits, and together they move the single step to the tub. She can tell Mama is trying not to lean all her weight on her, but even so, Illa strains beneath the heft, face growing hot from exertion as Mama lifts first one leg and then the next into the water. Bracing her back against the strain, Illa helps her mother into a squat, and from there, Mama sinks into the water. She lets out a deep sigh, and Illa moves quickly