Lisa’s resurrection. She’d put her coffee on to brew and gone to Lisa’s room to tell her breakfast was ready, and found Lisa awake in bed, playing with a mouse. God only knew how the girl had caught the thing, and damn the exterminator who’d promised to rid the building of mice two months ago, but there it was, acting like some child’s darling pet, crawling back and forth across Lisa’s papery hands. Such a darling little dear, Emma thought, maybe they ought to buy a cage and keep this one mouse as a pet — and then the creature stumbled, hissed, and bit deep into Lisa’s left thumb.
Emma swore and rushed to her daughter’s side to nurse the wound.
As Lisa screeched.
Grabbed the mouse with her free hand.
Closed her hand around it and crushed it to a pulp.
“Lisa!”
Lisa glanced over her shoulder, still angry; she looked surprised to see her mother.
“It bit me, Mama,” Lisa said. And then she glanced back at the red wet goo that sopped down from her hand into the bedclothes. She sobbed. “It never should have bit me.”
She sounded like she wanted to cry, but she sounded angry, too.
Emma bit her lip, tried to make her stomach be still. “The mouse is dead, Lisa,” she said. Emma wasn’t sure why she chose those words, but they were the only ones she could find. “You need to wash yourself, child.”
Lisa looked from her mother to the dead mass in her hand and back again.
“Yes, Mama,” Lisa said. She sounded like she wanted to say something else, too, but whatever it was she kept it to herself.
Emma led her to the bathroom, where she flushed the bloody mass down the toilet and washed Lisa’s hands in the sink.
“I don’t know what’s got into you, child,” Emma said. “I never seen you hurt a fly before.”
Lisa frowned.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said, rinsing and rinsing her hands in the water. And then her face seemed to crumble, and suddenly she was sobbing, sobbing and crying like a baby lost alone. “I miss my friend,” she said. “I want him back.”
“The mouse is dead, Lisa.”
“He never should have bit me,” Lisa said. And then she cried some more.
The mouse bite oozed pus for three long days, and when it stopped oozing Lisa’s whole thumb hardened stiff as wood.
It was like — like she was still dead. She didn’t eat except when Emma told her to, and every time she did the food came back up a few hours later, smelling like death. Lisa smelled like that, too, sometimes — like meat left to sit in the sun for days. And her breath! So sulfury and strange, like brimstone burning closer than you want to think.
One night Emma dreamed that the stinking rotten thing in her daughter’s bedroom wasn’t Lisa at all — it was some dead thing, a zombie, just like Mama Estrella said. It was a monster inhabited by demons, and the only peace she’d ever know was if she burned it in a bonfire.
But there was courage in her heart, and she knew the difference between her convictions and her fears.
And she knew Lisa was her daughter, her precious little girl who’d suffered a terrible miracle, and she knew that if she kept the courage of her faith the Lord would see her through.
There are some — like Mama Estrella — who would say Emma was a foolish woman, and that she should have put her daughter down to rest before she died forever. And there’s reason in those words, no question. But there are times when courage and faith are better guides than reason, and this was one of those.
Emma’s heart told her this was just that time. But Mama Estrella told her different. She called on the telephone over and over, trying to frighten Emma, trying to persuade her.
“Your baby’s going to die, Emma,” Mama Estrella would say as Emma lifted the receiver. “She’s going to die forever, girl.”
But Emma didn’t frighten easy.
“You’re wrong,” she said. And she hung up the phone.
What did worry Emma was Lisa’s temper. There were times it seemed
Emma swore and rushed to her daughter’s side to nurse the wound.
As Lisa screeched.
Grabbed the mouse with her free hand.
Closed her hand around it and crushed it to a pulp.
“Lisa!”
Lisa glanced over her shoulder, still angry; she looked surprised to see her mother.
“It bit me, Mama,” Lisa said. And then she glanced back at the red wet goo that sopped down from her hand into the bedclothes. She sobbed. “It never should have bit me.”
She sounded like she wanted to cry, but she sounded angry, too.
Emma bit her lip, tried to make her stomach be still. “The mouse is dead, Lisa,” she said. Emma wasn’t sure why she chose those words, but they were the only ones she could find. “You need to wash yourself, child.”
Lisa looked from her mother to the dead mass in her hand and back again.
“Yes, Mama,” Lisa said. She sounded like she wanted to say something else, too, but whatever it was she kept it to herself.
Emma led her to the bathroom, where she flushed the bloody mass down the toilet and washed Lisa’s hands in the sink.
“I don’t know what’s got into you, child,” Emma said. “I never seen you hurt a fly before.”
Lisa frowned.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said, rinsing and rinsing her hands in the water. And then her face seemed to crumble, and suddenly she was sobbing, sobbing and crying like a baby lost alone. “I miss my friend,” she said. “I want him back.”
“The mouse is dead, Lisa.”
“He never should have bit me,” Lisa said. And then she cried some more.
The mouse bite oozed pus for three long days, and when it stopped oozing Lisa’s whole thumb hardened stiff as wood.
It was like — like she was still dead. She didn’t eat except when Emma told her to, and every time she did the food came back up a few hours later, smelling like death. Lisa smelled like that, too, sometimes — like meat left to sit in the sun for days. And her breath! So sulfury and strange, like brimstone burning closer than you want to think.
One night Emma dreamed that the stinking rotten thing in her daughter’s bedroom wasn’t Lisa at all — it was some dead thing, a zombie, just like Mama Estrella said. It was a monster inhabited by demons, and the only peace she’d ever know was if she burned it in a bonfire.
But there was courage in her heart, and she knew the difference between her convictions and her fears.
And she knew Lisa was her daughter, her precious little girl who’d suffered a terrible miracle, and she knew that if she kept the courage of her faith the Lord would see her through.
There are some — like Mama Estrella — who would say Emma was a foolish woman, and that she should have put her daughter down to rest before she died forever. And there’s reason in those words, no question. But there are times when courage and faith are better guides than reason, and this was one of those.
Emma’s heart told her this was just that time. But Mama Estrella told her different. She called on the telephone over and over, trying to frighten Emma, trying to persuade her.
“Your baby’s going to die, Emma,” Mama Estrella would say as Emma lifted the receiver. “She’s going to die forever, girl.”
But Emma didn’t frighten easy.
“You’re wrong,” she said. And she hung up the phone.
What did worry Emma was Lisa’s temper. There were times it seemed
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