The Unraveling of Mercy Louis by Keija Parssinen Page A

and rereading Charmaine’s letter. By dawn, I can recite it top to bottom. Maybe I will come to your game just to see who you have grown into. You don’t need to talk to me if you don’t want.
    But see: there is a world of difference between want and need.

    IN THE NEWSPAPER the next morning, there’s a color photo of the memorial at the dumpster. The headline reads, MEDICAL EXAMINER SAYS BABY DOE BORN ALIVE , DEATH RULED NEONATICIDE . I sit down at the kitchen table to skim the story.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  Two days after the discovery of a fetus in the dumpster of the Market Basket convenience store on LeBlanc Avenue, the autopsy results are in. Medical examiner Tony Reina says there is evidence that the fetus, approximately twenty-four weeks old, was born alive before perishing due to high levels of the ulcer medication misoprostol found in its system. Dr. Reina says that the baby died about one week ago, judging by signs of decay found on the body.

    I take the newspaper back to my room, sit down at the desk, and write a letter to Charmaine. I don’t put a salutation because any endearment, even her name, seems too kind, and I’m in no mood for kindnesses.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â  I already know all I need to know about you. Maw Maw has told me everything. I know that you would’ve been no better than this girl, would’ve killed me if you could. You say you want to get to know me but that is a privilege for the people who love me. You say you want to learn all about me as if it will all be good and pretty, just because I’m Mercy Louis and in the newspapers up in Austin. But I can tell you it is not all good, it is sometimes ugly. If I were you, I’d be scared to learn all about me. Please, leave me alone, let me try to be good, or at least better than you.
    Hand trembling, I cut out the article and fold it into the envelope next to my note. From Maw Maw’s sewing drawer in the hallway, I sneak a stamp. At the post office, I drop the letter down the slot. In my chest, a loosening like a bad cough breaking.

    FOR A WEEK, I can’t get through to Annie, though I call her every day. Finally, I go to the house, peer through the beveled glass of the towering front doors. When Lourdes answers, she tells me apologetically that Annie isn’t feeling well. But then Annie appears, teeth flashing like I’m a bone she wants to gnaw. Lourdes blushes at the lie she’s been made to tell and then scuttles away. Annie stares as if waiting for an explanation, eyebrows raised, mouth pursed. I’ve seen this look before. In fact, it’s the look that Annie directs at most everyone else, a fearsome mix of anger and contempt and haughtiness. In the silence, I hear Goldie, the family retriever, barking from her pen in the backyard, the nattering of mockingbirds, the hiss of sprinklers.
    â€œFirst chance you get and you sell me down the river,” Annie says.
    â€œWhat?” I say.
    She crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve always wanted me to be someone different. So you and Beau and Evelia planned to throw me a little party, whitewash the dirty girl.”
    She has a way of saying a thing with such sneering conviction that it becomes truth.
    â€œAnnie, I’d never—”
    â€œYou think I did it, that’s what this is about. You and Beau both.”
    â€œNo, I don’t—”
    â€œI don’t want to hear it!” she bellows toward the ceiling, the veins in her neck rising beneath her skin, tiny trapped rivers of blood. When she looks at me again, her eyes glisten. “You were all I had, Mercy.”
    Then she slams the door so hard, the brass knocker gives a single clap. She thinks I’ve told her secrets. And why should she trust that I haven’t? I’ve judged her a thousand times, spent hours praying for her salvation. At last, I thought when Beau