Three
1986
“What are you making?” Mercedes asked.
“Paper dolls,” Cora answered.
Mercedes watched as Cora folded the paper and snipped away, cutting a little here, a little there. Then, her tongue sticking out between pink lips, she pulled the paper apart. Cora held a row of paper people—hands joined, feet touching—between her fingers.
“Now you color them, so they don’t all look the same.” She reached behind her. “I made this one earlier. I messed up and accidentally cut too deep, so this one only has three instead of six. But I liked it. It’s us, see?”
She’d given the middle figure short brown curls and blue eyes.
“Is that Noah?”
“Yes. And that’s you and me.” The figure on Noah’s left had long red hair, the figure on his right, tan skin and black braids. She’d given them all radiant smiles and colorful clothes. Mercedes recognized the striped red shirt and the jean skirt she’d worn on the first day of school. Noah was wearing the Karl Malone jersey he got for his birthday, and Cora’s paper doll was colored entirely in purple—one of the colors of the Utah Jazz—indicating her new obsession. Noah liked Jazz basketball, so Cora did too. Mercedes pretended she liked the Lakers, just to be contrary, but she had a poster of the Jazz point guard, John Stockton, on the inside of her closet door. Her favorite number was 12, like the number on his jersey. John Stockton was the little guy on the floor. He handled the ball and made everyone else look good. Mercedes liked that.
“What do you think?” Cora said, dangling the paper trio in front of her.
“Cute.” Mercedes still played with her Barbie dolls when she was alone. Twelve was a little too old for play-acting, but she liked to dress them and experiment with their hair. Paper dolls would be fun to decorate.
“You can have these. There’s six of them, just like your family,” Cora offered.
Abuela, Mami, Papi, Mercedes, and her two older cousins, Jose and Angel, did indeed make six. Tia Luisa had gone back to Mexico, and Mercedes had big news. “Jose and Angel are moving out. I won’t have to share a room with Abuela anymore. I will have my own room. Just like you and Noah.”
“That’s easy to fix.” Cora promptly cut two figures off the end of the row of dolls, making a family of four, and the detached figures fluttered to the ground.
“Adiós, Angel and Jose,” Mercedes said. She and Cora laughed, and Mercedes began to decorate her paper family with Cora’s markers. Cora retrieved the severed couple—Angel and Jose—from the floor. She held it, studying the faceless figures.
“My dad wants to leave too,” she murmured. Slowly, she separated one paper doll from the other and watched as it fell. “Bye, Daddy.”
* * *
“Noah?”
The blinds were all closed, and the house was so dark Mercedes stood just inside the door, blindly feeling along the wall to locate the switch. Finding it, she flipped it and gasped as the living room was flooded with light. Noah had always been obnoxiously tidy, but the living room was a wreck. It smelled like sour milk, moldy takeout, and wet dog. Noah didn’t even have a dog. A small trashcan, overflowing with tightly wrapped diapers stood near the door as if Noah had intended to take it out and gotten distracted. A mountain of laundry that seemed to be clean but hadn’t been folded spilled from the couch. Mercedes walked slowly through the mess, flipping on lights and breathing through her mouth, her alarm growing with each step.
“Noah?” she called again, louder. His kitchen looked like a scene from that Bruce Willis movie where the kid sees dead people. Every cupboard was open but half-empty. Most of the dishes were in the sink and piled on the table. The refrigerator was ajar, emitting a tired light and a foul odor. A box of Raisin Bran spilled its contents across the counter, and a half-full carton of milk sat beside it, the cap missing. Something squished beneath her left shoe, and she did a shimmying side step to avoid the long row of ants surrounding the crushed banana skewered by her stiletto heel.
“Noah!” Mercedes hollered, more worried than angry, but a little pissed too. He should have called her. From the looks of the house, the last six weeks had not gone well. She balanced on one foot and freed her shoe from the gooey ant feast.
Her shoe restored, Mercedes climbed the stairs to the two small bedrooms, stomping so that if Noah was naked, he had plenty of time to pull on some pants.
The lamp by the bed was on, but they were asleep, Gia sprawled across Noah’s chest. Drool dribbled from her mouth and onto his white undershirt. He’d pulled a pink blanket over her back, and his arms cradled her, but they were out. Mercedes studied them for a moment, father and daughter, and felt a rush of tenderness and despair. For months he’d been juggling everything alone, and he’d obviously hit a wall. She felt bad for yelling when she’d entered the house. It had been so quiet—and so filthy—she’d overlooked the obvious. Mercedes backed out of the bedroom and softly shut the door behind her.
Mercedes kicked off her heels, dug through the pile of clean laundry in the living room and found a pair of Noah’s boxer shorts, one of his T-shirts, and a pair of socks, because walking around barefoot in the apartment in its current state gave her the heebie jeebies, and she wasn’t going to scrub floors in a pencil skirt. She flipped on the lights and got to work, making a grocery list as she went; the refrigerator was so empty it wasn’t hard to clean. It appeared Noah and Gia were living on mashed potatoes and baby food, and there wasn’t much else in the house. She scrubbed the bathroom, walls and all, taking off a little paint in the process, and added paint to her list. She’d give the bathroom a facelift when she had a minute.
Bug spray, toilet paper, trash bags, dish soap, laundry detergent, eggs, milk, cheese . . . the list kept growing. Three hours, three loads of laundry, and three garbage bags later, Mercedes had the place whipped into shape, and still silence from upstairs. She changed out of Noah’s clothes and donned her pencil skirt and heels once more, slipping out to make a much-needed trip to the grocery store.
She was unloading groceries into Noah’s clean refrigerator when she heard footsteps overhead, the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing, and the shower turning on. She finished putting her purchases away and started a pot of coffee. If Noah was up, she was going to run the vacuum. It would alert him that she was there if his clean bathroom hadn’t already clued him in.
Ten minutes later, he descended the stairs, and Mercedes called out to him.
“I’m in here, Noah, declaring war on the thousands of ants living in your kitchen.”
He walked in, wearing sweats and a grey, Jazz Basketball T-shirt. He opened the refrigerator, took stock of its contents, and removed the orange juice, pouring a glass and drinking it before rinsing it, drying it, and putting the glass back in the cupboard. That was the Noah she was used to. He moved to the kitchen table and sat down wearily.
“You’re back.”
“I am.”
“You didn’t have to do this,” he muttered.
“I did. The place was a mess, Noah.”
He nodded slowly, but he didn’t defend himself. His eyes were darkly rimmed, and his wet hair stood on end, like he’d run the towel over it and forgotten about it. She smoothed it down so it wouldn’t dry that way. He bowed his head beneath her hands, submissive.
“Are you growing out your hair?” It clearly hadn’t been cut since she saw him last. He always wore it in a severe crop and it was now curling over his forehead, reminding her of his boyhood days.
“No. Not on purpose. It’s just another thing I haven’t had time to do.”
“How are you?” she asked, needing to know, hoping he would tell her.
“I’m tired, Mer.” He was the only one in the whole world who called her Mer. Everyone else called her Mercedes or Sadie.
“Why haven’t you called me?” she asked quietly. She’d only been back for two days, but all the time she’d been gone, she hadn’t heard a word. He hadn’t answered her emails or returned her calls. She’d called Heather several times just to make sure everything was okay.
“And said what? Come home from LA and clean my house and buy me groceries? I’m a grown man with one small child. I’m handling it. Not always well, but I’m doing the best I can. Gia’s been sick, and it’s thrown the schedule off.”
“Sick how?”
“She got a cold. Then she got an ear infection. We went to Instacare yesterday and got some antibiotics. She should start feeling better soon. No fever today.”
“Why don’t you go back to bed? Gia’s asleep now. You should be too.”
“I have to go to work.”
“Tonight?” It was almost ten o’clock on a Sunday night.
“Mondays and Saturdays, I work days. On Saturdays, Heather takes Gia. Tuesdays and Thursdays, and every other Sunday, I work graves. Mrs. Greer comes over and sleeps here and takes Gia to Day Care in the morning when I work nights.”
“Mrs. Greer is a hundred years old,” Mercedes gasped.
“Eighty. And she’s raised four kids and two grandkids. All she has to do is get Gia up in the morning, change her diaper, dress her, and take her across the street to Sunnypatch. They feed Gia breakfast when she gets there. Mrs. Greer makes a little money, and she’s a sweet old lady.” He rubbed at his face. “I pick Gia up when I get home around 12:30 so she’s only there for four hours on Wednesdays and Fridays.”
“When do you sleep?”
“I sleep Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday nights.”
“Don’t forget every other Sunday.”
“Right.” He sighed.
“And Gia’s at Sunnycrap for twelve hours on Mondays—every Monday?”
“Eight. I get off at five on Mondays. Please don’t call it Sunnycrap. I feel guilty enough already.”
“The salon isn’t open on Mondays, Noah. You know that.”
He nodded wearily.
“So why the hell haven’t you asked me to watch Gia?”
“Because I knew you would say yes, and you have your own life.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that to me.”
His eyebrows rose over his bloodshot, blue eyes. “Say what?”
“I loved her too, Noah. And I love you. You are part of my life. I want to help. I need to help.” She felt the tears that would never reach her eyes fill her throat. She cleared it, swallowing them back down. The silence swelled between them, the drip from the faucet, the hum of the refrigerator, the murmur of a passing car.
“It’s been three months,” he whispered.
“It feels like three years,” Mercedes answered.
The silence grew again, Cora filling the space around them and between them. She sat in an empty chair, watching them miss her. Mercedes shook her head, and Cora was gone.
“I don’t feel anything at all most of the time, Mer,” Noah confided. His voice was hollow, and it rattled around in her head. She waited for him to continue.
“I know all the stages of grief. I know the clinical terms and the right things to say. I know how to listen and advise. But I’m numb. I keep waiting to feel something. I’m supposed to help people—sad, suicidal, dangerous, depraved. But I’m struggling to remember their names. The last few months are a blur. I’ve always been great at the details . . . the little things . . . the stuff most people don’t see . . . I see those things. It’s made me a good therapist. A good doctor. But right now . . . it’s all a blur, and I’m not good at anything. I’m not a good husband.” He flinched, as if remembering that he wasn’t a husband at all anymore. “I’m not a good father. I’m not a good therapist. I’m a collection of parts.”
Mercedes studied him, and after a moment, pulled out the chair and sat down beside him at the table, resting her chin on her hands.
“Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones,” she sang softly.
“What?” Noah asked, confused.
“I don’t remember if I read it in a book or saw it in a movie, but I heard once that we’re more than just the sum of our parts, and it stuck with me,” Mercedes mused. “I’m sure it was meant to be motivational, and I understood the sentiment. We’re more than male or female. More than our lips and tongues, more than our hearts and our lungs, more than the muscles that move beneath our skin and the blood that runs through our veins. We’re more than our arms and legs. More than our eyes. More than our feet and hands. We’re more than just a collection of bones, cobbled together by God or eons of evolution. We have souls. We have purpose. We’re more.”
“‘The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.’ It’s a quote by Aristotle,” Noah murmured. “I believe that. But right now . . . I’m dry bones. God, what an awful song.”
Mercedes laughed. “I knew you’d put it together. Motivational or not, that quote made me think of that day we spent at Bible Camp—dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones—and how the toe bone’s connected to the foot bone, the foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone, and so on, all the way up to the head bone. All those bones, all those parts, working together and infused with life. Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones. Now hear the word of the Lord!” Mercedes sang.
“That song made me think of Cora’s dad. It haunted me. Gave me nightmares,” Noah murmured.
Cora’s dad was a Marine, a member of the 1st Battalion 8th Marine Corp stationed in Beirut in 1983 when the USMC barracks were blown up by a suicide bomber. Two hundred twenty marines, eighteen sailors, and three soldiers died in the blast and the collapse of the building they were housed in. Cora’s dad didn’t die. Not then. He was one of the one hundred twenty-eight Americans who were wounded. His legs were crushed, and they had to amputate what was left of them at the top of his thighs. Then they sent him home with a purple heart, no legs, and no will to live.
“The truth is we’re more than just the sum of our parts until something breaks down and triggers a full-system failure. One missing piece, one faulty part, and it’s over,” Noah muttered. “When Cora’s dad lost his legs, it didn’t matter that he still had his arms and hands, his mind and his heart. It didn’t matter that he still had Cora and her mom.”
“Cora and I overheard Heather telling him not long after he came home that they could still make love. Her voice was all hopeful and sweet, and Cora and I covered our mouths so they wouldn’t hear us giggling,” Mercedes said, and cleared her throat. “We didn’t get how sad it was. How incredibly sad. We knew what she was talking about, even at ten years old, and we didn’t want to hear about her mom and dad kissing and making babies, which was what making love meant to us. Cora’s dad didn’t want to hear it either. He didn’t want to hear that there was life beyond his legs. He just wanted all his parts back.”
“Yeah. He did. And that wasn’t going to happen, so he killed himself. Cora found him. And now eighteen years later, she’s gone too. And I’m numb.” Noah stared at the table top, tracing a long scratch in the wood surface until it disappeared over the edge. “Maybe being numb is better than having phantom limb syndrome, or phantom wife syndrome. I forget that she’s gone sometimes. Just for a minute, and then I remember, and in those moments, I’m not numb. I’m in agony. So I guess the numb isn’t so bad.”
“You have doctor friends, right? People you can talk to? People who can guide you through this?” Mercedes asked, her eyes on his face.
“I don’t want to talk to anyone. I know that’s cliché. And if one of my patients said that to me, I know exactly what my response would be. But I don’t want to talk.”
“You’re talking to me right now.”
“You’ve always been good at making me talk,” he admitted.
“So tell me then. If you were diagnosing yourself, what would you say?”
“I’m numb because it’s easier to be numb than to feel. Numb keeps me moving forward. Numb keeps me going to work and taking care of my daughter. Numb is functional. So I’m numb.”
“Sounds reasonable. And that’s all? Just numb? Are you numb when you’re with Gia?”
His lips trembled. Not so numb then.
“Sometimes,” he admitted.
“And when you’re numb . . . do you still take care of her?”
His eyes shot to hers, indignant, flashing.
“When have I ever—ever—not taken care of my responsibilities?”
“Ha! Mad isn’t numb. I made you mad. I’m good at that too,” Mercedes said, smiling a little.
“True.” His mouth twitched. Another success.
“Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m numb too. When I’m not numb, I’m pissed. When I’m not pissed . . . I feel guilty.”
“About what?”
“I feel guilty that I’m pissed.”
“Okay. Why are you angry?”
“Are you being my friend or are you being a therapist?” she asked.
“Which do you need?”
Mercedes snorted. “Probably the therapist.”
“Okay. Why are you angry, Mercedes?” He donned his doctor face and his professional voice. She smirked at him for a moment before she sighed and told him the truth.
“Well, Dr. Andelin. My best friend is dead. Her mother is devastated. Her little girl won’t remember her when she grows up. And my friend’s husband, who is also my best friend, won’t return my calls and allow me to help him.”
“And is he the only one you are pissed at?” he asked.
“Do you say pissed when you are talking to your other patients?”
“Yes. I use their words. Those are your words.”
“Ah. I see.” She nodded.
“Am I the only one you are pissed at, Mer?” he repeated gently.
“I’m not pissed at you. I’m pissed at life. And I’m pissed at Cora, Noah. I am really, really, angry at Cora. How messed up is that?”
He was silent, and his eyes clung to hers. “Are you angry because you think she left us on purpose? Like her dad?”
“Do you?” Mercedes whispered.
“I don’t know for sure. But it’s possible.”
“She seemed tired, Noah. And distracted.”
He nodded. “She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t relax. Didn’t want to take medicine because she was breastfeeding. She was . . . pretty wrung out. I shouldn’t have left her alone. I knew better. But I didn’t think . . . I didn’t want to believe . . .” his voice faded off.
“I shouldn’t have let her go to the doctor by herself,” Mercedes said, seeking to shoulder her own share of the blame. “She didn’t want me to come. But I should have insisted.”
“She didn’t go to the doctor. Dr. Wynn’s office called to remind her of her appointment for the Monday after she died. When I asked, they told me she didn’t have an appointment for April 5.”
“She lied?” Mercedes felt a flash of hot fury followed by new guilt. She was going to have to tell him. It wasn’t right not to tell him.
“Or she got the days mixed up. I know she swung by the school and talked to Janna Gregory. At the funeral, Janna said Cora was acting off, that her visit was a surprise. Cora gave her a hug and told her how much she appreciated her.” Cora had taught music for six years at Little Oak Elementary School, and planned to go back when Gia was older. Janna Gregory was the principal, and she and Cora were close.
“She left a message on my phone, Mer. She told me she loved me. Told me how lucky she was to be my wife. I thought it was because she’d missed our anniversary a few days before. She felt bad about that. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter. But she was devastated, like she’d betrayed me.”
“Before she left my house that day, she asked me if I would take care of you and Gia if something happened to her,” Mercedes confessed in a rush. Such a huge, black confession. And still she didn’t cry. She sat frozen, jaw clenched, hands fisted. She looked around for something to do, something to fix, something to clean or care for, but it was all done. Noah was the only one who needed care, and she couldn’t meet his eyes.
“I should never have let her leave. I blame myself. I let her leave, and now she’s gone. It’s my fault,” Mercedes finished. “I didn’t want to tell you because . . . because . . . I thought it would make things harder for you. But it’s my fault.” Her hands began to shake, and she stood slowly and pushed her chair in, clinging to the top rung.
“I have scissors in my purse. I can cut your hair . . . if you want me to. Or I can go. If I were you, I’d want me to go.”
Noah reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling it from the chair, rising beside her when she tried to let go.
Noah’s eyes were a blue so dark they often looked black. But now, filled with forgiveness, they were a navy that made her knees weak and her grip strong. She clung to his hand, and willed the pain in her chest to recede.
“It’s not your fault, Mer,” he said, his voice firm.
She nodded, but she wasn’t sure she believed him.
“You don’t get to shoulder this one. I forbid it,” he insisted.
“I didn’t save her, Noah.”
“I didn’t save her either.”
For a moment they were quiet, their hands clasped, lost in their own remorse and their shared loss. Then Mercedes pulled away, straightened her shoulders, and looked at her watch. She’d had all the intimacy she could bear. Noah almost smiled, watching her. He was drained, yet the emptiness was almost blissful. It was good to have her back.
“Call Mrs. Greer. Tell her no more Sunday nights. I’ll make you something to eat, and I’ll stay with Gia tonight and watch her tomorrow. And every Monday. I bet she’s grown in the last six weeks! I have to clean that pigsty you two are sleeping in. I never thought I’d see the day when Noah Andelin didn’t have his shit together. It’s a sure sign that you are human. Take heart. You may be numb, but you aren’t perfect.”
He laughed. “I missed you, Mer. Thanks for being mean to me. It makes me feel almost normal.”