Nine
1989
“You didn’t get the part,” Noah said. It wasn’t a question. He’d obviously heard.
“No. It’s probably better. Rehearsals would have taken up a lot of time, and I can’t afford to miss work,” Mercedes said, shrugging.
He was silent, sitting beside Mercedes on the low, block wall, his long legs swinging. Mercedes watched his shoelaces dangle, dirty and torn, and with a sigh, she jumped down and tied them.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“You’re going to trip and fall, and you wear them out when you step on them,” Mercedes muttered as she hoisted herself back up beside him. She was wearing a new skirt she’d found at the Goodwill, and it wasn’t easy to climb in it and maintain her dignity. But she managed.
“Ah, Mer. You’re always taking care of everyone.”
“Look who’s talking. You’ve practically raised yourself,” Mercedes retorted.
He stiffened, and she sighed again. Noah didn’t like it when she insinuated that his mother wasn’t responsible. He changed the subject.
“Are you mad at Cora?” he asked.
“No.” Mercedes shook her head.
“She only tried out for the play because you were trying out.”
“I know.”
“And she got the part you wanted,” he continued.
“Yep.”
“But you’re not mad?” Noah asked, his tone gentle. He wasn’t trying to stir the crap or stab Cora in the back. He really wanted to know. He wanted to make sure there was peace in their kingdom of three.
“How could I be mad? Cora was amazing. She’s a natural. And she’s a better fit for the part.” Mercedes wondered, in the recesses of her heart, if the way she looked was the deciding factor. Eliza Doolittle was an English shop girl, and Mercedes was the wrong ethnicity, and everybody knew it.
“I watched the auditions. You were good too.” Noah was trying so hard to make her feel better, but he’d had to know how this would end. Mercedes had known. But it still hurt when she saw Cora’s name beside Eliza Doolittle’s and her own name beside a bit part at the bottom of the page.
“I’ve got fire, and I commit. But let’s face it, my cockney accent sucked,” Mercedes admitted.
He tried not to, but Mercedes saw a ghost of a smile flit over his mouth. “It was a little too—”
“It was too western,” she finished for him.
“Yeah. Think John Wayne does Doolittle.”
They laughed together, but her laughter faded when she thought about the way Cora looked, standing under the spotlight, saying her lines. She’d wanted to be angry. Cora had known how much Mercedes wanted the part, and she auditioned for the same role and got it. But how could Mercedes be angry when Cora was so tragic? And so convincing?
“Cora said when she was on the stage, she felt free, Noah. She said she didn’t have to be Cora anymore. She was so good, I hardly recognized her up there.”
“She wasn’t acting. She was escaping.”
“Yeah,” Mercedes breathed. “And maybe that’s why I didn’t get the part. I was acting, and I never forgot, not for one second, who I was. I was Mercedes Lopez. Not Eliza Doolittle.”
“That’s a good thing, Mer.”
“It is?”
“I think so. I like Mercedes Lopez. She’s smart and funny and fierce. She’s loyal and tough and can dribble the ball and shoot free throws better than any girl I know. She’s beautiful—inside and out. Why would you want to be anyone else?”
The answer resonated in her skull, almost like someone had spoken the words directly in her ear.
“You know what? I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t want to be anyone else,” Mercedes said, reassured. Noah Andelin was her best friend, and that made being Mercedes Lopez pretty damn amazing.
“It may be a small part, but you’ll kill it,” Noah promised. “I know you will. Sometimes it’s the smallest part that steals the show.”
* * *
Gia turned two on March 22, a Tuesday, two weeks before the one-year anniversary of Cora’s death. Noah ordered a dozen cupcakes with pink frosting and a huge bouquet of balloons and wrestled them into his Subaru while trying to buckle Gia into her car seat. She wanted to hold one of the balloons, and it popped in her arms, making Noah swear and making Gia cry.
Noah was trying to potty-train her—two seemed old enough to learn—and they stopped at Walmart to pick out some new underwear in hopes that she wouldn’t want to pee on pretty princesses. Gia insisted on wearing them immediately. He purchased them, took her into the Walmart restroom, took off her pull-up, put on the new underwear, redressed her, and she peed in them on the way home, soaking Sleeping Beauty, her car seat, and making herself wet and miserable. Two more helium balloons popped before they made it into the house.
Gia wasn’t interested in any of the presents he bought, but she cried when there was nothing left to unwrap. He ended up wrapping everything in her toy box so she could pull the paper off, which kept her happy for about half an hour.
Heather was out of town, Alma and Mer had to work, and Gia covered her ears and cried when Noah sang her the birthday song all by himself.
“No scawy (scary) song, Daddy!” she sobbed.
He took the obligatory picture with the cupcake and candles, but Gia wasn’t impressed by any of it, and scowled at the camera, fat tears rolling down her cheeks.
It was a lousy birthday, and it only got worse when Mer showed up at eight that night, wearing a long, bright pink coat, cheetah print heels, and a look on her face that spelled trouble. Gia was stripped down to her Cinderellas, clutching a balloon by its string, and demanding Noah carry her everywhere. Bed time could not come soon enough, and Noah still had to work the night shift.
“Happy Birthday, Gia Bug!” Mer crooned, leaning in for a kiss, which Gia happily gave her. Mercedes was trying to hide her excitement. She was hiding something in the deep V of her trench coat, and when a small mewl escaped, Gia gasped, and Noah groaned.
“Oh, Mer. What have you done?”
He knew exactly what she’d done. She’d bought Gia a kitten for her birthday.
“He’ll be a good mouser,” Mercedes said.
“I don’t have mice,” Noah retorted.
“But you have ants!”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you? My house was a mess one time last July, and you’re never going to let me forget it,” he complained.
“I will. I will never mention ants again . . . if you’ll keep an open mind about Oscar,” she promised.
“You named a . . . cat . . . after your dad?”
Mercedes nodded enthusiastically and withdrew a small, black kitten from inside her coat.
“He’s a little boy cat, and he has black hair and a gentle personality. Just like Papi. He will be a perfect playmate for Gia. Having a pet will be good for her. You’ll see. And he’s litter-box trained. I bought all the supplies. You won’t have to worry about a thing. I bought him a bed, a litter box, a huge container of kitty litter, and one of those fifty-pound bags of cat food. It’ll last a year. You won’t even know Oscar is here, except that he’ll keep Gia entertained so you can get something done.”
Noah groaned again. He didn’t want anyone or anything else to take care of, but Gia had grown still in his arms. She stared at the tiny, black cat, her little jaw dropping, her blue eyes so big Noah bit his lip so he wouldn’t laugh.
“Kitty,” she whispered reverently.
Mercedes put the kitten down on the kitchen floor and Noah released Gia as well, setting her on her sturdy little legs and stepping back.
“Hi, Kitty,” she squeaked, extending her chubby fingers to touch the black ball of fluff quivering before her.
Mercedes looked at Noah with shining eyes, and Noah sighed and scrubbed at his beard with both hands, knowing he was screwed.
“He had his first vaccination yesterday. He’ll need another one in four weeks and another when he’s sixteen weeks. But I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. And I got him one of those scratching pole thingies so he won’t rip up the furniture,” Mercedes reassured.
Noah groaned again. “Mer . . . I really wish you hadn’t done this.”
“I am prepared to bring Oscar back to my house if you really don’t want him. But look at Gia, Noah. She loves him.”
Gia was on her knees, her bottom in the air, her cheek to the floor so she was as close to the kitten as possible. The kitten was sniffing her face suspiciously.
“I don’t want cat hair all over everything,” Noah grumbled.
“I’ll vacuum the furniture and all the floors every Monday when I’m here.”
“You do that already.”
“You’re right. I do. I totally deserve this, Noah. Come on, please?” Mercedes wheedled, hands clasped beneath her chin, staring up at him mournfully with her heavily-lashed, brown eyes.
“If you deserve it, why is it living at my house?”
“Because I’m here more than I’m at home. And I bought him for Gia.”
“You are here an awful lot. Why is that?” he teased. “Go home, woman.”
She rolled her eyes. “You need me. That’s why.” Then she smiled, teeth flashing, dimples framing her pink lips. “You’re going to let her keep him, aren’t you?”
“You know I am. Was there ever any question? You always get your way, Mer.”
She rolled her eyes again. “Ha! When? I can’t think of very many times when Mercedes Lopez got what she wanted just because she wanted it. I can think of all the times I worked my ass off and made something happen,” she huffed.
Noah leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Thank you for the kitten that I didn’t want.”
“You’re welcome. Now where are those cupcakes?”
Noah straightened the kitchen—and set out a cupcake for Mer—while Mercedes and Gia got the kitten situated. Gia was carrying Oscar under one arm, telling him all the words she knew, which was a considerable amount for a two-year-old. Noah didn’t know what was normal, but his daughter seemed to be especially verbal for her age. Mercedes had kicked off her stilettos and was pouring kitty litter into a box, explaining to both Gia and Oscar what it was for. Then she took Oscar from Gia and set him in the box.
“Go potty, Oscar,” she ordered.
The kitten sniffed around for three seconds before his little tail rose obediently, and he squatted to do his business. Even the cat couldn’t say no to Mercedes, Noah thought to himself. Mercedes clapped as Oscar buried his very small pile of poop—Gia clapped too—and they proceeded to fill the cat bowls with water and kitten kibble.
When Gia chased Oscar into the family room, Noah and Mercedes followed, sinking down onto the couch to watch them play. Noah found himself watching Mercedes eat her cupcake instead, grateful that she’d saved Gia’s birthday from being a total bomb, even if it meant he was now the unhappy owner of a cat.
“You always know what to do,” he said. “That’s a talent. You show up and make everything better.”
“Really?” He’d pleased her.
“Yes. Today was a total fail. You saved the day,” he admitted.
“I stole the scene.” She stood up and took a bow before plopping back down beside him and licking the frosting from her fingers.
“You sure did. Tell me something, Mer. How long have you wanted a cat?”
She laughed. “I’ve wanted a cat since I was ten.”
“I thought so. Remember those kittens they were giving away in front of Albertson’s Grocery Store that one time?” he asked.
“There was only one left. He was grey and fluffy. Cora and I were in love, and you weren’t interested.”
“My load was heavy, even then. I didn’t want any more responsibility than I already had. I haven’t changed much.”
“I wanted that kitten, but I knew I would have to ask Mami. I had to wait for her to get home from work.”
“But Cora beat you to it.”
“Yep. Cora didn’t ask her mom. She just brought the kitten home. She named him Popeye, and he disappeared about a month later.”
They were both silent for a moment, remembering.
“Didn’t you ever notice that whatever you wanted or whatever you set out to do, Cora wanted to do it too?” Noah asked.
“She wasn’t like that.”
“She was, Mer. And it’s okay to admit it. One of the hardest things about Cora dying is that everyone wants to erase her—the real Cora. They talk about her as though she were perfect. She wasn’t. ‘Don’t talk ill of the dead,’ people say. But if we aren’t truthful about who our loved ones were, then we aren’t really remembering them. We’re creating someone who didn’t exist. Cora loved you. She loved me. But what she did was not okay. And I’m pissed off about it.”
Mercedes reeled back, stunned. “Geez, Noah. Tell me how you really feel. She still deserves our compassion,” she rebuked.
He nodded. “Everyone deserves compassion. And I know suicide isn’t always a conscious act. Most of the time it’s sheer desperation. It’s a moment of weakness that we can’t come back from. But regardless of illness or weakness, if we don’t own our actions and don’t demand that others own theirs, then what’s the point? We might as well give up now. We have to expect better of ourselves. We have to. I expect more of my patients, and when I expect more—lovingly, patiently—they tend to rise to that expectation. Maybe not all the way up, but they rise. They improve because I believe they can, and I believe they must. My mom was sick. But she didn’t try hard enough to get better. She found a way to cope—and that’s important—but she never varied from it. Life has to be more than coping. It has to be.”
Mercedes nodded slowly, her eyes clinging to his impassioned face. She’d struck a nerve, and he wasn’t finished.
“I know it’s not something we’re supposed to say. We’re supposed to be all-loving and all-compassionate all the time. But sometimes the things we aren’t supposed to say are the truths that keep us sane, that tether us to reality, that help us move the hell on! I know some of my colleagues would be shocked to hear it. But pressure—whether it’s the pressure of society, or the pressure of responsibility, or the pressure that comes with being loved and being needed—isn’t always a bad thing. You’ve heard the cliché about pressure and diamonds. It’s a cliché because it’s true. Pressure sometimes begets beautiful things.”
Mercedes was silent, studying his handsome face, his tight shoulders, and his clenched fists. He was weary, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t wrong.
“Begets?” she asked, a twinkle in her eye.
He rolled his eyes. “You know damn well what beget means.”
“In the Bible, beget means to give birth to. I wouldn’t mind giving birth to a diamond,” she mused.
“You ruin all my best lectures.”
There was silence from the kitchen. Silence was not good.
“Gia?” Noah called.
“What, Daddy?” she answered sweetly.
“Are you pooping in your new princess panties?”
“No. Poopin’ in box.”
“What box?” His voice rose in horror.
“Kitty box.”
Noah was on his feet, racing toward the kitchen. Mercedes followed.
Gia was naked—her Cinderella panties abandoned in the middle of the floor—and perched above the new litter box.
“No!” Noah roared in horror, scooping her up and marching to the toilet.
“Maybe it won’t be a turd, Noah. Maybe Gia will beget a diamond,” Mercedes chirped, trying not to laugh.
“I blame you, Mer!” he called from the bathroom. “She was almost potty-trained, and now she wants to be a cat!”
* * *
A guilty conscience and a kitten that was more up to date on his shots than his two-year-old, had Noah making an appointment for a well-child check with Gia’s pediatrician. Noah had looked through the filing cabinet and found Gia’s immunization record—she’d had a well-check exactly one year before—and bundled her up, feeling compassion for his wife, who’d gone to every checkup without him and cried her heart out over the pain she’d inflected on their daughter.
Cora had been worried about side effects and had monitored Gia zealously in the days after her immunizations, calling Noah at work several times a day for reassurance. Noah had decided she worried enough for both of them, and hadn’t worried about the vaccinations at all.
He was nervous now. Maybe it was the fact that he felt so unprepared and awkward. He’d never taken Gia to the pediatrician. When she’d had an ear infection, he brought her to the Emergency Instacare at Uni, and they had him in and out with a prescription for antibiotics in ten minutes flat. It paid to know people. He didn’t know what to expect or how to act at a well-child check. Or maybe he was just nervous because inevitably questions would be asked. They always were.
“Where’s her mother? Are you on duty for the day? What a good daddy to give Mommy a break!”
He would have to tell someone—the receptionist, the nurse, the doctor—that Cora was gone, and he would have to endure the mournful eyes and sincere condolences as the word spread through the office.
His dread was unfounded. Everyone was nice, and everyone already knew, which was a relief. He’d told Mer once that a hospital was like a small town, and gossip spread faster than germs. Apparently, that extended beyond the walls of the hospital to the entire medical community. This time he was grateful for the lack of privacy. He didn’t have to explain himself or ask for things to be explained to him. They just assumed he was clueless.
They weighed and measured Gia, who had managed to stay dry in her Little Mermaid underwear, though Noah asked her every ten minutes if she needed to go potty. They measured her head circumference, tested her motor skills, and asked her a few questions, which she responded to in full sentences, surprising the nurse and making her laugh. The nurse asked Noah some questions too—any allergies, any concerns, any recent colds, when was the last time she was on an antibiotic—and he was able to answer them all. Dr. Layton came in and listened to Gia’s heart and lungs, checked her ears—Gia hated that—and looked at her teeth and her throat. Gia hated that even worse and began climbing Noah like Oscar (Mercedes had lied about the furniture) climbed the living room curtains. The doctor laughed and pronounced Gia perfect.
“Do you have any questions for me, Dr. Andelin?” she asked Noah.
Only a million. But he settled on two. “I know Gia had her one-year immunizations, but she didn’t have her 18-month visit. Life was a little crazy, and it got away from me. What shots do we need to do today?” Noah asked.
Dr. Jill Layton was a pretty woman in her early fifties. Noah knew her name and her reputation, but he’d never met her before. She was well liked and respected, and she was comfortable with both him and Gia, which he appreciated.
“She needs a DTaP, her second hepatitis A, and the varicella today. I’ll have a nurse come back in and administer those last.”
Noah nodded. Three shots wasn’t too bad.
“I feel like I’m playing catch up . . . I am playing catch up,” he confessed. “I was in Afghanistan when Gia was born, and I’m afraid there are things I should know that I don’t. And my wife isn’t here to tell me.” He cleared his throat. “Just looking at Gia’s file, can you give me a rundown on her history? Is there anything I should be aware of?”
Dr. Layton smiled, her eyes kind, and she opened the file in front of her once more.
“Well, let’s see.” She turned a page and read silently for a minute, nodding. “She was a good size at birth—eight pounds, twenty-one inches long. She was jaundiced, but nothing serious.”
“That was due to the Rh incompatibility, correct?” He remembered Cora mentioning it.
“Probably, but not necessarily. Jaundice is fairly common. We put Gia under the lights and monitored her. With first babies, the Rh incompatibility is usually not as severe—it’s a little like someone with an allergy to bee stings. It’s not until they get stung the second time that there’s a problem. Cora’s second pregnancy would have been at much higher risk.”
“I remember the basics,” Noah said, nodding.
“Because of Cora’s blood type—O Negative—we tested Gia right after she was born. Gia is A Positive. One benefit of the testing is that you now have that information. Most parents don’t know their child’s blood type.”
“What?”
“Knowing your daughter’s blood type could be helpful,” the doctor explained patiently, as if he hadn’t heard her.
“I agree, but what type did you say Gia was?”
“She’s A Positive.”
“She can’t be,” Noah countered calmly.
“She is,” the doctor retorted.
“I’m O Positive. Cora was O Negative. Two O’s can only make another O.”
Dr. Layton looked down at the record and back up at Noah. A deep crimson flush was climbing up her neck, but her eyes were steady on his.
“You’re sure you’re O?” she asked.
Noah pulled his dog tags from beneath his shirt. Old habits die hard, and he always wore his tags. “Positive.” It was there, stamped beside his name and his religion on the little metal plate, still warm from lying against his skin. The doctor peered at the tag longer than was necessary. Oddly enough, the obvious answer had not occurred to Noah. His heart wasn’t pounding. His thoughts weren’t racing. He just wanted to correct the medical record. Gia was O Positive—she had to be—and a mistake had been made, which alarmed the clinician in him. Mistakes like that could be dangerous.
“We’ll retest. It’s easy enough, and your insurance will pay. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to retest too, Dr. Andelin. The military can make mistakes.” She began scribbling an order for lab work, not looking up at him.
“I’ve been tested twice. Once in high school and once when I enlisted,” Noah said quietly.
“Okay. Well.” She finished writing and handed him the lab order. “Gia is a perfectly healthy, beautiful two-year-old girl. You’re doing just fine, Dad. I’ll send the nurse in to catch her up on those shots. Tylenol or Motrin every four hours if she needs it.” She reached out and took his hand, shaking it firmly. “It was so nice to meet you, Dr. Andelin. And I’m very sorry about your wife.”
She practically ran from the room.