Twenty
2003
“Dem bones, dem bones, gonna walk around,” Mercedes sang softly, touching the tiny newborn, lying in her arms. Her ears, her hands, her feet, her nose. She was so perfect. So peaceful. So sweet.
“The foot bone connected to the leg bone,
The leg bone connected to the knee bone,
The knee bone connected to the thigh bone,
Oh, hear the word of the Lord!
“Don’t sing that one,” Cora whispered from the bed nearby. “You’ll give her nightmares.”
“I thought you were asleep, Mama,” Mercedes crooned, still looking down at the sleeping baby. Cora had labored for almost twenty-four hours to bring Gia into the world. She needed to rest while she could.
Mercedes had been beside her for most of those twenty-four hours. She was exhausted too, but mostly she was relieved. Heather would be coming back soon to stay with Cora and the baby through the night.
“Sing something else,” Cora murmured. “Sing the one about the angels with no shoes.”
Mercedes complied, singing about the gates of heaven and the barefoot angels, asking God to bless the children who sleep and the mothers who watch over them.
“Cora, what’s wrong, honey? Why are you crying?” Mercedes asked, abandoning the lullaby when she saw her friend’s tears.
“I’m not sure. Happy. Glad it’s over. Glad she’s here,” Cora said, her lips trembling. Mercedes decided she had every right to cry. It had been a grueling nine months and an emotional delivery. Cora had weakened as the end neared, informing Mercedes that she couldn’t possibly give birth.
“I can’t do this,” Cora had groaned. “I don’t want to do this. I changed my mind.”
Mercedes had laughed, but swallowed her mirth as Cora leveled her with a look so venomous she’d checked her reflection in the mirror above the bed to make sure her eyelashes weren’t singed off.
They had walked, up and down the halls, Cora leaning on Mercedes when a bad wave hit, and it was then that Cora revealed the names she’d chosen.
“If it’s a boy, I want him to be called Noah. Noah Michael. Michael for my dad. If it’s a girl, Gia Mercedes Andelin. Gia was my dad’s mother. She was Italian and Grandpa was Irish. Dad and I got his genes, but at least Gia can have Grandma’s name,” Cora had panted.
Mercedes had been peppering Cora with names from the moment she’d heard the news, but Cora had refused to tell her what she was considering. She wanted it to be a surprise. She’d also refused to find out the baby’s sex. Mercedes had considered bribing the ultrasound technician to give her the information on the down low so she could be prepared. Unfortunately, the tech was honorable—the doctor too—and nobody would tell her what the baby’s gender was. She’d suffered and seethed for seven interminable months, culling the Goodwill for the best items in impossibly boring neutrals. She’d wheedled and begged, but Cora hadn’t budged, until now.
“I’m telling you in case something happens to me,” Cora had groaned.
“Stop. Nothing is going to happen to you. You’re in a hospital surrounded by medical personnel. You’re perfectly healthy. Your best friend is a force of nature—”
“That’s true.”
“—And you are about to have a little girl who needs her mother.”
Cora had emitted a tortured moan, clinging to Mercedes, who wobbled in her heels but planted her feet and held tight until Cora’s contraction waned.
“You said little girl,” Cora had panted. “Do you know something I don’t?”
“Just a feeling. And my gut is rarely wrong. You know this. Plus . . . I need a namesake.”
Her gut hadn’t been wrong.
Two hours later, Gia Mercedes Andelin came into the world, and Mercedes had been poised to catch her and lay her on her mother’s breast. Now, washed and weighed, poked and pricked, tiny Gia Andelin was swaddled and sleeping, and Mercedes was enjoying every second.
“Duérmete niño, duérmete niño, duérmete niño, arrú arrú,” she sang while Cora listened, still silently weeping.
“Noah was happy,” Cora whispered, tears trailing down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and brushed at her wet cheeks wearily.
“I’ve never seen him so happy,” Mercedes answered, touching Gia’s tiny fingers, and smiling as the infant instinctively wrapped Mer’s finger in her fist.
“I thought maybe he would want a boy,” Cora sighed.
“Noah? The man whose best friends growing up were girls? He wouldn’t know what to do with a boy.”
When the connection was made and Noah was patched through via Skype, he was indeed thrilled. He’d looked weary—almost like the wait and worry had been its own form of labor. When Mer had lifted Gia up so he could see her, he’d greeted her warmly, but his eyes were glued to his daughter’s pale hair, her round cheeks, and her rosebud mouth.
“Look what you did, Corey,” he had breathed. “Look at that beautiful little girl. Look at our baby girl.”
When they’d signed off, he’d been beaming.
“He already loves her,” Cora murmured, her voice so soft, Mercedes considered not responding. Cora was almost asleep, her tears drying on her cheeks.
“Of course he does,” Mercedes whispered, but her eyes were on Gia. “One look is all it took. One look, Gia Mercedes, and it was all over. You’ve got your daddy wrapped around your tiny finger.”
“Just pray he never lets go,” Cora murmured. “Gia needs a daddy. Every girl needs a daddy.”
* * *
They found Keegan Tate’s body amid the burned wreckage of the salon. The fire had caused significant damage and Mercedes was no longer the only stylist at Maven out of work. Gloria Maven had begged her to come back when the restoration was complete, making big promises and dangling incentives. Mercedes hadn’t agreed to anything yet. She had a new goal—or an old dream—in mind.
The police questioned Noah and Mercedes extensively, both together and separately, adding Cuddy’s scattered testimony to the picture, and they were eventually cleared of all suspicion. Two days after the fire, Doze had been apprehended, and they would all be testifying against him when his trial began. Keegan Tate had gotten involved with the wrong people. And it had gotten him killed.
Detective Zabriskie said charges would be pressed against Cuddy for the joyride in Mercedes’s car, but when Noah intervened on his behalf, he was released from police custody as well, cautioning them to keep an eye on him.
“He’s got a bad history. Don’t let your guard down.” Detective Zabriskie warned, processing Cuddy’s release with a wariness Cuddy probably deserved, but Cuddy’s countenance fell and his shoulder hunched in shame, even as Noah explained what would happen next.
“You know I work at a special hospital, right Cuddy?” Noah asked, waiting for Cuddy’s eyes to rise to his.
“Montlake,” Cuddy muttered.
“Yeah. Montlake. The authorities don’t want to let you go to wander the streets. They want you admitted or incarcerated. They’re afraid you’re going to hurt yourself or someone else . . . even if it’s unintentional.”
“I don’t hurt people, Noah.”
“I believe you, Cuddy. But the car incident, combined with your record, doesn’t make them feel very confident. And there have been some complaints from businesses around Maven.”
“No one ever said anything. I didn’t think they even saw me,” Cuddy said.
Noah nodded. It was a sad truth. But people saw the homeless and the indigent. The problem was, they didn’t want to see.
“We have some programs at Montlake—I think I could get some state funding for you to stay there for ninety days. You could get some treatment. You would be clean. Fed. Looked after. And we could talk. Every day. And we could figure out how to make you feel better.”
“At Montlake?” Cuddy asked, awestruck.
“At Montlake,” Noah replied.
“And you’ll be my doctor?”
“If that’s what you want. We have lots of good therapists and doctors at Montlake.”
“What about my rocks?”
“You can’t take your rocks to Montlake. But I’ll keep them for you. All of them. And when you’re through the treatment plan, you can have them back if you still want them.”
“Why wouldn’t I want them?” Cuddy asked, his brows lowering.
“Well . . . if you start feeling better, maybe you won’t need rocks to keep you grounded.”
“I won’t need them to keep me from floating away?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. But I love rocks. I especially love the one you gave me. Did Miss Lopez tell you? I’ll give it back if you want me to.”
“I have one just like it. You keep it,” Noah insisted.
“Noah?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll go to your hospital.”
“Good. I think that’s a good choice. And I can take you there now.”
Cuddy shifted nervously, his backpack hanging low around his shoulders. “Now?”
“Do you have somewhere else you want to go first?”
“No. I don’t have anywhere to go,” Cuddy whispered.
Noah nodded once, and together they left the police station, side by side, eyes fixed ahead. It wasn’t until they were pulling into the parking garage of Montlake Clinic, that Cuddy spoke again.
“I’ll try hard, Noah. I’ll try hard to get better. But . . . the medicine doesn’t make the ghosts go away. I’ve tried medicine. It just makes me itch. Some of it makes me crazy. Even crazier than I am,” Cuddy said, a note of desperation coloring his words.
“I don’t think you’re crazy, Cuddy.’
“You don’t?”
“No. I think you might just need a little help knowing what’s . . . spiritual and what’s real.”
“It’s all real to me,” Cuddy said, his eyes apologetic.
“I know. And just because everyone can’t see it, doesn’t make it less real.”
Cuddy grinned, the corners of his mouth rising slowly until they peaked and the smile touched his eyes. “You’re a good doctor, aren’t you, Noah?”
* * *
Cuddy was a model patient. He fell into the routine at Montlake with a touching determination to exorcise old demons, though Noah tried not to think about demons or ghosts, or spirits of any kind. It wasn’t until two weeks after Cuddy’s admittance that Noah arrived at work to reports that Cuddy was agitated and emotional, and he’d been asking to see him.
Noah found him in his room staring out the window, his hands cupping his lean cheeks, his eyes troubled. He didn’t wait for Noah to pull up a chair before he began to pace.
“I need to tell you something, Dr. Andelin. Do you want me to call you Dr. Andelin? I would rather call you Noah.”
“You laughed when I told you my name the first time . . . remember?” Noah asked softly.
Cuddy got a distant look in his eyes, and he tipped his head as if to jostle his memory, to slide his thoughts back into his mind.
“I laughed?”
“You asked me when the flood was coming.”
“The flood?”
“I think you were referring to Noah and his ark. That flood.”
“Noah was a prophet . . . everyone laughed at him. No one believed the flood was coming,” Cuddy said, nodding his head slowly as if it was all coming back to him.
“Are you a prophet, Cuddy?”
“No,” Cuddy said, adamant. “God doesn’t tell me things. But I need to tell you something, Noah,” he insisted again.
“All right,” Noah said.
“You might laugh. It’s okay if you do. Or you might be sad. Very, very sad.” Cuddy brought a hand to his face again, anxious, scrubbing at his cheeks as though the motion comforted him. Noah did the same thing when he was agitated, and he waited patiently for Cuddy to speak again, confident he would, eventually.
“I wish I had my rocks,” Cuddy whispered.
“Do you want to hold my hand?” Noah asked. “Would that help?”
“I would like that . . . yes,” Cuddy murmured. “But I don’t think I should.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to tell you something. And it might make you very sad. And you might not want to be holding my hand when I tell you.”
“Have you seen something that scares you Cuddy?”
“No. I know something. And it doesn’t scare me. It makes me happy. But it might scare you.”
Noah controlled his expression, nodding with a neutral face. But he was surprised. “Why don’t you tell me, and we’ll talk about it.”
“I knew your mother.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I called her . . . Andy.”
“Are you sure it was . . . my mother?”
“Yes. I’m sure. I called her Andy . . . short for Andelin. She called me Cuddy—”
“Short for Cutler,” Noah said, putting it together.
“Yeah. We were just kids.”
Noah stiffened. “You knew my mother when she was . . . a kid?”
“I knew her when she didn’t have a home,” Cuddy whispered. “Neither of us did.”
The rigidity in Noah’s limbs spread to his chest, trapping his breath and seizing his heart.
“Why don’t you sit down, Cuddy. Then you can tell me about her,” Noah said. His words sounded strangled and odd, even to his own ears. Cuddy nodded eagerly and rushed to obey.
“I never knew her real name. Not all of it. Everyone had nicknames. Nobody uses their real names. It’s like that on the street. None of us know much about each other. Nobody wants to talk about where they came from or the fact that they have nowhere to go.”
Noah nodded, urging him on.
“I thought she liked me. I liked her. She was quiet. She didn’t yell or swear. But I . . . took too many drugs then. I thought it would make the ghosts go away,” Cuddy explained.
“Did it?”
Cuddy shook his head. “For a while it did . . . and then I started seeing a different kind of ghost. Not like Cora or . . . or the angels. The dead I started to see were . . . dark. Scary. They wanted me to let them in. They wanted my . . . home.”
“Your home? They wanted . . . your body?” Noah kept his tone warm, but his hands were cold.
Cuddy nodded. “They hadn’t ever had bodies. They weren’t the dead. They were ghosts who’d never lived. And they wanted to.”
Noah was silent, waiting, not wanting to rush the tale or take Cuddy down a path he wasn’t ready to go.
“I was afraid,” Cuddy whispered. “And Andy was afraid too. I was no good, Noah. No good. One day, she wasn’t beside me when I woke up. When I finally found her she told me to go. She told me she didn’t want to be found. She told me she couldn’t be around . . . me . . . with a baby in her belly.”
Noah made himself breathe. In and out. In and out. And he held Cuddy’s gaze.
“Andy said the baby wasn’t mine. But I knew it was. Andy wouldn’t let . . . anyone else touch her. She didn’t like to be touched.”
Noah could only nod, overcome. No. His mother hadn’t especially liked to be touched.
“I never saw her again. Not until you found me on the side of the road, and I saw her sitting there in your car. I thought for a minute I was seeing her ghost. I thought maybe she was dead. Thought maybe I was dead. Then . . . I realized she was . . . yours. And you were hers. You were . . . hers. Which meant . . . you were mine. I know that’s not . . . something you might want to hear. But . . . I . . . I think . . . I’m your dad, Noah.”
Noah was too stunned to speak. He clutched his clipboard, needing to hold on to something, anything, that gave him purpose and presence of mind. He suddenly understood what Cuddy had meant by floating away, and longed for rocks.
“I saw Andy . . . sitting in the car. She saw me too, Noah.”
Noah nodded. She had seen him. And she’d been afraid. Noah had assumed it was simply the fear of a stranger. The fear of the downtrodden. Of the unknown.
“She didn’t tell you . . . who I was?” Cuddy asked.
“No. She didn’t tell me,” Noah whispered.
“That’s good,” Cuddy murmured, his voice forgiving. “It would have been a hard thing for you to hear. You woulda tried to take care of me then like you’re doing now, and you were just a boy. You didn’t need that.”
Noah could only stare at Cuddy, drinking him in, absorbing his tale, seeing him for the first time.
“They put me back in prison for a while. I’m good at slipping away. Like a ghost.” He laughed softly. “I guess they’ve taught me a few things.”
“I have your eyes,” Noah said abruptly. “And your hands. The way you rub your face. I do that too.”
He felt ridiculous. Unnerved and dizzy. He wrote his name several times across the blank page on his clipboard, just to remind himself who he was, who he’d been ten minutes ago when he was fatherless and self-assured. In the back of his mind, a little voice argued that it might not be true. But that voice was denial, and denial often lied. Noah knew it was true. He had no doubt.
“I saw you at the Homeless Fair,” Cuddy continued. “After all those years. I recognized you. And I was so happy. Then I met sweet Cora. And Miss Lopez. And I got to see how you turned out, and what a good man you are. I was so proud.” His voice broke and he wiped his eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Noah whispered. “I would have believed you.”
“I didn’t want to . . . scare you away. I couldn’t risk it. Just seeing you . . . was enough for me.”
“Did Cora know . . . or Mercedes?” Had she kept that from him too?
“No,” Cuddy whispered. “I never told anyone. Not until now.”
“Why now?”
Cuddy swallowed and wrung his hands, and Noah resisted the need to explain himself or apologize.
“Because you deserve to know.”
Noah felt the sorrow rise. He’d said the same thing to Mercedes. But he knew better. Life wasn’t about getting what you deserved. It was about enduring what you didn’t and not letting it destroy you.
“Andy and I . . . we were so broken. But you! You are p-perfect and wh-whole,” Cuddy stammered, his voice almost reverent. “I don’t know how it happened. But . . . you are a miracle, Noah.”
Noah laid down his pencil and his pad and buried his face in his hands. For many long moments, he fought tears. He wanted to get up and leave the room, to take a minute to collect himself, but Cuddy had shown courage. Faith even. And Noah didn’t want to reject his offering, even if it meant fighting his emotions in full view of his patient. He was going to need to get Cuddy a new therapist.
“Was I wrong to tell you?” Cuddy whispered. “It didn’t feel wrong. Scary. But not wrong.”
Noah smiled through his tears. Cuddy’s need to self-examine was endearing. “No. You weren’t wrong to tell me,” he choked. “It’s just that . . . my mother said the same thing.”
“Are you sad?” Cuddy pressed.
“I’m shocked. But not sad,” Noah reassured, wiping at his eyes.
“My blood isn’t blue,” Cuddy confessed sadly. “My blood is tainted.”
“Someone told me once, Cuddy, that blood’s important, but to a kid, blood doesn’t matter at all. It doesn’t matter to me.”
“You know what I mean. I’m trash. I’m not smart. I’m messed up in the head. I’ve wasted my life. Been in jail. Never had my own place. Never done one good thing.”
“That’s not true. Because of you, Mercedes is alive. You watched out for her, and you saved her life, Cuddy. When you saved her life, you saved mine. I don’t think I can live without Mercedes. I don’t want to live without Mercedes.”
“But . . . I didn’t save Miss Cora.”
Noah shook his head, wondering how many people would bear that cross. “No. None of us did. But you cared about her.”
“I did.” Cuddy nodded emphatically.
“Sometimes that’s all we can do,” Noah said gently.
“I care about you and Miss Lopez. I care about little Gia too. And I cared about . . . Andy.”
“Not many people cared about my mother,” Noah whispered. “I’m glad you did. It makes me feel better knowing that you did.”
“I let her down. I was messed up for a long, long time. I’m still kinda messed up, Noah. I wish I was a better man. Someone you could be proud of.”
“I’ve never had a dad, Cuddy. I’ve always wanted one. I’ve always needed one. So much. And I still do.”
Cuddy began to smile and nod, his eyes shimmering with emotion.
“I feel like I’m going to float away, Noah. But it feels good this time,” Cuddy said, gripping the sides of his chair with both hands.
“I know what you mean,” Noah said, smiling through his own tears. This session had not gone at all as planned—not even close—and Noah took a few deep breaths and looked down at the clipboard in front of him. There would be time for treatment plans and coping strategies soon enough. For now, they both probably needed some time to let their emotions settle.
“What next?” Cuddy whispered, clearly feeling as unsure as Noah. “I want to get better so I can be a real dad.”
“I need you to talk to me. I need you to be patient with yourself. And I need you to tell me when something isn’t working. And I promise you I’ll do my best to help you get better.”
“Gonna roll my sadness down a hill, gonna roll my sadness down a hill,” Cuddy sang. “Miss Lopez taught me that.”
Noah laughed. He could almost hear Mercedes singing it, shaking her hips and tapping her toes like she did. She’d taught him a few things too.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones.
The thigh bone connected to the back bone,
The back bone connected to the neck bone,
The neck bone connected to the head bone,
Oh, hear the word of the Lord!
Funny. For the first time in his life, all the little pieces and all the small parts were coming together. Noah felt strangely whole. He stood, and Cuddy rose with him, his face hopeful.
“Just keep singing, Cuddy. That’s not a bad place to start. Miss Lopez has a knack for making life beautiful.”
* * *
“Is Lopez okay?” Moses greeted, not even saying hello.
“Lopez is okay,” Noah replied, a smile in his voice. “Thank you, Moses.”
He grunted, uncomfortable. But he didn’t sign off the way Noah expected him to.
“I don’t like worrying about people,” Moses said, his tone accusatory. “I’ve been worried for the last two weeks. Decided I better call.”
“Are you still seeing Cora?” Noah asked.
“No. Thank God. I was glad to see her go,” Moses said, unapologetic. His irreverence and disregard made Noah laugh. Noah’s laughter made Moses sputter.
“Holy shit, Doc. What I just said was mean as hell. And you’re laughing.”
“I’m laughing because you’re so transparent,” Noah shot back.
“Nah. I’m not transparent. But your wife is.” If that was Moses’s version of a “Yo Mama” joke, it could use some work.
“The fact that you can’t see her anymore is a relief, Moses. I’m hoping it means Mercedes isn’t about to get herself killed. Again.”
“Your wife was playing guardian angel,” Moses stated.
“Yeah. I guess so. We’ve always looked out for each other. Why quit now?”
“I can’t say I understand it. But I got the feeling Cora loved Lopez.”
“She did,” Noah murmured. “They loved each other.”
“You three are all tangled up like . . . like a ball of string, or some shit. I can’t say I understand it. But I felt it.”
“History is like that. Messy. Involved. And we have a lot of history.”
Moses was silent, but he remained on the line, like he wasn’t ready to let Noah go quite yet.
“I found my dad, Moses.” Noah blurted, surprising himself.
Moses said nothing for so long, Noah wondered if the connection was lost.
“How do you feel about that, Doc?” Moses asked hesitantly. For a moment they were both silent, their roles reversed, and then they started to laugh.
“How do I feel? Hmm . . . well, he’s a recovering drug addict who sees dead people.”
Silence again.
“You messin’ with me, Doc?” Moses asked softly, a shadow of hurt in his question.
“I would never mess with you, Moses. I tried that once. You made me bleed.”
Moses scoffed, but the hurt was gone. “A recovering drug addict who sees dead people,” Moses mused. “Hmm. Sounds like you found my dad. You sure we ain’t brothers?”
Noah laughed again. “He’s the wrong color. He’s a pasty white guy. Actually . . . he looks like me. I didn’t see it. Not at first. But I can see it now.”
“Isn’t that the way of things? Once we know, it all seems obvious.”
“Yeah. But even when we know . . . it isn’t always easy to accept,” Noah replied.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Moses grunted. “I still can’t accept what I know.” He cleared his throat and changed the subject. “So you found your dad. What next, Doc?”
“I have to make Mercedes Lopez accept something she already knows.”