by Amy Harmon
Mercedes yanked at his hair and dug her nails into his back, scoring it, pulling his hips into hers, trying to make him move, to lose control. But he murmured her name and kissed her breasts, lingering over the hollow of her throat and the soft skin behind her ears. It was then that he realized she was crying, tears running from the corners of her eyes and soaking her hair and the sheet beneath her head.
He pressed his lips to the corners of her eyes and sipped at the salt on her cheeks, tasting the feelings she tried so hard to keep from him. He didn’t ask her why she cried. He didn’t beg her to stop. He understood her pain, and he knew he was hurting her. Tenderly, gently, carefully . . . hurting her. For a moment she was with him, lost in the sweetness of surrender, sobbing his name against his lips. He rocked against her, lazy and slow, a porch swing on a summer evening, just the two of them with nowhere to go. Then she was fighting him again, tugging his lower lip between her teeth, nipping and biting, drawing blood before taking his tongue into her mouth, desperate to distract him, to distract herself, from the unraveling of her defenses.
His pulse pounded, and his body raged, wanting to succumb, to give her passion instead of patience, lust instead of longsuffering. But the anguish of adoration would heal them—he believed that—and he wasn’t willing to settle for less, to give her less, and he took the punishment, even as her body trembled and quaked around him, even as she begged him to release her, to hold her, to let her go, and to never leave.
“I’m right here, Mer. I’m right here with you,” Noah promised, his lungs raw, his chest tight, his will weakening. “And I’m not going to let you go. I’m going to follow you over the edge. Whenever you’re ready, honey, I’ll be right behind you.”
“Damn you, Noah,” she whispered, lips trembling, hands fisted in his hair, but her breath caught, her eyes found his, and for a moment they were together on the precipice, caught between falling and flying. Then her chin rose, her eyes closed, and her arms tightened around him. He watched as she fell, tear-stained cheeks and swollen lips, taking him with her into the inky afterward, where sensation peaked and pulsed, slowed, and finally, slid away.
He felt the moment she came back to herself. She stiffened in his arms, uncomfortable and uncertain, and her hands fluttered at his waist, anxious to put him back in his place. He rolled to his back, taking her with him—his reluctant best friend with silky limbs and tousled hair. He ran his hand from the top of her head to the base of her spine, stroking her back, smoothing her ruffled pride, and calming her troubled thoughts, until time tipped them over and they fell again, this time into sleep.
He didn’t let himself rest for long, the dawn was coming, and duty called. He came awake about an hour later, easing his arm from beneath Mer’s cheek, and carefully sliding away. He stood beside the bed, looking down at her. Mercedes in motion was beautiful to behold, but Mercedes in quiet slumber was like the Timpanogos peaks, peaceful and lovely, the same yesterday and today, outliving them all. She had that quality, as if the waves of the world could crash against her and she would hold steady. If Cora was wind, Mer was rock. Noah didn’t know what that made him, but he’d been changed by both.
He didn’t touch Mer again—he didn’t want her to wake and re-arm—but slipped soundlessly from the room, stepping into the sweats he’d discarded near the bed. He’d only wanted to kiss her. The thought made him smile. He’d wanted to kiss her. And he’d wanted everything that came after those kisses too.
He stopped in Gia’s room and padded to her crib, pulling her blankets back over her tiny shoulders. She would kick them off again. She always did. He worried about her getting cold, but she never seemed to. Her bow-shaped lips were parted in sleep, and her lashes swept the swell of her cheeks. Freckles were starting to form. Noah ran a hand over her soft hair, wanting to touch her, to tell her he loved her, even if he was the only one to hear. Her hair had grown in thick and smooth, just like Mer had promised it would. It wasn’t the flaxen fuzz she’d been born with, but silky and substantive, and shot with a definite strawberry hue. She was going to be a redhead like her mother.
“I’ve got to go to work, Bug. But Mer’s here,” Noah whispered. “Look after her, okay? She’s going to try to run away from your old man. But she won’t run away from you. It isn’t in her. She’s a forever kind of girl. Once she’s claimed you, you’re hers. You’re hers, Bug. We’ve just got to convince her that she’s ours.”
* * *
Gia woke her. The monitor Noah left behind was turned all the way up, and her little voice penetrated Mer’s dreams, pulling her from fragmented scenes and disjointed sequences to streaming sunlight and Noah’s spare bedroom.
“De colores,” Gia sang. “De colores.” The way she said colores sounded more like cuh wo ways—but her de was spot on. “Quiri, quiri, quiri, quiri, quiri,” she chirped, like she was calling Oscar. Kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty. No rolled r, but it was unmistakable.
Mercedes lifted Gia from her crib—a big girl bed was in order—and plopped her on her potty while Mercedes brushed her teeth, avoiding her fresh-scrubbed face—she never went to bed with makeup on—and her tangled hair. Noah had combed it with his fingers, and she didn’t want to see the result.
He’d run his hands through her hair, and he’d loved her so slowly. So patiently. And she’d cried. Oh God, she cried. He’d kissed her so sweetly. He’d kissed her so long and so thoroughly that she’d forgotten that she shouldn’t love him, and that it was best if he didn’t love her either.
Damn him. He was going to ruin everything.
“All done,” Gia said, rising from her tiny throne to see how much liquid she’d produced. She clapped for herself. “Yay, Dee-Uh!” she crowed.
Mercedes wiped her tiny bum, emptied her winnings into the toilet, and set her on the sink so they could both wash their hands.
They’d done this same routine, in some variation, many times. But that morning, with their faces side by side, Gia talking to her reflection, Mercedes suddenly noticed the difference in their skin and their hair, in the color of their eyes, and she had the fleeting thought that no one would ever mistake her for Gia’s mother. Women who looked like Mercedes rarely had babies who looked like Gia, regardless of their fathers. It wasn’t a bad thing. It was simply genetics. But Mercedes wanted to be Gia’s mother. She wanted people to assume Gia was hers. Her musing caused immediate remorse.
“I’m sorry, Cora,” she said, and realized she’d spoken out loud.
“I sowwy, Cowa,” Gia parroted, and Mercedes laughed, but her heart hurt, and her eyes filled. She turned away from their reflections, scooping Gia off the counter and dressing her for the day.
Mercedes spent the day in frenzied activity, and Gia kept up, for the most part. They cleaned and went to the grocery store and made sure the cupboards were stocked and the refrigerator was full, though Noah was always irritated when she did this, insisting on receipts and payment and compensation. She ignored his wishes and his irritation. She would clean if she wanted to. She would purchase what she pleased, and if what she bought ended up in Gia’s drawers or in Noah’s cupboards, that was her prerogative as Noah’s best friend and Gia’s godmother.
Noah’s best friend who cried in his arms and came undone in a very unfriendly way the night before. Mercedes didn’t know how she was going to face him when he got home. Would he laugh again and ask her for burritos? Would he want to hold her and kiss her slowly like he’d done in the dark? Mercedes didn’t think she could handle either of those things. She knew she couldn’t.
“I’m sorry, Cora,” Mercedes moaned, and wondered again, like she had the night before, if Cora was listening.
“I sowwy, Cowa,” Gia repeated.
“Damn it,” Mercedes whispered.
“Damn it,” Gia whispered.
Mercedes painted Gia’s toenails and then painted her own while Gia turned the pages of the picture books Mer had read so many times she had them memorized. Mercedes made three casseroles and put two in th
e freezer in single serve portions. She balanced her checkbook, then balanced Gia on her shoulders while she did a hundred squats. When her legs and her nerves were shot, she called Heather to see if she’d sit with Gia for the last half hour until Noah got home. Mercedes couldn’t do it.
Heather couldn’t do it either.
Heather apologized profusely, trying to come up with a solution to Mercedes’s problem, a problem Mercedes wasn’t about to explain to Heather. Well, Heather, I slept with your son-in-law last night. Again. And I’m feeling a wee bit awkward. Can you cover for me?
“Has something come up? Is it an emergency?” Heather asked, worried.
“No, no. Um, just . . . an appointment. Nothing big. I’ll just reschedule.”
“Are you sure? Maybe you could take Gia with you?”
Mercedes considered it for a moment, taking Gia to her non-existent appointment so she could avoid Noah for another half hour. Or she could pretend she was running late for her fake appointment and scoot right out the door the minute he walked through it. That would work.
“I’ll see if I can move it back a bit,” she prattled to Heather, lying like the lying liar she was.
“Noah will be disappointed you can’t stay.” Heather sighed. “He called me too, wanting me to watch Gia. I think he wanted to surprise you tonight. Just a thank you, he said. He has tickets to a Jazz play-off game. You should go and take Gia! She might love it. And kiddos under three don’t need tickets.”
Mercedes’s chest got hot and then cold, and sweat popped out on her top lip like condensation on a cold glass of lemonade in July.
Sure enough, Noah called Mercedes at 4:30, an hour before he was supposed to be home, to see if she was “game” for a night out. Apparently Mami had agreed to watch Gia.
Mercedes was prepared for his call and had already concocted the most convincing excuse she could come up with—a mandatory staff meeting at six o’clock. That way she could bustle out the door, and he wouldn’t detain her. She also told Noah he should go without her—bring a coworker—and Mami could still watch Gia. Mami would be angry if Mercedes robbed her of a night with Gia.
Noah declined. He would give the tickets away; they’d been complimentary anyway.
“Come back after your meeting. We’ll watch it on TV, and I’ll grill some steaks,” he suggested.
“Gloria is taking us all to dinner. Food makes listening to the boss a little easier to bear.” Another prepared line. She would be eating alone in her room so Mami didn’t pepper her with questions about Gia and Noah and why she wasn’t at the game.
“You sound . . . manic, Mer,” Noah said.
“What?” she cried, and winced. She did sound manic.
“Are you okay?”
“A little stressed. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll see you at five thirty, okay?”
When he walked through the door at five twenty-five, she was prepared. His dinner was in the oven with the timer set, Gia was in her arms, and when he leaned in to kiss her, she purposely misinterpreted his body language and handed Gia to him, grabbing her purse and pressing her lips to his cheek.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go.”
“I sowwy, Cowa,” Gia babbled. Mercedes winced. She’d been saying that all day.
Noah blanched and looked down at his daughter.
“She just went potty—no accidents today—but it’s been a while since she’s eaten. She’s hungry. Food is in the oven, so you don’t have to fuss with dinner. Oh, and she didn’t nap. She should go down early.”
Noah watched her hurry away, standing on the front step of his narrow, two-story townhouse with the red door and the big tree, looking out over his tidy lawn with his squirming toddler in his arms.
“Bye-bye, Meh,” Gia called. Mercedes waved and smiled, pretending to be in a terrible rush. Then she climbed into her car, pulled out of Noah’s drive, and made it a block down the street before she burst into tears.
***
Sixteen
1993
Cora was waiting for Noah on the top step. Her hair hung around her shoulders, as vivid as the red leaves on the trees that warmed the hill behind The Three Amigos. When he’d flown in, the mountains below him had been alive with color. The mountains were alive, and his mother was dead.
Carole Stokes found her. Noah was grateful it hadn’t been Mer or Alma. He knew Mer checked in on her, but Shelly Andelin wasn’t an invalid. She was only thirty-eight years old. She didn’t want Mer stopping by, and Mer had respected that. But when Shelly hadn’t shown up for work two nights in a row, Carole had gone to the apartment to find her. Mer had let her in, but it was Carole who walked back into the bedroom and found Shelly huddled beneath the blankets, dead. She’d taken too many sleeping pills and they’d finally done their job. She’d gone to her eternal rest. Whatever that meant.
Noah had graduated from Basic Training at Lackland Air Force Base, lined up with hundreds of airmen all in blue with their perky flight caps. Everyone around him had someone there to congratulate him. Noah had no one, but at least his mother had waited for him to finish boot camp. He appreciated that. Perfect timing. She died in the one week he could handle the funeral arrangements and clear her belongings out of her apartment. Their belongings. Their apartment. He would have to find a storage unit. Something small, though they didn’t have much worth storing. And he would have to pay for her burial. Someone had suggested cremation, but Noah couldn’t do it. His mother had hardly existed. He needed to give her a stone, if only to prove she’d lived. Maybe he did it for himself, but Shelly Andelin deserved something more permanent than ash.
“You look different,” Cora said, smiling as he climbed the steps to the second-floor apartments. He’d climbed the steps thousands of times, but as he walked toward her, he found himself wishing he wouldn’t reach the top. He wasn’t ready.
“They fed us constantly. I exercised, and I ate. I gained twenty-five pounds.” He had muscles on his muscles. He hardly recognized himself.
“You have pecs and your hair is gone.”
Noah stopped on the step below her, and without hesitation, Cora wrapped her arms around him and held him tight.
He felt the grief rise, a sudden, surprising tsunami, taking him unaware. He should have known. The signs had all been there—he’d been drawing the tide into himself, quaking and rumbling, trying to come apart where no one would notice, where no one would see. But like an earthquake in the ocean, the waves had to hit landfall eventually. He’d expected Mer to be waiting. He’d wanted Mer. But Cora held him tight, her arms strong, her words soft, and when his tears threatened to wash him away, she kept him tethered to her, keeping him from drowning. When his tears slowed, she spoke again.
“Alma and Sadie cleaned the apartment. Everything is packed up and labeled. There’s not much left for you to do.”
“Where is she?”
“Sadie? She’s at work. I told her I’d call the salon when you showed up. Do you want to go inside?”
He didn’t. He wanted to walk back down the stairs. Or better yet, go find Abuela and put his head in her lap and let her tell him all about God and purpose and Heaven and Hell. All the things he didn’t believe but still found comfort in, because Abuela believed enough for all of them. If Abuela said his mother was in God’s arms, he wouldn’t argue.
Cora took his hand, leading him forward, and she waited as he fished out his key.
Just as she’d said, the rooms were immaculate, the boxes stacked, the furniture worn and terribly forlorn. It wasn’t worth saving. He walked on shaky limbs to his mother’s room and stood in the doorway. Her bed had been stripped. The mattress was missing—he didn’t want to contemplate why—and the box springs remained beside the nightstand where a little, wind-up alarm clock had once sat. His mother hadn’t ever decorated. The walls had always been bare, and the apartment didn’t feel much different than it had when she’d been in it.
He turned away from her room, unable to contemplate the emptiness a
moment more. He walked toward his own room and stepped inside, feeling like a stranger in his own home. He’d left his room in good order, but he could see Mer had been there too. His sheets had been washed and his pillow plumped. The old carpet had been cleaned too. The ammo box he’d purchased a few years ago at an army surplus store remained on his dresser, but everything else was packed up. He walked to the ammo box and opened it. A few of his treasures remained inside. A valentine Mer made for him when he was nine years old, a dog-eared copy of Man’s Search for Meaning, a handful of pictures, and half of a geode from a rock mining expedition freshman year to Utah’s west desert. The geode didn’t look like much on the outside, but when he’d broken it in half, it was deep purple inside, and the coolest thing he’d ever seen. He’d had both halves once but had misplaced one somewhere.
The ammo box was the only thing Noah wanted from his room. Everything else was cleared out, as if Mer had known he would need a place to sleep, but had wanted to relieve him of everything else.
“What now?” Cora said, sitting on his bed. Noah sat down beside her, the geode clutched in his hand. The edges were jagged and bit into his palm.
What now indeed.
“I go to New Mexico for Tech School. I’m on emergency leave right now. Maybe I’ll be deployed. There’s talk. The rent is paid through the end of the month. I’ll stay here until after the funeral, and then I’ll go.” Carole Stokes had promised to handle the service itself, which was a relief to him. It would be a grave-side service—prayer, a few words, a song. He wondered if he could play the theme song to Night Court on his guitar. It was a little too funky. And it needed horns. He laughed at the ridiculous train of his thoughts, but the laugh broke on a choked sob, and he ran a hand over his face. He wasn’t going to cry again.
