by Amy Harmon
“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.”
***
Twenty-One
1984
“I don’t have any valentines,” Noah worried, staring down at the list his fourth-grade teacher had passed out just before the bell rang. “Mrs. Hayes told us we had to give a valentine to everyone in the class. I don’t know what to do. Last year, I pretended I was sick and went to the nurse during the party because I didn’t have anything to pass out. Is your class making valentines?” he asked Mercedes.
“The whole fourth grade is celebrating Valentine’s Day, silly. The whole school is,” Mercedes laughed. “But don’t worry. I have some paper. All colors. We’ll make hearts. I know a good trick.”
They dropped their coats by the door of Mercedes’s apartment, and Mercedes dug her class list from her backpack and assembled the supplies they needed on the kitchen table.
“All right, Noah. Watch,” she demanded. Mercedes folded a piece of pink paper in half, and with a skill that belied her nine years, cut out half a heart. Unfolding it, she presented it to Noah with a satisfied smile. “See? Perfect.”
Noah nodded, impressed, and watched as she cut out several more.
“You cut the hearts, and I’ll write the names on them,” Noah suggested. “I write pretty good.”
“That’s a lot of hearts,” Mercedes warned. “Twenty-five for my class. Twenty-five for yours.”
“We can do it,” he said, confident and more than a little relieved. They worked quietly for several minutes, concentrating on their assignments, Noah carefully crossing out the names on the lists and making two different piles, one for each class. When they were done, they sat back and stared at what they had accomplished.
“They’re kind of plain,” Mercedes said, wrinkling her nose. “They need glitter or something. I wish we had some stickers.”
“We could write something nice on the other side, like . . . a Valentine’s message,” Noah suggested.
“So they look like those candy hearts!” Mercedes clapped. “We’ll write Kiss Me, Hug Me, Love Ya. Stuff like that.”
Noah grimaced and shook his head. “We could just say You’re Nice or You’re Cool. I don’t want to write Kiss Me on any of them.”
Mercedes snickered, and together they started writing short messages on the back of each heart.
“This one says my name,” Mercedes said, holding up a yellow heart from his stack. “I don’t need to give one to myself.”
Noah took it from her hand. “It’s from me, goofball.”
Mercedes stared at him, her brows lowered. Then she cut out one more heart from her scraps of paper. “Okay then. This one’s to you from m
e. A pink one. Your favorite color.”
“Pink’s not my favorite color.”
She giggled, and he realized she was teasing him. She wrote his name on one side and then turned it over.
“What else are you going to write on it?” he asked.
“It’s a surprise.”
Noah frowned and looked down at the yellow heart he’d made for Mercedes. Yellow wasn’t her favorite color either. He turned it over and thought about what he should write. There were so many things he could say. He could say I Love you. It was Valentine’s Day, after all. But that seemed weird, and Mer would laugh and think he wanted to be her boyfriend. He could write that she was funny and cute and nice. She was all of those things. He thought for a minute longer and then picked up a pencil and wrote THANK YOU in bold across the back. He stared down at the words. They seemed so simple, but he was grateful for his friend. Every day he was so grateful.
“Can I have that now?” Mer asked, trying to see what he had written.
“Maybe. Can I have that?” Noah indicated the pink heart with his name on it.
She pursed her lips, considering. Then she handed it to him. He pushed the yellow heart toward her, suddenly shy.
She’d written two words on the back. YOUR MINE. He knew she’d spelled you’re wrong, but he didn’t tell her. He traced the words with his eyes. She made him smile. You’re mine. Not Be Mine. You’re mine.
“You’re welcome,” Mercedes said, and Noah looked up in surprise.
“You wrote thank you. You’re welcome,” she said again. “But thank you for what?”
“For being my best friend,” he said, shrugging.
She grinned, revealing her two missing teeth. “And you’re never gettin’ rid of me. I’m yours.” She pointed at the pink paper heart in his hand. “And you’re mine.”
* * *
Mercedes found the mugs on her kitchen table with a note from Noah, apologizing for the one he’d smashed. Eight mugs, all powder blue, just like the one he’d broken. But that’s where the similarity ended. Each mug had a pink heart on the side with the words YOUR MINE written across it. You’re was misspelled.
